Hannibal Lecter opened his eyes, and, as he expected, Clarice and Harry were standing by his bed.

Albus Dumbledore was also standing by his bedside, along with Julia Hiatt, the matron of St. Mungo's. This he had not expected, and, to judge from the expressions they wore, was not good news.

He thought for a moment about what this news could be. Considering the nature of the pain in his side, it took him less than a quarter of a second to arrive at the correct diagnosis.

Ah, well, he thought, hoisting himself upright with an effort that made him wince, might as well face up to the worst right now.

"So," he said, surveying the concerned faces around him, "let me guess: the diagnosis is advanced pancreatic cancer, and so far it has shown itself, in my case, to be as resistant to magical treatment as it is to Muggle medicine."

Madam Hiatt started in surprise, then slowly nodded. "We've tried everything, Doctor Reader," she said in a voice which she could not quite keep from quavering.

"You've apparently had it for quite some time," added a weary-looking Dumbledore.

"Too late for Muggle surgery to be effective, then," said Dr. Lecter, as calmly as if he were discussing whether or not he should have his wisdom teeth pulled. He readjusted himself in the bed, this time with somewhat less discomfort than before. "The cancer will kill me within three to six months, or nine at the very most."

Madam Hiatt's pinched, careworn face nodded in sad assent. "Unfortunately, yes, Doctor Reader."

Tears were streaming unchecked down Clarice's face. "I'm going to quit my Auror training," she said in a husky voice. "I'll be with you to the end."

Dr. Lecter turned to face her. "Lucy," he said gently, "your giving up becoming an Auror won't keep me alive a minute longer." He reached out a hand to her, taking one of hers in his strong, firm grip. "I don't need you to be physically present at all times to know that you love me and care about me." He looked from her towards their young ward, whose face was pale with shock and dismay. "And that goes for you, too, young man," he said, addressing Harry. "You are not to miss a single day of school on my account."

"But -- but Doctor --"

"No 'buts', Harry." Dr. Lecter's voice was firm. "If there was any chance that I could survive this, that would be one thing. But since there is not, there's no point in your both throwing your lives into limbo when doing so cannot hope to save mine." He smiled. "Besides, I have, in a rather perverse way, been given a gift of sorts. Most persons never know, until the very day they die, when or how they will shuffle off their mortal coils. I know not only how I will die, but when, and that aids me in setting my affairs in order." He turned back towards Clarice. "And the first thing I intend to do is to make sure I have enough palliative medicines of the Muggle sort to keep me functional for a period long enough to ensure that I have trained both Charles and Neville to take over the Harley Street clinic."




Midnight, in a cave somewhere in England.

Voldemort sits on his throne, Nagini in his lap, and ponders his situation.

He has lost a distressing number of devotees in recent weeks. He has enough for one final push, one last attempt at a shocking blow -- but the sort of attacks that would have succeeded, were Cornelius Fudge still alive and his opponent, have not been at all successes.

Fudge made things too easy for me, Voldemort muses. He was so incompetent, so spineless, so afraid of doing what he needed to do in order to fight me -- if ever he could realize what he needed to do. I let myself get flabby against him. I must change my strategy, now that those who I fight have both courage and intelligence.

He sits and ponders long into the night, and Wormtail, passing by on an errand, knows better than to disturb him.




"Good morning, Dr. Reader." Fred and George Weasley stepped out of the fireplace in Hannibal Lecter's study, shaking off a very light coating of ash onto the floor.

"Sorry about that -- Mum needs to clean out the flues again." Fred pointed his wand at the offending ash, whispered "Immaculatio!", and the dust promptly vanished.

"A neat trick," said the man the twins, and nearly everyone else, knew as Dr. Marcus Reader. "I never tire of seeing cleansing magic, whether used by you or the house-elves the Ministry has been so kind to procure for me." He stood facing the twins, erect as a dancing master, the apparent picture of health and strength. One would never know that he was under the influence of several powerful narcotics.

"Good morning, gentlemen, and thank you for taking the time to visit me and assist me with my little project," he said, indicating with a nod the chairs by the fireplace as he sat down behind his desk. "How have things been going?"

"Oh, very good, indeed, Doctor," said George. He produced a handsome mahogany wand and set it on the desktop before sitting in one of the chairs indicated by the doctor. "This one's our latest effort. I think you'll find it to be just what you wanted."




Clarice Starling sits in a small room, surrounded by other Auror trainees, doing her best to keep her mind on Alastor Moody's gravelly Scots brogue as he leads the class in the finer points of resisting the Imperius Curse. Ha, she thinks distractedly. Harry should be here to give everyone a demonstration.

In accordance with Dr. Lecter's wishes, she is continuing her Auror training. But Dr. Lecter never told her not to call him several times a day, which she does without fail even though she, and the other trainees, get to go home at the end of each day's training.

She is glad that he made her continue with the training, for it gives her something to do, something constructive. She would be furiously researching both Muggle and magical means of attacking his cancer, if he had not expressly forbade her from doing so. Clarice, I am the best doctor on the planet, and you know that, he had said, not unkindly, and you haven't had any medical training beyond mere first aid. If I can't find a cure for my own sickness, no one can. And that was that.

Clarice knows that he is right -- he is almost always right, being who he is. But that still doesn't make her feel any less guilty for not trying it.

Alastor Moody, sensing her distraction but not knowing the reason for it, takes the opportunity to see if he can catch her out by asking her a series of highly technical questions; he likes her very much, but he will tolerate no slacking off in his class.

Clarice answers the questions with ease -- and, more importantly, with just the right amount of interested enthusiasm -- which temporarily puts the wind up old Moody.

But then again, Alastor Moody does not know of the art of the memory palace.