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Chapter Text

For once in his life, seven year old Harry Potter felt like a normal boy.

That thought alone was almost enough to make him dizzy with joy.

The sun had barely risen over Number Four, Privet Drive, when he was yanked out of his cupboard and told—miraculously—that he would be coming along to the zoo with the Dursleys. Not because they wanted him there, of course. His presence was merely the result of a series of inconveniences.

Mrs. Figg, the batty old cat woman who usually watched him, had broken her leg on holiday. Every other neighbor the Dursleys tried to call had made some excuse or slammed the phone down as soon as they heard the name "Harry." It was with a sneer and a threat that Uncle Vernon finally said:

"You so much as whisper anything freaky, boy—anything—and it's a month in your cupboard without meals. Got it?"

Harry had nodded, his heart too full to argue.

Because freaky or not, he was going to the zoo.
XXXX

It was even better than he imagined.

He spent the morning watching towering giraffes munch lazily on leaves, stared in awe at prowling tigers, and couldn't stop grinning when a baby elephant sprayed water on a group of screaming schoolchildren. Even Dudley's whining didn't bother him, he was too busy stuffing his face with sweets to notice Harry, which suited him fine.

At lunch, Harry got half a hot dog. It was cold and slightly stale, but he savored every bite.

And then came the reptile house.

Cool and dimly lit, the air inside felt like a jungle. Rows of tanks lined the walls, filled with all manner of lizards, frogs, and snakes. Harry had never been so enthralled. There was something comforting here. Something that felt…familiar.

He wandered ahead of the Dursleys, toward the largest glass tank in the center of the room. A huge king cobra was coiled inside, golden eyes glinting under the heat lamps, tongue flicking lazily through the air.

That was when he saw her.

A girl about his age stood pressed up close to the glass. She wore black from collar to shoe, and her long, dark braids hung down like nooses over her shoulders. She had the posture of a queen at a funeral—still, solemn, and absolutely terrifying. But most alarming was the fact that she was holding a large knife and quietly working it along the seam of the cobra enclosure's lock.

Harry blinked.

He hesitated, then took a cautious step closer.

"Um…" he said softly, twiddling at the hem of his shirt. "I don't think you're supposed to be doing that…"

The girl didn't look at him.

"I'm not doing it for them," she replied, voice cool and eerily calm. "He's lonely. He told me."

Harry glanced at the snake, then back to the girl. "You can hear him too?"

The girl's head snapped toward him so fast Harry swore he heard something crack. She stared at him, eyes narrowing into onyx slits, and her stare could've frozen sunlight. A slow, measured breath passed between them.

"What did you just say?" she asked sharply. "You can hear him speak?"

Harry nodded, uncertain. "I think so. He said the air here stinks and that he misses the jungle."

"You're a Parselmouth," she said, as if declaring a sentence of execution.

Harry blinked. "I'm a what…?"

"A speaker of serpent-tongue," she said, taking a single step closer, the knife hanging limply at her side. "The language of snakes. Very rare. Very dark. Very important."

Harry's mouth opened, then closed again. "But… that's not real. Magic isn't real."

The girl stared at him like he'd just insulted her ancestors. Without warning, she seized his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Come with me," she ordered.

"Wait…. What…?"

She didn't respond. She dragged him across the room with the calm efficiency of a kidnapping professional, weaving between tourists with blade-like grace. Harry stumbled after her, heart pounding, his mind still stuck on Parselmouth? And magic?

They stopped before a tall, elegant woman dressed all in black. Her eyes were pale as pearls, her lips blood red. She exuded grace and danger like a coiled rose.

"Mother," said the girl, releasing Harry's hand, "I've found something interesting in this tomb of mediocrity. He speaks Parseltongue."

The woman's face lit with a smile that should have wilted flowers and curdled milk. She crouched before Harry with the fluidity of a spider, her expression radiant and predatory.

"Oh, how delicious," she purred. "You speak to serpents? How perfectly sinister."

Harry shifted awkwardly. "I didn't mean to. It just sort of… happened. But magic's not real, so…"

The woman's smile froze.

Her daughter's lips pressed into a line.

A long, cold silence followed.

Then, in a voice soft as velvet and cold as a crypt, the woman asked, "Did your parents tell you that, little one?"

Harry's throat tightened. "My parents are dead. I live with my aunt and uncle."

The woman tilted her head. Her eyes—once curious—darkened to something like fury. A slow, slow burn.

"I see."

As Harry shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, his shirt collar slipped slightly, revealing the edge of a purple bruise on his neck. The woman's eyes locked on it like a predator scenting blood.

Wednesday saw it too.

No one said a word.

Morticia Addams slowly stood, eyes scanning the crowd with the composure of a queen and the fury of a storm beneath her skin.

"Wednesday," she said, her voice crystalline with wrath, "where are this boy's caretakers?"

The girl turned, eyes already moving across the room. "Over there. The large pink man screaming at a zookeeper. And the skeletal woman beside him."

Morticia's lip twitched.

"They allowed you to think magic isn't real," she murmured to Harry, as though to herself. "They told that to you. A boy who speaks to serpents."

"I'm not special," Harry said, pitifully, as he looked down at his feet. "They say I'm a burden. A freak. I just… I thought the snake was talking to everyone."

"Poor little darkling," Morticia whispered. "They've tried to bury you in a cage of normalcy."

Harry blinked. "A what?"

"A crime against nature," Wednesday said simply. "Especially for one like us."

"Us...?" Harry asked in complete confusion.

"Magic users, of course..." Wednesday stated, making the boy's eyes widen.

Morticia's gaze softened, but the flame beneath it did not dim. She knelt again and gently touched the side of Harry's face, not in pity, but with something older. Older and darker.

"They will not hurt you again," she said.

Harry's throat tightened for a moment before he regained control of himself. He had heard this same promise before, and every adult who had given it had been a liar. Against this storm of emotions, his brow furrowed. "Why do you care?"

Morticia straightened and gave him a strange smile, one Harry didn't quite understand.

"Because Wednesday has never brought someone she finds interesting to me before, usually just 'playthings,' that break far too easily. And because any boy who speaks to serpents and still believes he is unloved… is already one of us."

"One of…?"

Harry trailed off as Wednesday grabbed Harry's hand and stared at him with an almost possessive look in her eyes. Morticia watched him silently, her expression unreadable as an eerie smile danced across her face.
XXXX

From across the reptile house, Petunia Dursley looked up and frowned.

"Where's the boy?"

Uncle Vernon, red in the face and halfway through a rant at a teenage zookeeper, growled, "Who cares? He's probably hiding in a corner somewhere, talking to dust."

Petunia pursed her lips and went back to watching Dudley try to feed popcorn to a very disinterested chameleon.

Neither of them noticed the way the Addams matriarch turned her pale gaze toward them.

And smiled before slowly stalking toward them.
XXXX

The Addamses did not storm.

They did not shout.

They did not draw attention like vulgar people often did.

No, when they moved, it was with elegance. With purpose. With darkness that bled into every step like ink into velvet.

Morticia Addams glided across the zoo's reptile house, a vision of black lace and effortless menace, trailed by the faint scent of rosewater and grave soil. Her steps were slow and graceful despite the fury coiling inside her like a striking viper. Behind her, Wednesday followed, her hand still latched upon Harry's.

They found them at the turtle exhibit.

The woman—Petunia—stood with her arms folded, lips curled into a permanent sneer of superiority. The man beside her—Vernon—was red-faced and sweating, loudly berating a teenage zookeeper who looked seconds away from fleeing into the meerkat enclosure.

Their son, a porcine boy with ice cream smeared across his shirt, was pounding his fists against the glass, demanding that the "stupid turtles" fight.

Morticia stopped behind them. She did not speak at first.

She let her silence fill the air like rising fog.

Petunia turned, startled by the sudden stillness at her back.

"Can I help y—?" she began, before her eyes fell on Harry, and the strange girl holding his hand who was looking at her like a bug that needed to be squashed.
Morticia inclined her head with a smile that was somehow both radiant and terrifying.

"You must be this boy's... caretakers."

Petunia frowned. "Who are you?"

Morticia's voice was velvet and ice. "A concerned party."

Vernon grunted. "He bothering you, miss?"

Harry winced at the word bothering. Wednesday's grip tightened at that, as though insulted on his behalf.

"He's mine," Petunia said quickly, stepping in. "My nephew."

Morticia tilted her head. "Yours? Strange. You speak as though he were a casserole gone bad. Not a child."

Vernon stepped closer, puffing himself up like a swollen toad. "Look, miss, I don't know who you are, but we don't take kindly to strangers poking their noses in our business."

"Indeed," Morticia murmured. "Then you'll be most displeased to learn I am not merely poking."

She turned to Harry, seeing the fear in the boy's eyes, and her gaze turned as hard as diamond.

"You are not staying with them."
"Certain not, mother." Wednesday agreed, "Can you even imagine such potential being wasted with these things?"

Petunia gasped. "You—! You can't do that!"

Vernon let out a booming laugh. "And who'd want a freak like him anyway?!"

He barely finished the word freak before everything changed.

Morticia's smile remained exactly as it was.

But she moved—so quickly, so fluidly—that not a single bystander noticed a thing.

One moment she was standing with Harry and Wednesday.

The next, she was pressed almost intimately close to Vernon Dursley, her arm snaked around his side, and the curved, gleaming edge of a jagged ceremonial knife rested just below his ribs—right against his kidney.

It was the kind of knife meant not for cutting… but for evisceration.

Vernon's face drained of color. His jowls trembled.

From this angle, no one else could see the blade. Morticia's posture remained as elegant and composed as ever, her voice as calm as the dead.

"Dear sir," she whispered, her lips inches from his ear. "If you ever refer to that child with such disdain again, I will remove your organs in alphabetical order, beginning with the kidney I am currently cradling."

Vernon's knees quivered.

"I've embalmed nobler creatures than you," she added with a soft sigh. "Fleas, for instance."

She turned slightly, addressing Petunia without ever stepping back. The blade never moved.

"And you," she said, eyeing the woman's rigid posture, "look upon him—this boy of serpents and shadow—and see only dirt. Tell me, how does such a dark and powerful wizard share blood with something so… painfully mundane?"

Petunia stared, paralyzed by the mixture of menace and grace.

"I—he's not—he's my sister's boy!" she blurted. "He's just like her! Just like Lily! A freak!"

Morticia's eyes widened faintly.

The name struck something. A distant bell ringing in an old crypt.

"…Lily Potter?" she repeated slowly, savoring the name like a vintage wine. Her eyes drifted back to Harry. "That boy is Harry Potter?"

Petunia nodded.

Morticia's smile returned; no longer mocking, no longer pleasant.

Now it was something divine.

Something ancient.

"Outstanding," she whispered.

She finally stepped away from Vernon, who sagged against the railing, sweat streaming down his forehead. She sheathed the knife in a hidden fold of her dress as if it had never existed, and turned once more to Petunia, her smile as lovely and cold as frost upon a grave.

"You will not be taking him," Petunia said, but the words came out thin and unsure.

"I already have," Morticia replied.

"You can't!" she insisted. "He—he belongs with us—"

"He belongs nowhere near you," Morticia cut in, her tone silk wrapped around steel. "You see a child, and decide he is a burden. You see magic and call it filth. You see greatness, and cower behind your curtains, praying it doesn't stain your beige carpets."

She leaned in just slightly.

"You are mold in human form, Petunia Dursley. And I will not allow you to rot him."

"How… how do you know my name?" Petunia asked in a horrified voice, making Morticia's smile grow.

"You'd be astounded by the things I know…. Things that only those who dance in the dark and embrace the power of the shadows understand. Would you like to see what else I can do…?"

Petunia released a quiet squeak of terror at the oppressive aura that was coming off of the woman and quickly took a step back.

Harry looked down, cheeks red, unsure whether to smile or run while Wednesday watched with a bored expression, as though this was perfectly normal.

"You cannot simply take him!" Petunia snapped again, wild-eyed as the last trace of her courage reared its head in one last act of defiance. "You'll be punished! Dumbledore will—he'll make you pay!"

Morticia's head tilted slowly with predatory grace.

"Will he?"

Petunia stiffened.

Morticia's smile was slow. Precise.

"The headmaster will try. But I'm sure once he hears just who it was that took the boy from you, he will quickly cut his losses. The last encounter he had with our family did not go so well, you see. In fact, I'm quite sure he still has nightmares about it…"

The air went still.

Petunia stumbled back into Vernon, who let out a low wheeze and clutched his side.

"I must thank you, really," Morticia said lightly. "Had you shown him love, or warmth, or anything vaguely resembling humanity, I might have left him behind. But your neglect, your cruelty… it revealed what he truly is. A child of pain. Of power. Of potential."

Her eyes fell again on Harry, and her tone softened.

"He speaks to serpents. And still thinks himself unworthy of kindness."

She bent slightly to his level.

"My sweet, precious viper. Shall we go home?"

And then, without another word, Morticia Addams turned on her heel and walked into the crowd, black skirts trailing behind her like smoke. Harry hesitated for one moment before Wednesday gave his arm a sharp tug as she followed her mother; Harry followed almost in a state of shock, not looking back.

The crowd swallowed them.

A moment later, they were just... gone.

For several long minutes, the Dursleys didn't move.

Petunia was the first to speak, her voice faint.

"What… what just happened?"

Vernon slowly sat down on a bench, still clutching his side. "That woman was mad. Absolutely bloody mad. And her brat was no better!"

"She had a knife, Vernon."

"I know she had a knife, Petunia!"

