A/N: First piece for anything related to Hannibal Lecter. Inspired after watching Silence of the Lambs / Hannibal Rising *swoon* / Hannibal. I figured, between the books and films, Hannibal's relationship with Clarice has become so misconstrued that it is entirely plausible HE winds up with custody of their child, Thalia (coincidentally, I found out someone else chose to name Lecter's kid Thalia. Here I thought I was being original!) Much thanks to Elphabathedelirious32 for all her help editing and for everything else.

Disclaimer: I do not own Gaspard Ulliel's or Anthony Hopkins' intrerptation or Thomas Harris' creation of Hannibal Lecter.
Disclaimer #2: I do own the idea that Clairce and Hannibal had a child named Thalia and Clarice lost custody.

Pairings: Clarice x Hannibal. Duh. Oh, and maybe a little bit of Thalia and her piano. :)

Props to anyone who gets the title...

The Shepherd

Thalia straightens her back, her delicate fingers hovering over the keys of the grand piano, ready to play. The pads of her fingers stroke the keys as a breeze tears its way through the window, knocking the sheet music to the floor. Thalia gathers up the fallen pieces of paper, rearranging Bach’s Goldberg Variations: Aria da Capobefore placing it back on the stand. With one hand, she closes the window before placing herself back on the piano’s bench and beginning her ritual anew. She flexes her fingers and allows them to hover, for a moment, above the keys once more before beginning to play. Her eyes follow the notes across the page, G–G–A–B-A-G… F sharp followed by extraneous grace notes.

A man’s voice calls from somewhere in the adjacent room, interrupting her. “Do not improvise, Thalia. Play the notes as written, please.”

“Yes, Papa.” Thalia clears her throat and begins again. She plays all the way to the bottom of the first page without further interruption. As she flips the page with her left hand, her right still playing, the man comes in whistling the melody. Thalia stops playing and looks up.

“You know this song too well,” she says. “It isn’t any fun to play when you keep correcting me.”

“I’ll correct you no matter what song you play.”

“Thank you so much.” Thalia, about to venture into a new piece, jerks herself back to the piano; but her father speaks up.

“That’s enough piano for now. Go and practice your French. Vas-à-tu. Ta chambre.”

“La mienne? Pourquoi est-ce que je ne peux pas étudier dans votre chambre ? ”

“Because your grammar is atrocious.” Thalia grunts her response and storms away from the piano, aberrantly stomping her dainty feet. She runs out of the room, abandoning Bach and her father. Tearing up the carpeted stairs in her patent leather Mary Janes proves difficult and she slips three quarters of the way up the flight. She jumps up and, like a ballerina, prances up the rest of the stairs only on her toes. Thalia slams her door loudly for emphasis.

“Thalia Mischa Lecter!” Although he’s yelling it up the stairs, each word sounds hauntingly quiet and painful. Thalia knows she’s in trouble. She doesn’t hear him come up, but suddenly her bedroom door swings open and her father is staring at her. His face is void of life and his eyes, dark blue, show his knowledge –of torture, of the human mind and body, of her. He opens his mouth and speaks with such deliberation, each word calm and persuading, as if he has spent years rehearsing this very speech. In other circumstances, her father’s voice might lulls Thalia into a stupor. Not this time. Thalia crouches down next to the bed, as if by making herself smaller she might diminish her father’s wrath as well.

“What did I tell you about slamming the door?” His tone says nothing is wrong, but she knows better. When she doesn’t answer right away, he continues. “Do you have a personal vendetta against this house? What did it ever do to you? Or, oh, I know, this house symbolizes me. Doesn’t it! When you tear around the corners and scuff every inch of hardwood floor, you pretend it’s me. If I hurt the poor old house’s feelings maybe it’ll hurt poor old Daddy’s feelings and he won’t want me anymore. He’ll send me back to live with Mommy.” Thalia says nothing, long used to her father worming his way inside her head in an instant. Sometimes she deeply admires this trait, her father’s ability to read anyone, anything. And other times it is infuriating.

“Your attempt of cunning defiance is trivial. Can’t you do better?”

“I…”

“Your ignorance of fine living astounds me. I bought this for you, Thalia. Aren’t you enjoying it?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t slam the doors.” His breath is a tie of staccato climbs into bed and he leaves the room, gently closing the door behind him. She can almost hear him lithely stepping down the stairs. She knows he will continue through the hallways on the first floor until he reaches his study where his medical books are on display. One side of the room is dedicated to physical anatomy. Wound Man, Leonardo DaVinci’s The Vitruvian Man and sketch of a bisected skull sit tacked against the wall, blown up to twice their size. The other side is a venture into the psychiatric world of the human existence. A diploma –summa cum laude status- from Johns Hopkins Medical School and a series of psychological profiles line the wall. He will settle into his oversized leather chair, with the tall back, and surrender himself to his work. Brood in silence. Possibly recreate a proportionally accurate model of the human brain, dissect it, and label all parts that contribute to the limbic system. And then eat it.