Tasty Thoughts

A stroll through Westminster - Un panier de crabe

The summer sun was beginning to set, casting a hazy golden glow over the historic streets of Westminster. Harry had had to use his deer-like eyes to persuade Hannibal to drop him off at Charing Cross Underground station after dinner, so he could take the train back to his aunt and uncle. Hannibal didn't want to do it; he wanted to scout the grounds, but he knew it would be a small victory for the boy. He would drive to the boy's residence later to investigate Petunia's claims.

Harry walked beside Hannibal, each step echoing softly against the cobblestones. The air was thick and humid, the kind that clings to the skin and makes every breath feel weighted. It felt stifling with the smell of bygone rain and the distant hum of London life. The ancient stones of the city seemed to breathe beneath their feet, whispering secrets that only the shadows truly understood.

Hannibal's sharp eyes darted from the ornate facades to the alleys, where faint traces of old, dark histories hovered like ghosts. His voice broke the silence, soft yet thick with intrigue.

"This city," Hannibal mused, "has seen centuries of power, faith, and secrets- many of them buried beneath layers of stone and stories. Did you know that Westminster Abbey has done more than just worship? Beneath its floors lie tunnels- some sealed, some forgotten. Rumors tell of clandestine rituals, hidden chambers where the curious and the dangerous have met in silence."

Harry looked at him sharply, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "You're joking."

Hannibal smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "I never joke about the shadows of history, Harry." His tone was light, but the words carried weight. "Sometimes what's buried is more revealing than what's on display." He paused, then whispered to Harry with a sullen raised eyebrow, "Most of the spaces were sealed off over a hundred years ago, though... In the case of the tunnel under the Palace of Westminster, it was sealed by someone called Tom Porter, who was very fond of Ould Ale."

Harry chuckled, shaking his head at the older man's amused tone. Hannibal was a walking encyclopedia, full of facts about the area, but he wasn't too posh to amuse Harry with jokes. "Tsk, tsk, Hannibal, you know I'm underage... I don't know if it's responsible to talk about a fondness for old ale."

The older man's eyes gleamed, and an almost mischievous smile curled his lips. For a moment, Harry caught sight of the man's pointed teeth, which gave him a dangerous air for a second. "My, my, Harry," he began in a drawling voice, "are you accusing me of corruption?" he shot back, a teasing undertone to his voice.

Harry laughed out loud, his green eyes shining with outright mischief. "And here I thought you were keeping it civil and upscale with your expensive wine during our dinner. We're only minutes away, and you're spouting poetry about men who liked old ale."

Hannibal leaned forward slightly, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes as he studied Harry's flushed cheeks."You're quite perceptive, Harry," he muttered softly. "I believe you're accusing me of encouraging your drinking habits- despite your age, no less."

Harry frowned, a mixture of amusement and resentment. Hannibal chuckled, his tone soft and gentle. "Ah, but you know, although I used to serve wine at our dinner, and now according to you I'm spouting poems about old ale... you're poking me with the proverbial stick until I unleash my claws- perhaps I've come to influence you more than you realize."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he shot Hannibal a look of mock indignation. "And what if I said you could write poetry about blood next?" Hannibal's smile deepened, his tone darkened just enough to make Harry hesitate. "I certainly could. Blood- the rhythm, the color- has a beauty all its own. Perhaps you'll discover that someday, Harry, in your own way."

Harry stiffened for a moment as Hannibal spoke of blood almost reverently and clutched his forearm where there was still a thick scar from where Pettigrew had drawn blood. "Blood is the one thing I don't joke about," he began in a whisper, but still audible. "It can protect you, but it can also certainly create new danger."