Dudley waddled up, pouting. "Where's the freak gone? He was supposed to carry my sweets."

Neither answered.

They left the zoo in shaken silence, one fat hand gripping Dudley, the other trembling around a set of keys.
XXXX

Several minutes later, after helping Harry into the family car, Wednesday sat beside the boy with what one could assume to be a smile on her young face. When her mother had forced her to go to the zoo, Wednesday had fully expected the day to be one of overbearing boredom, marked by, perhaps, some modicum of butchery and enjoyment.

Instead, she had found a rare jewel among the filth of normalcy. A boy with so much potential for the dark that he practically oozed with it. He wasn't aware of his power. Not yet. But with her family, that potential would be lauded, instead of punished. One thing was certain as her hand tightened on the boy's hand, almost possessively.

She liked this one. She liked him very much.

Chapter Text

The car was long, black, and ancient—like a hearse that had once been a luxury carriage and then changed its mind halfway through construction.

Its windows were tinted so dark that the outside world seemed like a dream already fading. The leather seats groaned like tombstones shifting under the weight of the undead, and the scent within was a curious mix of rose oil, mothballs, and something faintly metallic, like bloodied silver.

Harry Potter sat in the back seat.

His hand was still wrapped in Wednesday Addams's.

She hadn't let go since the zoo.

Not when Morticia led them through the crowds. Not when the Addams car—complete with tiny brass gargoyle hood ornament—pulled up without anyone seeming to call it. Not even now, as the figure that Morticia had introduced as Lurch, the impossibly tall man at the wheel, drove them away from everything Harry had ever known.

And Harry wasn't sure how to feel.

A part of him—the same part trained to flinch when Dudley moved too quickly—was absolutely terrified.

But another part, buried deep inside, pulsed with something else.

Something warmer.

Something dangerously close to… hope.

He stole a glance at the driver.

Lurch's pale, stitched skin looked like old parchment. His sunken eyes barely blinked, and his massive hands gripped the wheel like he was guiding a funeral procession. Every so often, he emitted a low groan, which might have been humming.

Harry gulped.

After several minutes of silence—broken only by the car's soft engine growl and the faint rattle of bone chimes hanging from the rearview mirror—Harry found his voice.

"Um…" he began, cautiously, "where… exactly are we going?"

Morticia, seated across from him with the composure of a queen at court, turned her eyes to him. They were deep and serene, like the surface of a still black lake.

"Why, home, darling," she said warmly. "We're going home."

Harry stared at her.

Then at Wednesday, who looked perfectly content beside him, hands folded neatly in her lap, still holding his.

Then at Lurch, who let out another groan that might've been a chuckle… or indigestion… or the final breath of someone long dead.

"…Are you going to eat me?" Harry finally asked, unable to stand the silence any longer.

There was a long silence.

And then Morticia Addams laughed; not in a cruel way, nor mocking.

It was elegant, rich, and so utterly delighted that even Wednesday cracked the faintest smile.

"Eat you?" Morticia repeated, dabbing her eyes with a black lace handkerchief. "Oh, darling boy, whatever gave you that idea?"

Harry squirmed, trying not to seem rude. "It's just… there appears to be a zombie driving, and—no offense—you seem quite... um... odd."

Morticia placed a hand to her heart, as though she had just been complimented on a divine fragrance.

"Odd?" she echoed, beaming. "My sweet viper, that's the kindest thing anyone's said to me in years."

She leaned forward slightly, reaching across the seat to gently pinch Harry's cheek between two perfectly manicured fingers.

"You've no need to worry about being eaten, sweet one," she assured him, voice like a lullaby sung in a graveyard. "You're still far too young. We prefer our meals well-aged… and preferably consenting."

Harry blinked, not entirely sure she was joking.

But she was smiling, and for once, someone was smiling at him, not because of something embarrassing.

"…Thank you," he said cautiously.

Wednesday squeezed his hand once.

"You get used to it," she said.

"To what?"

"The unsettling honesty."

Harry considered that. "That sounds better than lying all the time."

Wednesday tilted her head. "Yes. It's harder to hide behind things in our house. Especially when the walls talk."

Harry wasn't sure if she was kidding either.

He glanced at Morticia. "So… you really meant it? I'm going to stay with you?"

"Of course," she replied. "You're one of us now."

"One of…?"

Morticia's eyes softened as she looked at him. "You spoke to a serpent. You saw Lurch and did not scream. And most telling of all… you recognized that we are 'odd.' Which means, my darling, that you are no stranger to cruelty."

Harry blinked rapidly, suddenly finding the floor of the car very interesting.

Morticia's voice gentled.

"You are not the first to find sanctuary in our home," she said. "And you won't be the last."

A long silence passed between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was like… waiting for something beautiful to rise from the dark.

Harry shifted again. "What's your house like?"

Wednesday brightened slightly. "It has a cemetery in the garden."

"And a noose swing," Morticia added. "Oh, and Cousin It occasionally haunts the tearoom, but only on Tuesdays."

"There's a library," Wednesday said. "Full of books that haven't been read in a hundred years. Some because they're cursed. Others because they bite."

"Don't let the armor in the west hallway startle you," Morticia added lightly. "It doesn't like being stared at."

Harry's mouth slowly opened.

"…Cool."

Wednesday squeezed his hand again.

XXXX

Outside the window, the world grew darker.

Buildings gave way to trees, and trees gave way to fog.

The road had long since narrowed to a winding path of cracked stone and creeping ivy.

Twilight deepened to true night, casting pale moonlight across the fog-slicked hills. Ancient trees, twisted and bare despite the summer warmth, loomed like sentinels over the long, black car as it glided uphill, its wheels crunching over gravel older than the Dursleys' entire bloodline.

Harry pressed his face to the window, eyes wide.

Then the trees parted, and he saw it.

Addams Manor.

Perched atop the hill like a crown of nightmares, the house was enormous. Taller than any building Harry had ever seen outside of London, it rose in towers and spires, wrapped in wrought iron, tangled vines, and gargoyle-lined balconies. Every shutter hung at a crooked angle. The roof leaned ominously to one side, and something in one of the upper windows blinked at him before vanishing behind a torn velvet curtain.

Lightning flickered in the clouds, though the sky remained clear.

Harry blinked. "It's… it's huge."

Morticia Addams's eyes sparkled with pride.

"Isn't it dreadful?" she sighed. "So dark. So tragically depressing. A monument to every bleak whisper that's ever haunted a dream."

Harry wasn't sure if she was being serious, but she looked positively radiant.

Wednesday nodded beside him. "It's home."

The car rolled to a stop in front of an arching gate, its hinges screeching as it opened on its own. Beyond it lay a long stretch of cracked black stone, flanked by dead rose bushes and crooked trees, leading straight to the front steps of the manor.

A single raven sat atop a crumbling statue of a weeping angel, eyeing them with approval.

Lurch exited the vehicle with a deep groan and opened the door.

Harry stepped out, staring upward at the towering facade.

"I didn't know houses could look haunted," he murmured.

"Oh, it's not haunted, darling," Morticia replied as she stepped out beside him. "Haunting is an art form. This house merely sulks in quiet disappointment."

"We used to live in America," Wednesday added, brushing a cobweb from her sleeve with what might have been fondness. "But the neighbors were… loud."

Morticia's voice dropped to a mournful sigh. "They were cheerful, always smiling. They mowed their lawns. They had barbecues." She shuddered delicately. It was unbearable. We were practically driven out by good manners."

Harry blinked. "So… you moved here?"

"Back to England," Morticia said. "Where the air is damp, the tea is bitter, and the neighbors know how to mind their business."

The great black doors of the manor creaked open before they even knocked.

Harry stepped inside and instantly forgot how to breathe.

The foyer was immense.

A grand staircase spiraled upward like the spine of a dead leviathan; its banisters carved into twisted faces frozen mid-scream. Suits of armor lined the walls, each slightly different; one held a Morningstar, another a bouquet of dead flowers. Faint, flickering candles cast dancing shadows on the crimson walls, which were covered in portraits of severe-looking ancestors, each seemingly watching Harry's every move.

A stuffed two-headed raven stood beside an umbrella rack.

Something growled softly from beneath the floorboards.

Harry didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply stood, trying to process it all.

Then, from the top of the stairs, a figure descended.

He was not what Harry expected.

Gomez Addams wore a deep purple pinstripe suit that shimmered with every step. His black hair was slicked back, and his mustache curled like it had been sculpted by an artist with a flair for chaos. His grin was wide, gleaming, and dangerous in the way that made you feel you should either flee or ask him for a glass of brandy.

But what drew Harry's eyes—what made him stare—was what rested on the man's shoulder.

A hand.

A severed hand.

Perfectly clean. Perfectly alive.

Its fingers tapped absently on Gomez's shoulder as though bored of the descent.

"Cara Mia!" Gomez cried, throwing open his arms as he reached the bottom step. "You've returned! How was the zoo? Did you free any of the creatures and lead them on a wild rampage?"

"Unfortunately not…" Morticia smiled, reaching out to her husband.

He swept Morticia into a passionate embrace, dipping her low and kissing her with such flair that even the suits of armor seemed to avert their visors.

Wednesday looked vaguely annoyed. "They do this a lot."

Harry's mouth was still open.

Gomez finally released Morticia, laughing like a man who'd won a duel, a fortune, and a poetry contest all in the same afternoon.

"And who," he said, turning to Harry with theatrical curiosity, "is this charming young gentleman?"

"This," Morticia replied, resting a hand gently on Harry's shoulder, "is Harry Potter. He's seven years old. He speaks Parseltongue. His relatives were horribly normal, and he will be staying with us."

Harry stiffened, uncertain of Gomez's reaction.

But the man's face broke into an even wider grin.

"Magnificent!" he cried.

Before Harry could protest, Gomez reached out and clapped him on the back so heartily that Harry stumbled forward two full steps.

"Welcome to the family, mi pequeño cuervo!" Gomez beamed. "Any enemy of mundanity is a friend of mine!"

And then the hand leapt.

With a twitch of the wrist and a blur of motion, the severed hand sprang from Gomez's shoulder and landed squarely on Harry's.

Harry shrieked and staggered back, arms flailing, as the hand perched there like a smug, fleshy parrot.

Morticia raised a brow. "Thing."

The hand gave a sheepish wriggle.

"That is not how we greet guests," she said coolly, stepping forward and gently plucking the hand from Harry's shoulder like one might retrieve a misbehaving kitten.

Harry's breath was coming in gasps. "What… what is that?!"

"Thing," Wednesday said, helpfully.

"It's a hand!" Harry exclaimed, pointing.

"Yes," Morticia said, holding Thing up between two fingers as he twitched apologetically. "But he's our hand."

"He's perfectly harmless," Gomez added. "Mostly."

"Mostly?!" Harry's voice cracked.

Wednesday smirked. "He attacked the last postman, but only because he smelled like lemon air freshener."

Thing wiggled his fingers indignantly.

Harry backed away until he felt the armor's gauntlet brush his shoulder. He jumped again.

Morticia leaned down, her voice a soothing whisper. "Don't worry, my darling. Thing likes you. He just has a rather… forward way of expressing affection."

Thing waved apologetically, then skittered up the banister and vanished into the shadows.

Harry's shoulders slowly lowered.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to this."

"Oh, I do hope not," Morticia purred. "Familiarity is the death of wonder."

"Come, come!" Gomez said, clapping his hands. "We must show you the house! The crypt! The torture chamber! Oh—Wednesday, show him the library. I believe the spellbooks in the eastern wing are still muttering to themselves."

"I was going to take him to meet the tarantulas," Wednesday said flatly.

"Wonderful! The bonding begins!"

Harry couldn't help it.

He smiled.

A real one.

Not because he was trying to be polite.

Not because he was trying to avoid a beating.

But because—somehow, impossibly—he felt like he belonged.

And that was more magical than any talking snake.

XXXX

Chapter Text

The Manor breathed.

That was Harry's first impression as he followed Wednesday up the long, curved staircase. The air in Addams Manor felt old, not musty, exactly, but alive in the way forests felt alive. Or maybe graveyards. The air carried weight, the scent of dust and candle smoke, of velvet and polished wood and something floral and faintly funereal.

The walls creaked in response to each step, the shadows flickered even where there were no flames, and every so often, Harry swore he heard the walls sigh.

"I know you mum said otherwise…" Harry said nervously. "But I think your house might actually be haunted."

Wednesday didn't look back. "Of course it is. Mother was just being facetious."

"Oh."

"Would you prefer it wasn't?"

Harry considered that. "No. It… fits."

Wednesday nodded in approval. "Good."

XXXX

They reached the second floor, and Harry's eyes went wide.

A hallway stretched in both directions; long, lined with portraits, all of them watching. Not figuratively. They blinked as he passed. One sneezed. Another whispered something about "soft meat."

The chandelier above them was made of twisted iron and hanging bones, swaying gently, though there was no wind. Tattered drapes clung to enormous bay windows, and the floor was so polished that it reflected them like a dark mirror.

A heavy suit of armor stood at the hallway's midpoint, holding a battleaxe in one hand and a bouquet of cobwebs in the other.

Harry slowed as they passed it.

"Is it… alive?"

"Only during thunderstorms," Wednesday replied without pause.

"Oh."

XXXX

They turned the corner into another corridor lined with cracked portraits and tarnished sconces. There were alcoves with preserved bats, a faint trail of smoke wafting from under one door, and something that distinctly resembled a gallows at the far end.

Then a door creaked open ahead of them, and a boy stepped out.

