Chapter Text
Witchcraft is stupid.
It’s all about luck. Stupid luck. It’s something you cannot learn, you have to be born with it, and master it. No matter how hard one works, they can never measure up to a naturally gifted magic user. Not only the intensity of your power— the type counts as well, and it’s all about genes.
Wednesday Addams doesn’t have any luck. In a world where magic is the most common thing, only few stand out. Wednesday doesn’t stand out. She has visions.
One that’s not well acquainted with the magic world would think that’s incredible— but no. It’s not a common, base power, but it’s by no means unique. Wednesday’s own visions are random, uncontrollable, and considered unreliable. They’re nothing important either— she once successfully figured out who tied up her little brother to a pole half naked, and that was the only time her power ever came in handy.
Her mother, Morticia, was overjoyed when she first heard about Wednesday’s visions, and immediately sent her to Nevermore. The best witchcraft school in the entire continent, wnd the only place where Wednesday would be able to meet people like herself, she said. Right. An opinion absolutely not influenced by the fact that she graduated from there.
Wednesday loathes everything about this school. The people, the teachers, the traditions— everything, except maybe the potions class. Potions is decent. It’s the only one where being naturally gifted doesn’t play a part in your worth, and where your efforts actually get you somewhere. And Wednesday’s deadly good at potions. In fact, she’s the top of the class, although her teacher won’t admit it.
Its only downside is that Wednesday’s a sophomore, and that means the potions she’s taught are far too easy for her.
"This is pointless," she mutters while moving a large wooden spoon inside the cauldron. The liquid struggles to turn pink, meaning she hasn’t mixed the ingredients enough. "We should be taught how to make Amortentia, not this… joke of a love potion."
"Amortentia? As if," snorts the boy next to her. "There’s been petitions to make them illegal. Not even advanced classes can brew it here."
Xavier Thorpe isn’t a stranger to her. To say his family’s famous is an understatement— his father, Vincent Thorpe, is practically the supreme’s right hand. The most powerful psychic alive. It’s only natural for his son to go to a school like Nevermore. People like Xavier belong here.
To Wednesday, that’s not a good thing. This school is full of elitist snobs, and that just means Xavier’s one of them.
"That doesn’t stop students from sneaking it inside the school."
"Yeah… The teachers know about it, y’know? They just don’t care anymore."
Wednesday doesn’t answer, focusing on her potion and it’s now bright pink, nearly red color. Perfect.
Truth is, the teacher’s incompetence doesn’t surprise her at all. But since they’ve been turning a blind eye to students exchanging Amortentia in the school’s bathrooms, surely, they can put it back on the Potions curriculum.
She spares a glance at the potion next to hers— purple nearing pink, but not exactly pink. Xavier Thorpe is supposed to be one of the smartest students in her grade, yet he forgot to use the most important ingredient. What a fraud.
"It’s missing some pearl dust. And you didn’t mix it well enough."
She’s just as surprised as he is— she never helps out anyone. Pity, maybe. Or perhaps, the pleasure of reminding Thorpe that she’s top of the class.
"Oh— yes, you’re— you’re right," he replies, running a hand through his hair. "Can’t believe I forgot. Thank you."
She points a finger at his hair. "And your hair’s untied. If this were a real exam, you’d lose at least three points for this."
"… Right." His cheeks get redder. He pulls a hair tie out of his pocket, ties his hair into a low bun, and coughs.
"I don’t suck at this, I just— I’ve been… distracted today."
"By what?"
It’s not like she actually cares about the answer, or Thorpe, the words just slipped out of her mouth.
Xavier notices. "That’s the most words you’ve ever said to me."
"I know. By what?"
He shrugs. "The supreme’s announcement, I guess. It’s kind of a big deal for my family."
Right. The current supreme is stepping down after 70 years, meaning the head council will be looking for a new one… in Nevermore. It’s been the talk of the country, but Wednesday couldn’t care less about the competition.
It’s not like she would even be in it. She’s a vulgar fortune-teller, a skill that sounds powerful in theory… except that very few users have actually useful, powerful visions. Wednesday isn’t one of them, and she’s been told power isn’t something you acquire, it’s something you’re born with. She was not born with it. She’s doomed to have useless, unreliable visions for the rest of her life.
"You’d make a terrible supreme."
"Ouch," he smiles. "That hurt."
Silence. Wednesday’s done with her potion, and before everyone else, too. She looks around to tell the teacher, get her potion graded and exit the classroom early, but realizes she’s left the class.
Xavier clears his throat. "Who do you think would make a good one? A supreme, I mean."
Wednesday looks around. She doesn’t remember most of her classmates’ names, but what she does know, is that none are cut out for this. She can hardly imagine any of the Nevermore students ruling over the magic world without causing chaos— the bad kind.
None, except maybe herself. But she wouldn’t have any interest in the position even if she had the chance to get it.
"The future of the magic world is in poor hands if it has to be handled by someone from Nevermore."
Xavier snorts. "Wasn’t our supreme from Nevermore?"
"And look where that got us."
"You don’t really like it here, do you?" he half laughs. "Understandable. Only two years to go and you’re free."
"Two years of pointless classes, incompetent teachers and useless celebrations."
"Celebrations?" He adds some pyracantha thorns to his brew, and Wednesday almost tells him that’s the wrong ingredient. Almost. "You mean the winter ball?"
She nods. Nevermore’s annual winter ball had to be one of the most pointless customs the school had. Not mandatory, but highly recommended, as the ball will be hosting the head council, and sometimes the supreme himself.
"I’m assuming you’re not coming? Don’t feel like sucking up to the higher ups?"
Wednesday almost reminds him one of the higher ups in question is his father. Again, almost.
"I would rather die," she simply replies, and she fully means it. He laughs.
"That’s too bad. You’d look great in white."
She wouldn’t. Wednesday puts her spoon on the table and unties her safety apron. "I’m done. You can tell Mrs. Thornhill this is mine."
"Will do," nods Xavier. "Oh, wait—!"
Wednesday’s about to leave, when he grabs her hand, bringing her closer— and her mind goes blank. Her back arches itself, her jaw clenches. All the noise around her suddenly vanishes. A vision.
It only takes her a few seconds to go back to reality, but Wednesday feels like she’s been gone for a good five minutes, if not double. Xavier’s still in front of her, his hand around her wrist.
"Are you okay?"
"I…" She looks around, furrowing her brows. Everyone’s still busy with their potions, or chatting with each other. Not one person noticed, except Xavier. "What do you want?"
He removes his— uncomfortably warm— hand and hands her something. "Your bag. You forgot it."
She grabs it and leaves without a word, nearly bumping into a confused Mrs. Thornhill.
Jaw clenched, fingers gripping the damaged leather of her school bag, Wednesday walks the stairs leading to her shared bedroom, her fingers itching to type on her writing machine what just happened.
Because those few seconds of her blanking out weren’t a simple vision. She just saw Xavier Thorpe lying in the woods… or rather, what was left of him.