He was slightly younger than Harry, stockier, with a mischievous grin and soot-streaked cheeks. His shirt was torn, and one of his eyebrows was singed at the corner. He held what looked like a homemade explosive in one hand and a wrench in the other.

When he saw Wednesday, he grinned wider.

Then he saw Harry.

His eyes narrowed.

"Who's that?" he asked, pointing the wrench at Harry.

Wednesday didn't stop walking. "This is Harry. He's going to be living with us now."

Harry gave a small, awkward wave.

"Forever?" Pugsley asked, tilting his head.

"Yes," Wednesday replied, her voice casual, but with an edge that made Harry swallow. "He's mine. That's all you need to know."

Pugsley's grin turned to a smirk.

"Hope he lasts longer than your last playmate."

Harry blinked. "Last…?"

Pugsley turned and walked off down the hallway, whistling a funeral march. Thing skittered down from a rafter and landed on his shoulder like a disembodied parrot. The two vanished into one of the far rooms with a puff of green smoke and a small bang.

Harry turned slowly to Wednesday. "What… happened to your last playmate?"

Wednesday didn't stop walking.

"We were playing French Revolution," she said, as if that explained everything. "He was Marie Antoinette."

Harry stared. "And… what happened?"

Wednesday turned her head slightly, dark eyes glinting.

"He lost his head."

Harry tripped over his own feet.

She did not wait.

XXXX

They continued through the Manor, Harry trailing a step behind, occasionally glancing back as if half-expecting the hallway to seal shut behind him.

To his surprise, Wednesday didn't try to scare him, at least, not on purpose. She moved with calm precision, pointing out doors as they passed.

"That's the conservatory," she said, gesturing to a door with a wreath of dead thorns. "We keep the carnivorous plants there."

Harry peered inside. Something green hissed and lunged at the glass. He quickly stepped back.

"That one's Belladonna," Wednesday added. "She doesn't like strangers."

They passed a library with shelves so high they disappeared into darkness above. Books floated from shelf to shelf of their own accord, some whispering to each other. One growled when Harry looked too long.

Wednesday's bedroom was next—she opened the door without a word and let him peer inside.

The room was dimly lit with black candles. The curtains were heavy velvet. A small guillotine rested on her nightstand. Her bed was a low four-poster covered in deep red and black sheets, and there was a cage in the corner with a large, very fluffy spider.

Harry took a cautious step back.

"She's very sweet," Wednesday said, following his gaze.

"I'll take your word for it."

They passed a nursery ("No babies in it. Just rattlesnakes."), a ballroom with blood-red chandeliers, and a long hallway full of mirrors, none of which reflected correctly. In one, Harry saw his reflection blink a full second late. In another, his eyes glowed faintly red.

He did not look too closely into the third.

XXXX

They reached a balcony overlooking the front hall.

Harry leaned on the railing, looking down at the grand entrance. He could just make out Morticia and Gomez below, dancing slowly while Lurch stood nearby, playing a violin so old it sounded like it was made of bones and sorrow.

Harry was quiet for a long time before he finally whispered, "Is this all real?"

Wednesday tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean… I'm not dreaming, am I? No one's going to shake me awake and tell me to get breakfast for Dudley?"

Wednesday didn't answer right away. She simply stepped beside him, arms folded behind her back.

"You're awake," she said at last. "You're here. And if anyone tries to take you back, Mother will use that lovely knife she keeps in her garter."

Harry blinked. "…Really?"

"She has others, too."

He swallowed once before a smile appeared on his face. "Wicked."

XXXX

They explored more of the Manor; Wednesday showing him a secret passage behind the library, which led to an underground corridor full of jars containing things Harry tried very hard not to look at directly.

They passed a door labeled "Do Not Feed After Midnight" and a locked trunk that growled when they walked too close.

At one point, they passed a painting that followed them with its eyes. When Harry frowned at it, the painting stuck out its tongue.

"Uncle Brutus," Wednesday explained.

Eventually, they returned to the second floor and reached a small alcove overlooking the garden.

Below, in the moonlight, a cemetery stretched out behind the house, dozens, maybe hundreds of gravestones. Some crumbling, some pristine. Some shaped like angels, others like screaming faces. There was a broken fountain, and a willow tree hung low over the family crypt.

Harry stared, silent before finally admitting softly, "…I think I like it here."

Wednesday nodded once. "Of course you do."

"No one's… scared of me," he said quietly.

"No one should be, but that doesn't stop them."

"I'm used to it."

"Well," she said simply, "you won't have to be anymore. Unless you want them to fear you. That's always fun too."

Harry turned to her.

Wednesday Addams wasn't smiling. But her expression was softer than he'd seen it. She looked at him not like he was strange, or dangerous, or something to be fixed, but like he fit. Like he belonged.

He smiled, just slightly. "I think I'm going to like being yours."

Wednesday's fingers twitched before a wicked smile began to stretch over her face. "…Good."

XXXX

The scent hit Harry before they even reached the kitchen.

It was earthy. Pungent. Faintly metallic. Like a swamp that had been lovingly simmered.

He wrinkled his nose.

Wednesday didn't.

She led him down the back staircase and into a corridor thick with steam. The walls here were lined with dried herbs—lavender, wormwood, hemlock—bundled and hanging from the rafters. Jars filled with eyeballs, leeches, and what looked suspiciously like severed tongues lined the shelves. A pale green glow seeped out from under the kitchen door, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of something… bubbling.

Wednesday pushed the door open without knocking.

"Grandmama," she announced simply, "I brought a guest."

The kitchen was a witch's dream.

Pots clattered of their own accord. A cauldron the size of a bathtub hissed over a flickering green flame. There were stains on the walls that might've been soup—or a minor summoning mishap. A small skeleton hung from a spice rack by its ankles. A taxidermy bat wore a chef's hat.

And in the center of it all stood Grandma Addams.

She was short, hunched, and swathed in layers of black and purple shawls. Her wiry gray hair was wild as a thundercloud, and her large eyes twinkled with perpetual mischief. In one hand, she stirred the bubbling cauldron with a ladle longer than Harry's arm; in the other, she held a small skull like a tasting spoon.

She turned at the sound of the door and grinned, revealing teeth that looked like they'd won multiple bar brawls.

"Well, look at you!" she cried, her voice full of gravel and glee. "You must be the new little corpse!"

Harry blinked. "Um… hello?"

"He's Harry," Wednesday added helpfully. "He'll be living with us. He's mine."

"Ahhh," Grandma said, as though that explained everything. "Delightful. I love new blood."

She hobbled forward with surprising speed and seized one of Harry's hands, patting it with her own gnarled fingers.

"So thin! So pale! You'll fit right in, dear."

Harry offered a polite smile, but his nerves were bouncing like Thing on a sugar rush.

Then her eyes narrowed as her gaze lifted to his forehead, making Harry freeze.

"Ohh," Grandma Addams murmured, leaning in. "What have we here?"

He didn't move as she reached up with one cold finger and brushed back his fringe.

The scar was revealed.

That familiar lightning bolt. Jagged and faintly pink. Always present. Always there.

Her smile faded.

The mischief drained from her face.

For a moment—just a moment—her kitchen stilled.

The pot stopped bubbling.

The bat stopped twitching.

Even the flames seemed to crouch.

"Now that," she whispered, staring, "is power."

Harry swallowed.

"It positively pulses with dark magic," Grandma said. "Old. Violent. Bound by blood and death."

Wednesday leaned closer, intrigued. "What kind?"

"Hard to say. Cursed, maybe. Or marked. There's a binding on it for sure, I'll have to peel it back layer by layer."

Harry took a cautious step back. "Peel—?"

"Later, dear," Grandma said cheerily, patting his cheek. "Not before dinner. Wouldn't want you fainting into the soup. Makes it too salty."

She turned back to the cauldron and lifted the lid with flair.

A cloud of green steam rose, hissing like a dying toad.

Inside were dozens of snails—large, slimy, and very much still alive, squirming contentedly in thick, glistening broth.

Harry's stomach did a somersault.

"We're having snail soup?" he asked, trying not to sound like he was panicking.

"Of course," Grandma said. "They're best when slow-cooked. Gives them time to absorb the despair."

Harry turned to Wednesday, eyes wide.

"Is she… joking?"

Wednesday's face was serene. "Of course not."

"But she said absorb the—"

"She's very proud of her despair-infused cuisine."

"…Have you eaten it?"

"Every week since infancy," Wednesday replied, as if that were normal. "She adds a dash of grave dirt for texture."

Harry looked back into the pot and watched one of the snails blink.

"I miss toast," he mumbled.

Grandma cackled from the stove.

"You'll learn to love it, boy!" she called. "You'll crave the crunch of shell between your teeth! The squeal of surrender in your mouth!"

Harry wasn't sure if she meant the snails or something far, far worse.

XXXX

They excused themselves from the kitchen shortly after—though Grandma made sure to press a small pouch of dried nettle into Harry's hand ("For courage, or insomnia, whichever you prefer")—and returned to the hall.

Harry was quiet for a few moments.

Then: "She's really going to look at my scar?"

Wednesday nodded. "She has special sight. She once diagnosed a ghost with tuberculosis."

"…What happened to the ghost?"

"Exorcised."

"Oh."

XXXX

They reached the portrait hall again, where moonlight streamed in through cracked, stained-glass windows and made the ancestral paintings flicker like flame.

Harry stopped and looked at one of the faces, an old man with a stern expression and a crow on his shoulder who was smiling at him.

"Wednesday?" Harry finally asked quietly, causing her to turn to him.

"…Why are you all so nice to me?"

She blinked. "We're not."

"No, I mean… you didn't have to take me in. Or feed me. Or care… But you are."

She looked at him for a long time, before finally answering. "You spoke to a serpent. You survived a curse. And you followed a woman you barely knew into a haunted house without flinching."

She stepped closer, her voice lower.

"You're not just one of us. You're better. Because they tried to break you… and you're still standing."

Harry's throat tightened as tears threatened to emerge. "…Thanks."

She retook his hand

. "Come on. You need to change for dinner. Snails are best eaten in formal attire."

Harry blinked. "What counts as formal attire?"

"Something black. And ideally, mildly cursed."

XXXX

Chapter Text

Dinner at the Addams household was, as it turned out, more ritual than meal.

Harry had been dressed in a high-collared black tunic and matching trousers, accented with a faintly shimmering waistcoat that Wednesday assured him was made from the threads of funeral shrouds. He wasn't sure if she was joking.

He wasn't sure anyone was ever joking.

At precisely eight o'clock, the great bronze gong beside the hearth was struck by Lurch with a mallet the size of Harry's torso. The echo shook the chandeliers and caused a murder of crows on the roof to take flight in ragged formation.

From every corner of the house, the Addams family converged.

XXXX

The dining room was a cavernous chamber lit by candelabras made of rib bones and iron. The long table could have seated twenty, but only seven places were set; eight, Harry realized, if you counted the place where Thing sat perched on a velvet cushion, a dainty napkin tied around his wrist.

The centerpiece was an enormous stuffed armadillo resting atop a bed of black roses.

Harry sat between Wednesday and Morticia.

Opposite him sat Gomez, beaming behind a glass of something dark and smoking.

Pugsley plopped down with a grin, his shirt freshly singed and his pockets clinking with mysterious metal.

Lurch entered last, bearing the first course, bowls of steaming snail soup.

The snails were still moving, and Harry eyed the bowl as it was set before him. A single snail lifted its eyestalk to meet his gaze and sank below the broth with what Harry swore was tragic resignation.

He tried not to gulp audibly.

"Please," Morticia said with eerie warmth, "eat as much as you like. They're freshly dug."

"Hand-picked from the graveyard," Wednesday added. "They have a stronger flavor when raised near decomposing flesh."

Harry picked up his spoon with the hesitation of a man defusing a bomb.

Gomez slurped his with theatrical delight, licking his lips. "Ah! Like the muddy kiss of a swampy lover."

Pugsley poured something black from a flask into his bowl. It sizzled ominously.

Harry steeled himself, dipped the spoon, and tasted.

To his shock… it wasn't bad.

It was garlicky. Earthy. A little spicy. Slightly alarming in texture, but warm.

And oddly comforting.

He took another bite.

Morticia watched him fondly, and Thing gave him an approving tap on the wrist.

XXXX

Dinner continued in increasingly strange fashion.

The second course was charred crow with nightshade gravy.

The third was a salad of black moss and pickled roots that glowed faintly in the candlelight.

Gomez regaled them with tales of sword duels in Montevideo, where the loser was forced to write sonnets to the winner's mustache. Morticia chimed in with a story about the time she tried to summon a storm spirit on a bet and accidentally cursed an entire cruise ship with eternal fog.

"Tragic, really," she sighed. "They still haven't docked. But the romance was exquisite."

Wednesday taught Harry how to politely reject the ghost that sometimes tried to pass phantom peas across the table ("Just say, 'Not now, Eustace.' He'll understand.")

Pugsley challenged Harry to a beetle-eating contest. Harry declined with dignity.

"Soon," Pugsley promised ominously.

Harry laughed.

A real laugh.

The kind that bubbled up from somewhere untouched by cupboards and cold stares and years of not-belonging.

No one glared at him.

No one told him to be quiet.

He wasn't a freak here.

He was family.

XXXX

As dessert arrived—a towering, wriggling black pudding with sugared scorpions on top—Harry leaned back, full and a little dazed.

That's when the chandelier shook.

Everyone paused.

The flames flickered.

A gust of wind howled through the room, though the windows were shut.

And then—like a horror movie director calling "Action!"—the double doors at the far end of the dining room burst open.

A figure strode in with the confidence of a man who'd just risen from the grave and was delighted about it.

Uncle Fester had arrived.

He was bald, pale, and round, with dark-rimmed eyes that gleamed like a mad scientist's daydream. He wore a long black coat that trailed slightly behind him and gave off a faint whiff of ozone and something vaguely sulfuric. He looked like he'd just been electrocuted and probably had been.

"Sorry I'm late!" he bellowed, arms flung wide. "Had to recalibrate the lightning rod! I finally got it to summon bolts in the shape of swans!"

Gomez stood immediately, grinning like a man who'd just been handed a loaded cannon.

"Fester, you incandescent goblin, you've returned!"

The two embraced with the force of two atomic bombs, greeting each other midair. Sparks literally flew, and Fester yelped in delight as Gomez clapped his back hard enough to produce an audible thwack.

Morticia rose and kissed Fester on both cheeks.

"We saved you a bowl," she said. "Though I fear the snails may have expired."

"Oh, don't worry about me," Fester grinned, holding up a jar of something pickled and squirming. "Brought my own."

He turned, then noticed Harry.

His eyes narrowed.

"Who's this?" he asked, squinting.

Everyone looked to Morticia.

"This," she said proudly, "is Harry Potter."

Fester blinked. "The Harry Potter?"

Harry swallowed. "Um. Hello."

"He'll be living with us," Wednesday said firmly. "He's mine."

Fester's face split into a grin.

"Ohhhhhh excellent!" he cackled, stomping forward and clapping Harry on the shoulder hard enough to rattle his teeth. "A new Addams! That calls for a celebration!"

"We already had one," Morticia said smoothly. "You're just in time for scorpion cake."

"YES!"

He took the seat beside Harry, still buzzing with chaotic glee.

Harry, still reeling from the shoulder slap, gave a shaky smile.

Fester leaned in conspiratorially.

"If you ever want to help me build a ghost cannon, just say the word."

Harry stared.

"…What's a ghost cannon?"

"You fire ghosts at things," Fester whispered with glee. "Angry ghosts."

"…Cool," Harry whispered, unable to hide his excitement.

Fester gave a delighted squeal and dug into the cake with a fork shaped like a trident.

Harry took a bite of his own slice—and yelped as one of the sugared scorpions twitched.

Wednesday looked pleased.

"You're adapting quickly," she said.

Harry exhaled.

"I think… I think I'm going to like it here."

Morticia reached across the table and gently tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

"You are home now, my darling."

Gomez raised his glass.

"To Harry!"

The family echoed it, some with grins, some with gleeful howls.

And at the far end of the table, Thing waved his little napkin in triumph.

XXXX

The manor had fallen into its usual symphony of nocturnal murmurs.

Doors creaked even when no one passed through them. Wind whispered lullabies through the chimneys. Far down in the garden, an owl hooted at something unseen, followed shortly by the faint rattle of chains from the family crypt.

Harry lay beneath the heavy velvet blankets of the guest bed, though Morticia had already called it his room. The mattress was firmer than he was used to, but it was warm. The sheets smelled faintly of cedar, ash, and roses. A low-burning lantern in the shape of a skull glowed from the nightstand, its flickering light casting dancing shadows across the walls, as though the room itself was alive and breathing slow, quiet breaths.

Morticia sat at his bedside, her silhouette backlit by candlelight.

She had not hurried him.

She'd helped him change into black silk pajamas—"Enchanted to be wrinkle-free," she'd said with a wink—and asked if he'd liked the dinner. He told her it was the most exciting (and slightly terrifying) meal he'd ever had.

She smiled, brushing back his fringe. "That's how you know it was a success."

And now she simply sat there, fingers folded neatly in her lap, her expression calm and watchful, as if guarding him from even the shadows.

Harry turned his head toward her.

He hadn't meant to say anything. He really hadn't.

But it had been building inside of him all evening, since the soup, the chandelier, Fester's arrival, and the moment Wednesday had declared that he was hers.

He blinked rapidly, lips pressed tightly together, trying not to make a sound.

But Morticia Addams missed nothing.

Her voice came soft. "Darling?"

Harry sniffed once.

Then, without a word, he sat up.

And threw himself into her arms.

Morticia didn't flinch. She didn't gasp or hesitate.

She opened her arms without pause and drew him close, gently folding her cool, graceful limbs around his trembling frame.

Harry's small hands clutched her shawl tightly as he buried his face against her shoulder.

"I-I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled and choked. "I just… I don't know why I'm crying."

"You're mourning," she said softly, brushing her hand through his hair. "Grief is not always for the dead, Harry. Sometimes it's for the things we lived without. The childhoods we should have had. The love we were denied."

He didn't answer, only nodded shakily, fingers still gripping her as if she might vanish.

"Thank you," he whispered, barely audible.

"For what, my sweet one?"

"For saving me."

Morticia's embrace tightened just slightly.

She closed her eyes and rested her cheek atop his hair.

"You needed only to be seen," she murmured. "And heard. And held. That is not saving, darling. That is belonging. And you belong here."

His breath hitched again, and he clung tighter.

She let him stay there as long as he needed, minutes, perhaps hours; time meant little in a house ruled by shadows and moonlight.

When he finally pulled back, eyes red-rimmed but calmer, Morticia cupped his cheek with one icy hand.

"Do you know what it means to be an Addams?" she asked gently.

Harry shook his head.

Morticia's smile was slow and proud, touched with something fierce.

"It means we do not flinch from darkness. We celebrate it. We do not conform, we define ourselves. We love without shame. We protect our own. And when the world tells us we don't belong…"

Her fingers brushed his temple, where the lightning bolt scar still pulsed faintly beneath the skin.

"…we remind it why it fears us."

Harry stared up at her, awestruck.

"You may not bear our blood," she continued, "but blood is only part of the story. Love, loyalty, power, choice… these are the true ties of family."

Harry blinked again, a single tear slipping down his cheek.

"And I choose you," she said.

He swallowed. "I've never had a family choose me before."

"Well, now you have several," Morticia said with a smirk. "A cousin who will try to electrocute you before breakfast, a sister who may attempt to decapitate you in the name of play, and a living hand who considers you a dear friend already."

Harry gave a damp, tired laugh.

"And me," Morticia added, leaning down to press a kiss to his brow. "Who will not let this world take you back."

Harry stared at her.

Then slowly, he nodded.

"I want to learn," he said. "What it means to be one of you."

Morticia stood, smoothing her gown.

"And you will. In time. You'll learn to walk through the world like it belongs to you. To speak to shadows. To smile in the face of fear."

She turned down the lamp, letting the skull's glow dim to a faint ember.

"Sleep now, my little serpent," she whispered. "You are safe. You are seen. You are home."

And with that, Morticia Addams glided from the room.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Harry lay back in bed, the silk sheets wrapped around him like a cocoon.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, eyes heavy, heart full.

And for the first time in years…

He slept.

Peacefully.

Chapter Text

Two Weeks Later:

Arabella Figg had never missed a morning walk in thirty-seven years.

Rain or shine, cats or no cats, she trod the same cracked sidewalk with the same shuffling pace, carrying the same basket of dry biscuits and milk saucers. And so, it was no small matter when, two weeks after the Dursleys' hasty departure from Privet Drive, she placed a trembling hand on a long-distance Floo call and informed Albus Dumbledore of something... unusual.

"The Dursleys are gone," she whispered.

Dumbledore, who had just been reading an account of the Goblin rebellions of 1511, lowered his spectacles slowly.

"Gone?" he repeated, brows arching.

"Vanished," Figg muttered, eyes flickering. "I thought at first they were on holiday. But no. The house is empty. The boy—Harry—he's not there. I haven't seen him in days."

Dumbledore's teacup froze halfway to his lips.

"Are you certain?"

"As certain as I am that Snowball is pregnant again," Figg huffed. "And that black cat is not the father."

Dumbledore, distracted, failed to smile at the joke.

"Thank you, Arabella," he said quietly. "I shall look into it."
XXXX

It took him longer than he liked.

He sent a charm to trace the forwarding address, only to find the Dursleys had used Muggle legal channels to shield their new location. Clever, for such simple people. Paranoid, even.

He then summoned an owl with a Notice-Me-Not tracking charm and sent it into Surrey, circling likely neighborhoods.

After a week, it returned with a signature.

Petunia Dursley. New address: Rosewood Court.

Dumbledore smirked as he looked at the address; no matter how talented, no one could evade Albus Dumbledore for long. Not when he wanted them found.
XXXX

The house was ordinary. Dreadfully so.

Two stories, beige paint, a too-clean lawn. The neighborhood was quiet, as though something had frightened all the dogs into silence. The sky was low and gray, and the trees stood still as if holding their breath.

Dumbledore approached the front door and knocked politely. After several moments of silence, the door finally creaked open to reveal Petunia Dursley standing in the doorway, pale as skim milk, her lips bloodless, her hands visibly trembling.

Behind her, Vernon hovered like a bloated thundercloud.

"You…" Petunia breathed.

Dumbledore offered his most kindly smile, though his stomach twisted.

"Petunia. May I come in?"

She looked to Vernon, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug; with a sigh of resignation, Petunia stepped aside, and Dumbledore walked in cheerfully.

The sitting room was pristine. Unlived in. It was as if they'd just moved in yesterday and hadn't touched anything since. Vernon offered no tea, and Petunia didn't ask. Dumbledore took the high-backed chair nearest the fireplace and folded his hands.

"It's been some time," he began gently. "I understand you've moved."

"New job," Vernon grunted. "Transfer."

Petunia nodded stiffly. "It was sudden."

"I see," Dumbledore murmured. "And... Harry?"

The name hung in the air like a noose.

Both Dursleys flinched.

"Oh, he's…. he's staying with... relatives," Petunia said too quickly. "Yes. On James's side. You understand... summer visit..."

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly at that.

"Relatives?" He repeated softly. "James Potter was an only child. And I believe your side of the family is otherwise accounted for."

The silence deepened.

Petunia's knuckles whitened.

Vernon's face turned redder.

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed behind his half-moon spectacles.

"Where," he asked gently, "is Harry Potter?"

Petunia tried to hold her ground.

Dumbledore let his aura unfurl; quietly, but unmistakably.

It was not loud.

Not violent.

It was pressure, the kind of silence that comes before an avalanche, the kind of weight that bends time. Magic older than Hogwarts itself filled the room like thunder held in glass.

Petunia gasped and backed away, and Vernon stepped in front of her protectively, but even he was shaking.

Dumbledore didn't raise his voice. "Tell me," he said, and the power in his voice was ancient and terrible, "what happened to the boy."

And Petunia broke. "It was her," she whispered. "A woman. Pale. Beautiful. Horrifying. She came to the zoo with a girl in black. She said she was taking him, and we couldn't stop her."

Dumbledore's breath caught.

Vernon stammered, "I—I tried to stand up to her. I did! But she—she had this knife, and it was inside my coat, and I swear I couldn't move—she just—looked at me, and I couldn't even breathe—"

"What woman?" Dumbledore asked, though his voice was now barely a whisper.

"The girl called her 'Mother,'" Petunia said. "She was tall. Raven black hair. She dressed like... like she'd just stepped out of a Dracula film, and she had the voice of a funeral and a smile like death."

Dumbledore was already pale.

But now he turned ghostly.

"Oh, Merlin preserve us," he murmured. "Not them. Not again."

"Do you know her?" Petunia asked.

Dumbledore rose slowly to his feet.

His hands were trembling.

"Who was she?!" Vernon bellowed, trying to reassert himself now that the danger was gone. "Who are they?"

Dumbledore turned toward the door.

"The Addams Family."

The room fell utterly silent.

"The Addamses?" Petunia echoed, confused.

"You don't understand," Dumbledore whispered. "No one does. Because no one speaks of them… we don't dare…"

He was halfway to the door.

"I thought they were still in America," he muttered. "I thought they'd... left us alone."

"What are you talking about?" Vernon snapped.

Dumbledore paused at the door.

Then turned back, his expression carved from ice.

"Let me tell you what you allowed, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley."

He took a slow breath.

"You handed Harry Potter, perhaps the most magically significant child of the century, into the care of the darkest magical family in the known world. A family so saturated in ancient power, so deranged in their bloodlines, so profoundly immune to fear, that even Voldemort would think twice before knocking on their door."

Petunia choked.

"They are not like other dark wizards," Dumbledore said. "They do not seek dominion. They do not crave wealth. They are not cruel for power's sake."

He stepped into the hallway.

"They are cruel because it delights them. And you two imbeciles gave your nephew to them!

And with that—

He vanished in a crack of magic and smoke, leaving behind only the scent of ash and ancient parchment.
XXXX

Hogwarts:
The Headmaster's study was quiet.

Fawkes dozed on his perch.

The portraits of past headmasters peered down, curious, as Dumbledore entered and staggered to his chair like a man burdened by prophecy.

He slumped back, staring into nothing as his mind raced faster than a Nimbus 1500.

The Addams Family.

He hadn't thought of them in decades.

Not since that summer in Prague, when Morticia's mother had turned a basilisk into a centerpiece.

Not since he'd crossed paths with Uncle Fester at a grave-robber's duel in Vienna.

Not since he'd once dared to duel the family matriarch during a Council of Shadowed Houses and had awoken three days later on a funeral barge headed down the Thames with a love letter pinned to his robes and a live spider in his beard.

No one crossed the Addamses twice.

And now… Harry was with them.

His ward. His weapon. His hope.

The Boy Who Lived, nestled in the arms of necromancers, death-dancers, and dark wizards with black hearts and bloody hobbies.

He was being raised by them.

Molded by them.

And yet…

Dumbledore hesitated.

He remembered the Addamses' strange code. Their terrifying loyalty. Their power.

He remembered how fiercely they protected their own.

He had to get Harry back before it was too late.

Before he became one of them
XXXX

Addams Manor:
It had been two weeks since Harry Potter entered the Addams Manor.

Fourteen days of dodging guillotines, refusing to eat things that blinked, and waking to the sound of swordplay in the drawing room. Fourteen days of trying not to scream when Pugsley dropped an eyeball down the back of his shirt, or when the hallway mirror called him "meat puppet."

Fourteen days of being seen.

Of being wanted.

And it had changed him. The first three nights, he'd barely slept.

The bed was too hard, (more like a coffin bed than an actual one) and the air smelled of dried herbs and wax. Somewhere in the manor, something wailed like clockwork between 2 and 3 a.m.

But Morticia had come to his room each evening to tuck him in. And the lamp at his bedside never went out. The skull-shaped bulb whispered bedtime riddles if he asked politely.

By the fourth night, he started sleeping through the wailing.

By the end of the first week, Harry had developed what could only be described as a conditioned reflex to the words "let's play."

This was because Wednesday and Pugsley had drastically redefined the word game.

The first one had involved shackles and a clock.

"You have thirty seconds to escape," Wednesday had said matter-of-factly as she fastened his ankles to a slab of stone in the basement.

Harry had sputtered. "Escape from what?!"

Pugsley grinned. "The rising water."

"I'm sorry, what?!"

Wednesday calmly turned the crank.

There was also a "friendly" game of archery in which Harry was strapped to a spinning wooden wheel while Pugsley threw knives and Wednesday aimed her crossbow.

There was a scavenger hunt in the cemetery (Harry had found an actual finger), a potion-brewing contest that ended with an explosion and several animated vegetables, and a duel involving umbrellas and a pit of leeches.

But… Somewhere around day ten, Harry realized something disturbing.

He wasn't scared anymore. Not really.

He was thrilled.

Every day in the Addams household felt like a secret, like he'd been handed the keys to a world no one else knew how to see. A world of whispered spells, old books that breathed when opened, and a family that smiled when you talked about your nightmares.

A family that encouraged curiosity.

And that was the real danger: the more time he spent with them… the more Harry wanted to be one of them. And he eagerly soaked up every lesson they offered like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

Morticia took to Harry's education with eerie enthusiasm.

Each afternoon, she led him to her personal study, an ivy-choked solarium with glass walls, filled with antique instruments, withered flowers, and scrolls bound in black silk.

She taught him how to make a poison that smelled like vanilla.

She showed him how to carve runes into candle wax so that they wept shadows instead of light.

When he asked what one of the tomes was bound in, she had simply smiled and said, "Never ask that question unless you want the answer, my dear."

He didn't ask again, but he read it.

She read him stories.

But not fairy tales.

They were histories, Addams histories. Of great-uncles who outdueled inquisitors with violin strings. Of distant cousins who raised graveyards to defend besieged cities. Of Addams women who married death and came back laughing.

Every story ended the same way.

"Because we are Addamses," Morticia would say, brushing back Harry's hair as he leaned into her side. "And we do not run from the dark. We dance with it."

Uncle Fester took it upon himself to oversee Harry's "practical studies."

They blew things up in the attic.

Genuinely.

Fester taught Harry how to rewire an antique phonograph into a soul amplifier ("for parties") and once encouraged him to lick a nine-volt hex crystal to "see what it tastes like."

"It'll only lightly singe your soul," he said brightly.

Harry had coughed smoke for three hours and giggled through all of it.

They made an electric slingshot together and tested it on the family portraits.

Cousin Balthazar (1623–1705) shouted indignantly from his frame and called them degenerates.

Fester wept with laughter.

Harry had never laughed that hard in his life.

Wednesday took him ghost hunting. Not the fake kind.

Actual ghosts.

They wandered the old cellar tunnels with black candles and salt rings, whispering in Latin and calling for lost souls.

One answered.

She was a French widow named Elise who wept blood and asked Harry if he'd seen her husband. He hadn't. She wailed and passed through a wall. Wednesday seemed satisfied.

"You're getting better," she said, as they climbed back to the main hall. "You didn't flinch this time."

"I kind of wanted to," Harry admitted. "But… I didn't."

Wednesday looked at him then—really looked at him—and for the first time, Harry saw something soft in her usually cold eyes.

"Good," she said simply.
XXXX

By the end of the second week, he didn't scream when Thing jumped onto his shoulder.

He didn't flinch when the hallway armor clanked at him.

He no longer avoided the library's cursed aisle.

He walked into rooms without fearing a trap.

He ate the soup, even when it winked at him.

And when he passed by the great hall mirror—the one that once showed him as someone else—he saw something new in his reflection:

A boy standing taller.

A boy wearing black.

A boy who smiled with his teeth.

One evening, after Fester declared it "Bat Polishing Night" and Pugsley had gone off to test a new kind of firework in the east wing, Harry wandered into the main drawing room, where Morticia played the harp alone.

She stopped when she saw him and patted the cushion beside her.

He sat down.

She studied him for a long moment. "You're changing," she said at last.

Harry looked at his hands. "Am I?"

"Not into something new," she said. "Into something true."

He didn't quite understand that, but it felt… good. Like truth carved into bone.

He looked up at her.

"Do you think I'll be like you? Someday?"

Morticia smiled, reaching up to fix his slightly crooked collar.

"You already are, my darling," she said. "But you'll learn in time how to wear it like a crown."

Harry leaned against her shoulder as the harp sang again.

And somewhere in the manor, the mirror in the hall smiled back.
XXXX

Hogwarts:
The torches in the staff room burned low.

Outside, the wind howled like a wounded beast across the towers of Hogwarts, rattling windows and moaning through the eaves. The fire in the hearth crackled faintly, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls.

Dumbledore stood at the head of the table, his expression unusually grim, the twinkle in his eyes long gone. "I have confirmed it," he said, his voice hoarse with the weight of the words. "Harry Potter is no longer with the Dursleys."

Minerva McGonagall, sitting ramrod straight near the fire, inhaled sharply. "Then where is he?"

Dumbledore's shoulders slumped slightly. "With the Addams Family..."

A beat of silence.

Then all hell broke loose.

McGonagall's teacup shattered against the hearth as it slipped from her hand.

Professor Sprout made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a squeak.

Hooch muttered, "Merlin's bleeding beard… them?!"

Even Professor Trelawney, who rarely noticed anything beyond her tea leaves, seemed momentarily sobered.

But it was Severus Snape who spoke first.

Or rather, sneered first. "Well," he drawled, crossing his arms, "that seems appropriate. James Potter's brat, raised by a nest of gothic lunatics. How poetic."

Flitwick's eyes snapped toward him, sharper than they'd ever been in a duel. "Careful, Severus," the Charms Master said coldly. "You insult them at your peril."

Snape turned, one brow raised. "Oh? Defending them, Filius?"

Flitwick's voice was quiet, but his tone could have carved stone. "I've met them…"

The room stilled.

Dumbledore closed his eyes.

"I saw what they did to the Black Forest Coven when their cousin was insulted at a ball," Flitwick continued. "They smiled. Laughed, even. And when they were done, there was nothing left of the coven but ash and a dozen black roses planted in the ruins."

He looked Severus dead in the eye. "They are not bound by our rules. They are not merciful. And they do not forget."

Snape's mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

McGonagall stood, her tartan robes flaring behind her. "So, what is your plan, Albus? Because surely you have one. You must."

Dumbledore didn't speak right away.

He walked slowly to the fire, stared into it for a moment, then whispered,

"I must pay them a visit."

Flitwick choked. "Alone?!"

"No," Dumbledore said. "Not this time."

He turned to face them, the firelight casting deep lines across his ancient face.

"I will need volunteers."

There was a long pause.

Then McGonagall stepped forward. "You have mine."

Sprout glanced around nervously, then nodded. "And mine."

Flitwick's smile was grim. "I've survived them once. I suppose I can tempt fate again."

Snape scoffed. "You're all mad."

"And what would you suggest?" McGonagall snapped. "We cannot leave the boy in their hands! What will he become?"

Dumbledore sighed.

"That is what haunts me, Minerva."

He sat down slowly. "They are not... evil," he said, almost as if trying to convince himself. "They are not Death Eaters. They have no allegiance to Grindelwald or Voldemort or even the Ministry. They follow only themselves."

"They raised the banshee uprising in Dun Laoghaire," Flitwick said grimly. "They reanimated a basilisk just to study its mating habits."

"They hosted a dinner party with a vampire court and outlived them all," McGonagall added.

Snape sneered, but something in his eyes flickered. "And you're going to walk in their front door and ask nicely?"

"I'm going to ask," Dumbledore replied. "Because if I demand... we all know how that will end."

An eerie silence descended upon the room, and each Professor shuddered at that. Peeves' sudden cackle echoed throughout the room in an oddly ironic manner that suited the mood nicely.

"I saw what they did in Prague," Dumbledore continued, voice low. "I saw what Morticia's mother summoned when the British Ambassador insulted her poetry."

Sprout shivered.

McGonagall whispered, "Albus. What if it's already too late?"

Dumbledore looked up.

And for a moment—just a moment—he looked his age.

"Then Harry Potter is no longer the Boy Who Lived."

He paused.

"He will be something else."
XXXX

Chapter Text

The sun was swallowed by clouds long before they arrived.

The sky above Grimshed Hill had darkened to a sickly, roiling gray. The air hung thick with dampness, as though even the weather dared not breathe too loudly near the Addams estate. The carriage Dumbledore had enchanted to carry the Hogwarts delegation creaked to a halt on the uneven road just before the iron gates.

The carriage had been one of necessity, more than anything else. Dumbledore couldn't say what type of wards the Addams Manor had around it, so Apparating was out of the question. And seeing as how none of the staff knew how to drive, a carriage had been selected as their mode of transportation. Professor McGonagall had provided an enchantment so that any Muggles who saw it would see just an ordinary red sedan.

The professors stepped out one by one, robes flapping in the windless air.

And then they saw it.

Addams Manor.

It loomed at the top of the hill like something carved from shadow and nightmares. Towering spires reached like claws into the sky. The stone walls were streaked with ancient soot, ivy, and what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The windows, many of them cracked or shattered, glowed faintly with candlelight, but gave off no warmth. No sound came from within.

And yet... the house seemed to watch them.

Professor McGonagall swallowed hard, and even Pomona Sprout, who loved a good ruin, hesitated. For all his sneers and muttered insults, Snape stood perfectly still, and though no one would dare say it aloud, his fingers hovered ever so slightly closer to his wand. Only Flitwick stepped forward with any confidence, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with nervous amusement while Dumbledore regarded the manor with a long, quiet breath. Then stepped up to the gate.

A black iron bell hung from an ornate frame carved with skulls and roses.

He rang it.

A GONG reverberated so loudly that every bird in the forest took flight.

McGonagall jumped. Sprout yelped. Snape let out a strangled noise and stepped back, drawing his wand instinctively. Even Dumbledore flinched.

"I... wasn't expecting that," he murmured.

Thirty seconds passed. Then the great front door creaked open with a groan like ancient tombstones shifting.

A figure stepped forward into the gray light.

Seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, hollow-eyed, and dressed in an immaculate black suit and bow tie. He looked like the corpse of a Victorian undertaker, only better dressed.

His face was pale, nearly gray. His eyes sunken, his brow low, and his jaw slightly slack. One hand rested on the door, the other hung limp at his side. A faint wheeze escaped his throat as he inclined his head ever so slightly.

Snape screamed.

"Inferius!" he barked, raising his wand.

Before he could cast, a small but firm hand caught his wrist.

"Severus," Flitwick said calmly, "that's the butler."

Snape blinked. "The what?!"

"Lurch," Flitwick said with a tight smile. "Addams Family servant. Long-standing. Not undead. Well, perhaps technically, but not infernal."

Snape stared. Lurch stared back.

Snape lowered his wand slowly as the man—or whatever he was—gave a deep, rattling groan that might have been a greeting.

Dumbledore stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Ah… Lurch, is it?" he said, adjusting his robes. "We are here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Addams, regarding a young boy under their care. Might we come in?"

Lurch blinked slowly, then stepped aside; the doors opened inward with a creak that sounded disturbingly like a whisper, causing the staff to hesitate. All except the Headmaster, who strode inside without fear.

The others followed, though McGonagall kept a firm grip on her wand, and Sprout muttered every protective charm she could remember under her breath.

The entry hall was colder than outside. And larger than any of them expected.

A crimson rug ran up the floor like a river of dried blood. Suits of armor lined the walls, some holding weapons, others holding books, one cradling what appeared to be a taxidermy weasel wearing a tiara.

Above them, the chandelier was made entirely of black candles and animal bones. A grand staircase curled upward like the tail of a dead serpent.

There were eyes in the portraits.

And not the magical kind.

Flitwick nodded to a snarling portrait of a one-eyed woman with a battleaxe. "Ah. Aunt Maud."

Sprout made a noise like she was about to faint.

Snape stopped dead in his tracks as one of the suits of armor hissed at him.

"They decorate with dark artifacts," he muttered. "Of course they do. A perfect place to raise children..."

A low, melodic groan sounded behind them.

Lurch gestured with one skeletal hand and began leading them down a corridor.

Dumbledore followed without hesitation.

The rest trailed after, past snarling busts, mounted bat heads, and a room from which the unmistakable sound of organ music being played by itself emerged.

Finally, Lurch stopped outside a tall set of carved black double doors.

He let out another groan and opened them.

Inside, the Addams drawing room was every bit as strange as expected, and more.

Gomez lounged on a fainting couch in a purple robe, flipping a dagger between his fingers, while Fester was skulking in the corner, and fiddling with something that was emitting a large amount of sparks.

Morticia stood by the fireplace, dressed in a shadowy gown that moved like smoke. Her hands were folded, and her expression was unreadable.

Harry was seated between Wednesday and Pugsley at a chess table made of bone and obsidian.

All three children looked up as the professors entered.

Harry blinked at the group of strangers, gaze lingering on Dumbledore's long, silver beard and deep purple robes.

He leaned closer to Wednesday and whispered softly, "Who are they? More family?"

Wednesday didn't answer. She was watching.

Harry looked to Morticia, hesitant, but trusting.

She stepped forward with gliding grace, voice calm but cold.

"That," she said, tone sharpening like glass under silk, "is Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts. Chief Warlock. Supreme Mugwump. The man who left you on a doorstep in the dark of night… and has returned to take you back."

Harry froze.

"…Back?" he echoed, small voice cracking.

"To the Dursleys," Dumbledore said gently. "Your relatives."

The air left Harry's lungs.

He couldn't breathe.

Not again. Not the cupboard. Not the cold. Not Dudley.

He shook his head. "N-no—please—"

His hands began to tremble, eyes wide with rising panic.

And then—

A cool hand touched his shoulder.

Wednesday.

Her palm steady, firm.

Anchoring.

Harry blinked rapidly, breathing uneven.

But he didn't bolt. He didn't collapse.

She kept her hand right there.

Morticia's eyes, now like twin daggers, turned to Dumbledore.

"You are not taking him."

Dumbledore straightened, trying to hold onto the calm that had cracked.

"He is not yours."

"He is not yours either," Morticia said, her voice still low, still cold. "He was discarded. We simply picked him up."

McGonagall stepped forward. "He has family—"

"They abused him," Morticia snapped, for the first time letting true anger seep into her voice. "They starved him. That is not family, that is not protection."

Snape sneered. "You think he's better off here? With you?"

"Yes," Morticia said without hesitation.

Dumbledore opened his mouth, then stopped.

Because for one brief, terrible moment… he agreed.

Harry clutched Wednesday's sleeve now. Not hiding. Just holding on.

"I will not return him to the ones who hurt him," Morticia said. "He is ours now."

Gomez stood behind her, arms crossed, smiling without warmth.

"You are welcome to stay for tea," he added. "But don't mistake hospitality for permission."

Lurch groaned somewhere behind them.

Morticia turned toward the children.

"Harry," she said softly, "why don't you take your guests to the conservatory?"

Harry hesitated, then nodded.

Wednesday and Pugsley stood with him and led him away.

As the children left the room, Dumbledore exhaled slowly.

"This," he murmured, "will not be simple."

XXXX

The heavy doors thudded shut behind Harry, Flitwick, and Sprout. The air left in their wake seemed to congeal into something colder, weightier. Gomez Addams casually lit a cigar from the fireplace, the scent of burning cloves and something faintly metallic drifting into the room.

Dumbledore remained still, framed in the center of the Addams' drawing room, but the twinkle in his eyes had long since been snuffed out. Snape stood to his left, arms crossed, and lips curled. McGonagall, though composed, was visibly tense, her hands wringing the folds of her tartan robes.

Morticia Addams, regal and terrible, stood across from them like a queen in mourning and triumph all at once. Her black gown pooled around her feet like spilled ink, and her eyes gleamed with something ancient and inhuman.

"Albus," she said softly. "You return to our doorstep. A braver man than most. Or a more foolish one."

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly. "I had hoped this would be... amicable."

"Then you hoped poorly," Gomez said cheerfully, flipping his dagger into the air and catching it by the tip. "But do go on, old sport. We love a bit of tension before tea."

Dumbledore straightened. "I am here for Harry Potter."

"Our Harry?" Morticia asked, almost lazily.

"He is not yours," Snape snapped.

Morticia's eyes turned on him like twin blades unsheathed. She did not speak. She simply looked, and Snape, for all his bluster, swallowed hard.

Dumbledore intervened quickly. "We understand that you encountered him two weeks ago—"

"At the London Zoo," Morticia interrupted. "He was speaking to a King Cobra. Or rather, it was speaking to him. He was terribly polite about it."

She stepped forward, her voice deepening. "We felt it. That moment. A child of such rare dark potential. Alone. Unwanted. Afraid. But not weak. No, not Harry. He is sharp. Frayed, yes. A little broken. But oh, how much more beautiful the vessel is when the cracks are gilded in power."

McGonagall shuddered. "He's seven. He needs love, not... whatever this is."

"Do not presume to tell me what children need," Morticia said, her tone ice. "The Dursleys gave him fear. We give him purpose."

"You give him knives and poisons!" Snape barked.

"And instruction," Gomez countered brightly. "Even Pugsley didn't know how to make nightshade ice cream until his fourth birthday."

Dumbledore raised a hand. "Enough. I must insist. Harry is a child of prophecy—"

"And a child of pain," Morticia said. "You left him in the hands of monsters. Not ours. The ordinary kind. The ones who smile at church and starve their nephew in silence."

Gomez stepped beside her, placing a hand over hers, his expression turning dark. "You know, I've dueled vampires in the Carpathians who showed more warmth than those Muggles."

Morticia's voice dropped to a whisper. "Cruelty, Albus, is not a sin in this house. It is an art. But only when it serves a purpose. The Dursleys were not cruel for power. They were cruel for pleasure. And that," she said with a hiss, "is pedestrian."

Dumbledore's jaw tightened. "Be that as it may, I must bring him back. The wards at Privet Drive are essential to his protection."

"The same wards that required you to sacrifice his spirit for survival?" Morticia murmured. "You are a clever man, Albus. But cleverness is no shield against consequence."

"He is safer with us," Gomez said simply. "Because when someone threatens our family, we don't raise wards. We raise the dead."

McGonagall tried a different tactic. Her voice softened.

"Please," she said. "You must see that this is not sustainable. The boy will one day enter our world. He needs balance, not blood rituals. He needs guidance."

Morticia turned, graceful and cold. "He needs someone who will not flinch from the darkness inside him. Who will cradle it, sharpen it, and teach it to bite back."

Snape stepped forward. "If you do not relinquish the boy, I will inform the Ministry. They'll have you all thrown into Azkaban."

Fester, who had until now been gleefully pulling the wings off a mechanical bat in the corner, looked up.

"The Ministry, eh?" he said, grinning ear to ear. "Ohhh, that takes me back."

Snape sneered. "Let me guess. You've handled them before?"

"London. 1666," Fester said wistfully. "Our cousin Prudence summoned a plague wight. The Ministry didn't like it. Sent ten Aurors to arrest us."

Gomez chuckled. "They didn't make it past the foyer."

Fester sighed happily. "Two days later? Boom. Great Fire of London."

Snape turned pale.

Morticia smiled. "We do not fear the Ministry. We amuse ourselves with them."

Dumbledore exhaled slowly. He remembered now. Why he had stayed away for so long. Why he had shuddered when he first heard the name Addams whispered at a funeral long ago.

"You are making a mistake," he said quietly.

"No," Morticia whispered. "We are correcting one."

And as Dumbledore stared at the couple—dark, dangerous, devoted—he felt something he had not felt in a long time.

Not uncertainty.

Dread.

XXXX

Meanwhile, Harry was walking alongside Professors Flitwick and Sprout down a long velvet-draped hallway, Wednesday just half a step behind him. The enormous grandfather clock at the end ticked backward.

"So," Flitwick chirped, looking up at Harry. "How are you liking your time here, my boy?"

Harry brightened. "It's been wonderful! I've never had my own room before. And I get to read all the time, and Wednesday and Pugsley play with me every day! Well… most days I end up covered in something sticky or bruised, but it's still fun."

Sprout smiled kindly. "And you feel safe here, dear? You're not scared of anything?"

Wednesday's eyes narrowed.

Harry blinked. "Well... not really. I mean, some of the statues move when you're not looking at them, and Fester said the walls bleed on full moons, but he was just joking, I think."

"It's only during blood eclipses," Wednesday corrected calmly.

Flitwick chuckled uneasily. "And... the Addams adults? They treat you well?"

Harry tilted his head. "They treat me like I'm... wanted. Like I'm interesting. They even let me ask questions, and Fester says I'm good at making candles from bone marrow."

Sprout tried not to blanch.

Wednesday stepped in smoothly, her voice quiet but firm. "If you're here to spy on my family or look for excuses to take him away, I suggest you stop."

Flitwick raised his hands gently. "Not at all, Miss Addams. We're simply... concerned educators."

"Then educate yourselves better," she replied.

Harry looked between them, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"

"No, Harry," Sprout said quickly. "We just want to make sure you're happy."

He gave her a small, honest smile. "I am. I really am."

Wednesday's gaze remained cool, causing both Professors to gulp nervously under her stare; this was unlike any child they had encountered before.

They turned the corner and stepped into the Addams greenhouse, where carnivorous plants waved lazily at them, and a cauldron of black orchids hissed at their presence.

"This place is mad," Flitwick muttered in awe.

Wednesday smiled. "That's the point."

And Harry, caught between horror and delight, simply nodded in agreement.

XXXX

Back in the drawing room, Dumbledore's voice had grown tired but no less firm.

"There must be some middle ground," he tried once more, his voice straining under the weight of futility. "Some compromise. We only want what's best for the boy."

Morticia stared at him as though regarding a particularly amusing beetle. "You mean what's best for you."

"You cannot possibly believe this is sustainable," McGonagall added, still clinging to hope. "Eventually, someone—"

"Eventually," Morticia cut in with venomous grace, "the world will either learn to respect Harry Potter or to fear him. Either outcome suits us."

Snape hissed through his teeth. "This is madness."

"This," Gomez said, gesturing with theatrical pride, "is family."

At that moment, Flitwick and Sprout returned through the main doors, Harry bounding cheerfully at their side, a black rose in one hand and a shrunken head in the other. Pugsley and Wednesday trailed behind, looking entirely too pleased.

Flitwick's face was grave but composed. "He's happy. Healthy. A bit... unconventional but loved."

Sprout nodded slowly. "This is not abuse. This is... something else."

Dumbledore paled.

"Then I have no choice," he said at last, voice low. "I will be forced to report the Addams family to the Wizengamot for kidnapping."

Harry blinked. "Who got kidnapped?"

Morticia's smile bloomed like nightshade. "Why, you did, darling. But only from a life so dull and lifeless, it would have been a mercy to bury it."

Wednesday patted his shoulder. "Consider it a rescue mission."

And as Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, he realized that nothing he could say would matter here. Not in this house of shadows. Not with this family of wolves who had already claimed Harry as one of their own.

And Harry? He only smiled, clutching the black rose tighter.

XXXX

The time had come to leave. Dumbledore gathered his cloak around him, turning silently to the door. The other Professors followed, their faces pinched with unease.

"Albus," Morticia's velvet voice called out from behind.

He paused.

Turning back, he saw her standing tall and pale beside Harry. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder, her long fingers curled protectively. Harry looked up at her as if she were carved from starlight and shadow, a goddess incarnate.

Dumbledore felt it in his bones: the boy was already lost to them.

"Give my sincerest regrets," Morticia said, voice low and deadly, "to the families of the Aurors the Ministry will no doubt send."

Gomez chuckled, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke. "And let them know an Addams always pays their debts. We'll make sure the funerals are tasteful."

Dumbledore paled further, lips parting with nothing to say.

No words came. No threats. No hope.

The door groaned open, and then boomed shut behind them—loud as a gavel, final as a tombstone.

Within the manor, the Addams family smiled.

Outside, the wind howled like a warning.

XXXX

Author's Note:

With all of my stories, I follow a pattern. I release five to six chapters to test the waters and see if the material attracts an audience. If so, I release more. If not, then my story stops at five or six. I hope you all have enjoyed this story so far, and if I see people enjoying it, I will release more chapters in the future. Until next time, stay golden, Ponyboy.

Chapter Text

Over the years, the Hogwarts staffroom had been many things: lively, tense, celebratory, but rarely was it this silent.

Minerva McGonagall sat stiffly in her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes were sharp behind her spectacles. Dumbledore stood near the fireplace, gazing into the low flames, hands clasped behind his back. Beside him, Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick sat close together on the couch, both subdued but thoughtful. Professor Snape paced nearby, for once, absent his usual sneer; in its place was a thoughtful expression.

"Is it true?" Snape asked suddenly, turning to face Dumbledore with a sharp look. "What that woman said at the manor… about the boy speaking Parseltongue. Is it true?"

Dumbledore's expression was difficult to read. "I believe it is, Morticia Addams has no reason to fabricate such a detail."

Snape exhaled through his nose, nearly a scoff. "No reason? She's part of the darkest magical family still walking this earth, Albus. And she suddenly stumbles upon a boy speaking to snakes? That is not a coincidence…"

Flitwick cleared his throat gently. "It's a rare gift. Ancient, powerful, and... unnerving, when coming from a child like Harry…"

"The only other known Parselmouth in the last half-century was the Dark Lord!" Snape snapped. "It's not something children should possess. Especially one from a light family like the Potters! James Potter might have been a swine, but even I am forced to admit that his family was firmly light-sided."

Professor McGonagall glared daggers at the Potions professor for a moment, and opened her mouth to retort, only for Professor Sprout to cut her off.

"Do we even know how he came by the gift?"

Snape shook his head. "We don't, but I want to know; we all should…"

Dumbledore sighed, running his hand down his beard. "There are theories, I suspect... Voldemort's attack left more of a mark on Harry than the lightning scar."

McGonagall's voice was tight. "So, the boy who lived may have inherited more than just protection…" The staffroom fell silent at that as each professor processed that information, a wave of horror rolling through them at the implications.

"And now," she continued grimly, "he's living with a family whose idea of bedtime stories includes poison, execution, and blood magic."

"They've raised children before…" Sprout said gently, though her face remained worried. "Wednesday and Pugsley may be strange, terrifying even, but they're cared for…"

Flitwick nodded. "They're... unusual, yes. But there's a structure. Discipline, even. I asked Harry several questions while we were there, and he never once showed signs of fear."

Snape sneered at his coworker. "That doesn't mean he's not being manipulated. The boy is as dimwitted as his father and probably doesn't even know he's being turned dark."

"I must admit..." Sprout said slowly as McGonagall glared at Snape, "those Addams children are... well, I don't quite know how to describe them, to be perfectly honest."

"That's putting it mildly," Flitwick chuckled, swirling the tea in his cup. "Wednesday has a manner of speech that's... deliberate. Old-fashioned, even. Yet, she's only seven."

"She doesn't smile..." Sprout added. "Not once the entire time we were with her, not even when I showed her a sunflower charm..."

"She accepted it, though," Flitwick pointed out with a grin. "Tucked it into her braid like a poisoned dart, I think that was her way of being polite..."

Sprout laughed gently. "And her brother, Pugsley… Merlin, help us. That boy was gleefully building something that looked suspiciously like a bomb as Harry was giving us a tour. I could have sworn I saw a stick of... what is it the muggles call it? TNT?"

McGonagall paled at that, and Dumbledore seemed to age years as they watched.

Flitwick nodded sagely. "He asked if he could borrow a few bowtruckle claws and some doxy venom for 'experiments.' I'm not entirely sure he was joking."

Snape gave a slow, disdainful blink.

"Am I to understand," he drawled, "that you've both been charmed by a pair of sociopathic children who likely spend their evenings flaying squirrels for sport?"

Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit dramatic, Severus."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Snape sneered. "Was it not Pugsley who asked me, dead serious, whether the forbidden forest had anything he could 'put in a cage for Wednesday's birthday'?"

Sprout took a long sip of tea to hide her smirk.

"They're strange, yes," Flitwick said diplomatically. "But not cruel. There's a sharpness to them, like iron blades. Not malicious… just forged differently."

Snape snorted. "Forged? More like distilled from the dregs of some Victorian nightmare, it's a wonder they haven't been exorcised."

Sprout gave him a firm look. "They like Harry. That's what matters to me. He seems to… fit with them. In his own way..."

Flitwick nodded, softer now. "He followed Wednesday around like a shadow. She kept one hand on his shoulder nearly the whole tour. Protective, almost."

"Or possessive," Snape snapped. "Either way, it's unsettling. Children aren't meant to grow up surrounded by death, blades, and dark magic."

"They're not growing up in it," Sprout said firmly. "They're growing up with it. There's a difference."

Snape's lip curled, but he said nothing as the fire crackled in silence.

Then Flitwick added, with a quiet laugh, "Still, I don't envy the poor soul who tries to bully Harry now. Between Wednesday's stare and that creepy hand that follows him about, I dare say he's better protected than most first-years."

"You think Wednesday will teach Harry how to make that guillotine?"

Flitwick chuckled. "Only if he promises to let her test it."

McGonagall looked at Dumbledore with a heartbroken expression as her two colleagues chuckled at one another. "We've lost him, haven't we…?"

Dumbledore's eyes didn't leave the fire. "I don't know."

"We can't let them raise him unchecked; he's Harry Potter, Albus! He's the symbol of everything we fought for! Think of what Lily and James would say for Merlin's sake!"

Snape turned away from the others, a war going on within himself. On the one hand, he reveled at the thought of how James Potter, sanctimonious bastard that he was, was no doubt rolling in his grave at such a dark family raising his son. But on the other hand, Snape knew that Lily would be terrified, and it was for her sake alone that he had willingly become Dumbledore's spy and betrayed the Dark Lord.

"Honestly, I think they'd be nervous about who was raising their son…" Flitwick added quietly. "But… I also think they'd be happy that their child's finally found a place where he doesn't feel unwanted…"

Despite the way everyone was feeling, no one seemed able to come up with a counterargument to that, instead choosing to stare quietly at the dancing flames in the hearth as thunder rolled outside the castle, as though even the weather could sense the inner struggle going on within each of them.

XXXX

The halls of Addams Manor were unusually still.
It was late, and the shadows stretched long and quiet across the stone floors. In the west wing, one room alone was lit, Harry's.
Morticia stepped inside, her movements as silent as ever, and found him sitting up in bed, staring out the window, his arms wrapped around his knees.
"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.

Harry turned his head, surprised but not startled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stay up."
Morticia smiled and crossed the room, her pale skin almost glowing in the dark room. "Nightmares?"

He shook his head. "Not yet. I just... I keep thinking he's going to come back. That he's going to take me away."

She didn't ask who Harry was referring to; she already knew. Instead of replying, she sat down beside him on the bed, the mattress barely dipping under her weight. Her voice, when it came, was low and cold. "If he tries again, there will be blood…"
Harry looked up at her, his eyes filled with trust for the only adult who had ever made him feel like he was worth something.

"I mean that, darling. The last man who tried to take something from me bled for days before he died, and you're far more precious than he was."
There was a flicker of fear in Harry's eyes, but it passed quickly, replaced by something else. Something warm and safe.

"You're not afraid of them?"

"I'm not afraid of anyone," Morticia said calmly, tilting her head as though confused by Harry's question, "Fear is for those who have not danced naked under a full moon as it rained the blood of their enemies."
Harry lay back down, relaxing slowly as he pondered Morticia's words. There were times when he was still afraid of the family who had taken him in, but other times, Harry felt safer than he had ever felt living amongst the Dursleys.

Morticia stayed where she was, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Then, in a low whisper, she began to hum. The melody was strange; low and mournful, each note curled like smoke in the air, full of half-forgotten lullabies and the hush of distant thunder. The lyrics, when she began to sing, were darker still:

"Hush now, darling, shadows creep, Through the window, into sleep. Hear the whispers, soft and low, From the place's dreams don't go…
Blood and bone and midnight's breath, secrets kept in tangled death. Fear no ghost, no ghoul, no wight, You're safe within the endless night."

For any other child, the song might have summoned screams and nightmares that would make it impossible for them to sleep that night.
Harry? Harry's eyelids fluttered. His breathing slowed. Something about the haunting cadence calmed him more than anything ever had.
As he drifted into sleep, he mumbled softly, "Goodnight, mummy…"

Morticia didn't move. She sat for a long moment, her hand still resting against his temple, watching his chest rise and fall. Then she rose and pulled the blanket up a little higher, gently brushing her hand over his scar.
Outside the door, Gomez leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a lit cigar burning between his lips. A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth; Thing was sitting comfortably on his shoulder.

"You heard him?" Morticia said as she stepped out and closed the door gently behind her.
Gomez tilted his head. "He said it without thinking."

"That makes it real, mon cher…" Morticia smirked, causing Gomez to gasp lightly, placing a hand over his heart.
"Oh, Tish… You know what French does to me…"
Morticia smirked at that, offering her arm, which Gomez immediately took before rapidly kissing up the length of it; once he reached her shoulder, he dipped the pale woman and began to passionately kiss Morticia, making her gasp lightly.

"Come," she said smoothly, as Gomez raised her back up, "I'm in the mood to celebrate."
Gomez beamed. "Cara Mia… Can we use the rack again?"
"Oui…" Morticia smirked as the two walked down the dark hallway, arm in arm.

Chapter Text

One week later:

The ancient chamber of the Wizengamot was unusually full; even the oldest Lords and Ladies, who rarely stirred from their ancestral manors, had come, all summoned by the chief warlock for an emergency session, which in and of itself was already cause for alarm, as no emergency session had been called since the days of Voldemort.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the head of the chamber, his usually regal presence diminished. His hands clutched the rail before him as if it were the only thing holding him upright. The lines on his face were deeper. The twinkle in his eyes was gone. He looked not merely old but tired.

"My Lords and Ladies," Dumbledore said gravely, his voice echoing off marble and ancient stone, "I come before you with a matter of utmost urgency..."

The room seemed to lean forward as one as they heard the exhausted yet grave tone in the aged man's voice.

"Three weeks ago, Harry Potter… was taken."

A sharp intake of breath passed like a breeze through the chamber, each lord and lady shocked into silence as Dumbledore continued in the same tone as before.

"And is currently under the guardianship of the Addams Family…"

Silence.

A beat passed, then two.

And then chaos erupted throughout the chamber as dozens of voices screamed out in horror and anger.

"The Addams Family?!"

"Impossible!"

"They were in America!"

"Taken? You mean abducted?"

"Where were the Muggle authorities?!"

Lady Augusta Longbottom stood, her hat bobbing indignantly. "That blasted American family is raising Harry Potter? I thought they were exiled!"

"They weren't exiled," Lord Greengrass corrected coolly from where he sat. "They left. And wisely, I might add, they've been nothing but a legend since..."

Lord Nott snorted at that. "A legend? No, Greengrass… A threat. I remember the last whispers before they vanished. The Ministry called them… ungovernable."

Lady Longbottom's gaze turned sharp. "They are dark, always have been. I remember Morticia's mother, damn near hexed an entire gala when they ran out of absinthe…"

Amidst the shouting and arguing, one man remained still.

Lucius Malfoy.

His fingers clenched the carved head of his serpent cane, but his mind was far, far away, fifteen years in the past.

He remembered the night well; the Dark Lord, still newly risen, had sent twelve of them, men who wore their masks with pride. He had told them the Addamses were eccentric, dangerous, but potentially useful: "Bring them to heel," he'd said. "Or bring them to me in chains."

Lucius had expected a brief and brutal affair; what he had found was a manor wrapped in mist and roses, an invitation scrawled in blood; the family welcomed them, offered drinks. And then the slaughter began…

He remembered Gomez's grin as he cut through Travers with a rapier slick with acid, turning the man into a puddle in a matter of seconds; Morticia's haunting waltz through the bloodied halls, dancing around corpses as if it were all a show as men screamed from where they hung on meat hooks.

He remembered how the air seemingly laughed with them; he remembered the eyes, black and bottomless. Only Lucius had escaped; bruised, broken, drenched in blood, he'd apparated back without his wand and without his pride…

And he had never spoken of it again, not even when the mutilated bodies of his comrades were mailed back to Voldemort in polished black coffins with skeletal carvings on the lids; the Dark Lord had never sent another emissary.

As Lucius thought about that night, and the thing he had seen, he shivered uncontrollably; even now, nearly sixteen years later, he could still hear the laughter. That horrible, evil, laughter…

"Lord Malfoy?"

Lucius blinked before raising his head and realizing with a start that all eyes were on him; blushing at his lack of attention, he stood slowly, voice cold and composed. "I… support the motion to retrieve Mr. Potter. But I advise… caution."

"Caution?" scoffed Lord Macmillan. "They have taken the Boy-Who-Lived. They should be crushed!"

"And if we try," Lucius said quietly, "we will bleed... We might win, but only after we have paid a price in blood that will be long remembered."

A heavy silence followed that as if each could see exactly what Lord Malfoy was suggesting and believed every word of it.

"I second Lord Malfoy's sentiment," said Lord Greengrass after a pause. "The Addams Family is… not to be trifled with. They are altogether evil…"

Lady Longbottom rose again. "So, what do you propose? That we do nothing while they raise our national hero in a house full of lunatics and devil worshippers?!" A dozen arguments broke out at once as each Lord and Lady yelled over the other with an idea about what should be done; some screamed for open war, others that diplomacy should take hold before blood was spilled.

"Silence!" Dumbledore finally shouted, his voice cracking like a whip and instantly ending the noise as the hall stilled, though fury still bristled beneath the surface like a storm.

"I did not come here to demand blood," Dumbledore said, slower now. "Only to speak the truth; the Addams Family are not what we would call… conventional. But they have not harmed Harry. In fact, they may have done more for his welfare than any of us…"

"What are you saying?" Madam Edgecombe called out in outrage. "You're siding with them?"

"No," Dumbledore said, and he looked exhausted. "But I am telling you what I have seen. Harry is safe, fed, clothed, and spoken to kindly. The children of the household have embraced him. He… smiles."

A murmur rippled through the room at this as though they could not quite believe that any… normal child would willingly want to spend even a minute in the company of those monsters disguised as human beings.

"You mean to say they treat him better than the Muggles did?" asked Lord Greengrass, incredulous.

"I do," Dumbledore said, with painful honesty, "The Dursleys were not kind to him..."

"Then why was he left there in the first place?"

That question wasn't rhetorical, and the look on Dumbledore's face said he had asked it of himself many times.

"We were trying to protect him," McGonagall's voice rang from the side of the chamber, where guests normally sat; though there was only one today. "Through blood wards..."

"Well, that plan clearly failed," scoffed Lady Selwyn, a sentiment that was clearly shared based on the grumblings that echoed from around the chamber.

"We are not suggesting inaction," Dumbledore said at last, his voice iron. "We are suggesting diplomacy. A delegation. We send Aurors—not to fight—but to issue a formal invitation. A summons to speak before this very chamber. We ask them, politely, to come explain themselves."

Murmurs rippled through the benches; some for the proposition, some against.

"And if they refuse?" asked Lord Nott with a dark chuckle. "They're not known for their manners. Or their mercy…"

"Then we will reevaluate," said Dumbledore. "But I will not risk open war until every other option has been exhausted. The last time someone waged war against the Addams clan, it ended with the entire vampire race of Transylvania being wiped from the earth. That was over seven centuries ago… and I sincerely doubt they've grown any kinder since." Lord Greengrass sighed. "And what if they do come? What then? Do we charge them? Arrest them in this chamber?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," said Lady Longbottom stiffly. "Let's just pray they don't come armed."

Another voice rose from the middle tier, Lady Selwyn, cool and clipped. "I've read what little there is in the Department of Mysteries records; the family is dangerous. Unnatural. But if what Dumbledore says is true, and they are caring for the boy… then this is a delicate situation, and if we mishandle it, we could end up alienating the savior of our world, and if that happens… The wizarding world could turn on itself."

"…Or find itself missing a few key Aurors," muttered a man in grey who was standing directly behind Minister Fudge.

"Then it's decided," Fudge said a moment later, where he had been watching nervously, sweat beading at his collar. "Two dozen Aurors, trusted ones… They will go, unarmed save for their wands, to issue the summons."

He looked around for a moment, looking almost petrified at the idea of issuing this order, yet knowing he had been boxed into a corner. "Let it be recorded in the minutes. The Wizengamot formally requests the presence of Gomez and Morticia Addams before this chamber within the next fortnight to explain the guardianship of Harry James Potter."

"And when should we expect a response?" asked Lady Longbottom as an eerie silence descended upon the chamber; the order had been given, and there was no going back now…

"If they don't kill the messengers?" murmured Lord Nott. "Soon…"

Dumbledore closed his eyes slowly, hoping beyond hope that for once, once in their history, the Addams family would be amenable to negotiation.

XXXX

Author's Note:

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. In the next chapter, we will see how the Addams Family reacts to being summoned.

If any of you would like to see some pictures that accompany this story, you're more than welcome to join my Discord.

https: (double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) qu7DXXsW

Chapter Text

The Addams estate echoed with its usual symphony of chaos; somewhere deep in the manor, a boom rattled the stained-glass windows and sent a rain of soot down the chimney. In the overgrown garden, the smell of ash, old roses, and gunpowder hung heavily in the air as Gomez and Harry practiced swordplay.

"Focus, dear boy! The saber is an extension of your will!" Gomez Addams shouted, blade flashing in the midday gloom. "Remember, Harry! The blade is your mistress; she is wild, demanding, and cruel, but give her love, and she will sing for you!"

Harry stood a few paces away, legs unsteady, knuckles white around the hilt of his practice sword; sweat streaked his forehead, and his glasses kept slipping down his nose. "Right," he muttered, trying to remember what little he'd learned so far. Taking in a deep gasp against his burning lungs, he lunged forward in a desperate, awkward strike; in a heartbeat, Gomez parried, pivoted, and tapped Harry's blade aside. Another heartbeat, and Harry was flat on his back in the mud.

For the third time.

From the wrought-iron bench near the garden steps, Morticia sipped absinthe and watched with detached interest; Wednesday sat beside her, arms folded, her expression neutral.

A moment later, somewhere deep in the mansion: BOOM. Another tremor rippled through the soil, causing the stone cherub beside the garden wall to lose half its head, yet no one even flinched.

"Hopefully, this time, Fester and Pugsley remembered to remove the cats before they began playing," Morticia said calmly before taking a sip from her teacup.

"They're testing modified black powder again," Wednesday added in a monotonic voice, "The last batch vaporized the bird bath. They were thrilled..."

As Morticia smiled at the joke, Harry sat up slowly, his clothes streaked with dirt and humiliation; he didn't meet anyone's gaze as he sniffled once before wiping his nose, "I'll never be good at this," he mumbled, voice tight. "I'm not… I'm not like you."

Gomez turned, brow furrowing. "What was that?"

"I'm not like you," Harry said louder, frustration sharpening his words. "I'm not elegant, or clever, or… or brave. I can't fight; I can't even stand up straight with a sword without looking like an idiot! I'll never be good at anything!"

With a soft sob, Harry dropped the practice saber and angrily wiped away the tears welling in his eyes: "I don't know why you're even bothering with me..."

For a long moment, the garden was still; even the wind seemed to pause as Morticia glanced at Gomez, a look of dark rage passing between the two before Gomez finally exhaled through his nose, sheathed his saber with a shhht, and knelt down in the mud beside the boy—not on a knee like a knight, but on both knees, equal and direct.

"Harry," Gomez said softly as he placed both hands on the boy's shoulders and helped him kneel. "Do you know what I was like as a boy? I was shorter than you are. Clumsy. I once tripped over a candelabra and impaled myself on the dining room spire. Twice." That made Harry look up, blinking in surprise as he stared at the Addams patriarch. "I cried," Gomez continued. "I bled. I failed, again and again. My cousin Esteban beat me in every duel from age seven to thirteen; my fencing master called me 'tragically hopeful.'" Gomez grinned wistfully at the memory for a moment. "I adored him..."

Harry's brow furrowed, and his mouth worked wordlessly for a moment as his cheeks shone with tears; finally, Harry spoke in a shocked voice. "But you're… you. You're amazing!"

"I became amazing," Gomez said, voice softening. "Not because I won every battle, but because I refused to let failure define me. Because every time I fell, every time I was humiliated, I got up again. And eventually, I found that the fire in my heart burned brighter than the world's scorn…"

With an eerie smile, Gomez reached out, gently brushing the mud from Harry's sleeve, before ruffling Harry's wild mane of hair. "And you, Harry Potter, have survived more than most grown men ever will. You're kind, clever, and brave in ways you don't even yet realize. That you stand here, in this mad garden, trying at all, is your triumph."

Harry swallowed hard at that; his years of brutal conditioning at the hands of the Dursleys had all but destroyed any sense of self-worth that the boy had, and yet here in this manor of madness was a family that saw him and told him he could be more than what he was, and it was almost too much for Harry to bear…

"You don't have to be like me," Gomez said gently. "You only need to be the best version of you; that, my boy, is what makes legends."

From the bench, Morticia's voice drifted cool and smooth as ever. "And if anyone tells you otherwise, my little viper, I will feed them to our roses…"

Wednesday nodded, a look of intense fury on her face as she stared at Harry's tear-stained cheeks, "Slowly…"

Harry laughed weakly, not knowing if the women were joking or not; after three weeks, it had become the norm to assume that they were always serious when they promised bloodshed. "Thanks…"

Gomez smiled, broad and warm as he rose back to his feet, brushing the mud from his pants. "Now, shall we duel again? I promise to only disarm you twice this time."

Harry stood, brushing dirt from his own knees before gently wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. "Alright. Just… go easy on me?"

"Never!" Gomez roared in delight, drawing his blade and giving it a dramatic flourish before throwing it into the air with a spin, before catching it in his opposite hand.

Before the match could begin, a low moan rolled through the garden like thunder as Lurch stepped out into the garden and groaned: "Uuuuuuuuuhhhh…"

The butler stood at the gate, looming like a mausoleum in motion, holding a polished silver tray, atop which rested a thick parchment envelope stamped with the Ministry's seal.

Morticia rose gracefully, gently placing her teacup onto Lurch's tray. She then took the envelope, slicing it open with one perfectly manicured nail, and pulling the letter from within. She quickly read it as Gomez continued to flourish his sword. After several moments of silence, a terrifying yet beautiful smile began to spread across Morticia's face as she finished and folded the letter before stowing it in her dress.

"Gomez, dear…" Morticia said softly, her voice as cold as the icy breath of death, "It seems as though we have guests…

Gomez groaned melodramatically, sliding his saber back into its sheath, and either failing to notice, or choosing to ignore Harry's sigh of relief. "Alas… Duty beckons..."

He said as he happily clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, mi pequeño duende. We duel at dawn!" As the adults turned and swept toward the house, Morticia, like a drifting shadow, Gomez striding with flair, and Lurch groaning quietly at the rear, Harry looked down at the muddy saber still in his hand as Wednesday stepped next to him and stared quietly, watching, like always.

For the first time, Harry didn't feel like he was pretending to belong here anymore; he felt like he was becoming…

XXXX

The study of the Addams Family Manor was the kind of room that had driven lesser men to prayer. Candlelight danced across ancient tomes bound in strange hides, glinted off an assortment of gleaming knives mounted in a swirling pattern above the fireplace, and cast flickering shadows from the massive stuffed crocodile suspended from the rafters. The faint scent of gunpowder lingered beneath the incense, and every few moments, a distant BOOM rocked the floorboards, accompanied by a puff of plaster dust from the ceiling.

Ten Aurors stood in formation near the doorway, tense and alert, their wands either gripped tight or hovering close to their holsters. Each of them had seen dark magic before—fought it, survived it—but this place felt different. It wasn't evil. Not precisely. Just… wrong.

Alastor Moody stood at the front, trench coat brushing the dusty floor, his magical eye spinning furiously as it swept over every inch of the chamber, walls, windows, shadows, ceiling, and floorboards. His left hand clenched the gnarled handle of his staff, knuckles bone-white. His right hand was buried beneath his coat; fingers wrapped around the wand he hadn't drawn… yet.

A mounted serpent's head on the far wall hissed; behind them, the distant BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of further explosions echoed through the manor, causing one of the younger Aurors to flinch.

"They've been doing that every six minutes," muttered Auror Jameson under his breath. "You think it's intentional?"

"Everything in this place is intentional," Moody growled.

As the door creaked open, every wand twitched, though none rose; Morticia Addams entered the study as if gliding on air, clad in a flowing black gown that shimmered like oil and starlight. Her eyes swept over the Aurors with cold curiosity; Gomez followed a heartbeat later, twirling a cigar between his fingers, his thin mustache twitching with delight.

"Welcome," Morticia purred. "I trust the walk through the graveyard didn't offend…"

"Or the moat," Gomez added brightly. "We drained it after the kraken escaped."

Moody did not relax; it was honestly surprising that his wand had not snapped due to how tightly he was holding it. "We're not here for a social call, Mr. and Mrs. Addams."

"No?" Morticia said, her head tilting ever so slightly. "And here I thought the Ministry's sudden arrival in our home—without so much as a 'by your leave'—was the wizarding equivalent of an invitation to tea."

Moody's magical eye froze, locking onto Morticia. "You received the summons."

"I read it," Morticia replied with a smile that made Moody's skin crawl, as she took a seat in an ancient armchair shaped like a gargoyle, folding her hands in her lap with eerie stillness. "But you must understand… I am not a dog to come when called…"

Gomez barked a laugh at that, striking a match against the mounted severed head of a House Elf before lighting his cigar. "The last time a Minister of Magic summoned a member of our family, he choked to death on his own spleen. Most tragic. No one even touched him…"

"Rumor says it slithered out on its own," Morticia mused with a smirk as Gomez took his place behind her chair.

The Aurors shifted uncomfortably at that; one looked like he was an inch from bolting from the room, orders be damned.

Moody remained as stone: "I'm not here to debate rumors; we're here on Ministry business!"

"Ten Aurors?" Gomez said, gesturing to the group with dramatic flair. "Surely, you didn't think we'd be hostile?"

"No," Moody said bluntly. "But we do know your reputation… We also know you keep a basilisk egg on your dining table, have a living suit of armor that eats intruders, and that one of your ancestors was banned from all forms of human civilization for seventeen years."

Morticia smiled thinly at that, as though personally insulted. "Only seventeen? He must've disappointed."

Moody let the silence stretch, then spoke plainly. "The Ministry wishes to ascertain by what right the Addams Family has taken possession of Harry Potter."

The words dropped like a guillotine, and for a moment, the study was still; even the air seemed to be holding its breath as it waited for a response.

After several tense moments, Morticia slowly raised a single elegant brow. "Possession? Is that what we're calling love now…?"

"Semantics won't help you, Mrs. Addams," Moody said tensely "You are not his legal guardians. There are… laws. Protections. Procedures."

"None of which," Gomez said with a flash of teeth, "were present when that boy was being starved in a cupboard… Cruelty has its place when raising children, sir. But what was done to Harry was done for cruelty's sake alone… And that, simply will not do…"

Several Aurors flinched; one of them looked away entirely as the air became heavy, seemingly pressing down on them from all sides.

"You have no idea what he's been through…" Moody said gruffly. "I don't know what you THINK was done to him, but Harry Potter is a national hero, and he should be raised by—"

"We have every idea," Morticia replied calmly, cutting off whatever Moody was about to say. "We've seen the bruises. The nightmares. The way he flinches at sudden movement. Tell me, Head Auror, how long has the Ministry known that your so-called hero was left to rot in that Muggle house?"

Moody didn't answer; in fact, the Ministry had only been made aware of the abuse by Dumbledore when he had told them that the boy had been abducted…

Morticia's tone turned sharper as she continued. "You call this a rescue mission? You call this justice?"

"No, I call it an inquiry…" Moody said as he pulled a scroll from his coat, identical to the one that Lurch had given to Morticia earlier, and unfurled it. "The Wizengamot has formally requested your presence in London, where you will provide testimony before the court. You, your husband, and any others responsible for Mr. Potter's care."

"A request," Morticia repeated slowly. "Then why bring weapons?"

"In case it became a demand," Moody answered as his body tensed; every instinct was screaming at him that he was seconds from a full-scale battle beginning, but he refused to be the one who started it.

"Ah," Gomez said, placing a hand over his heart. "Such trust…"

"I don't trust anyone," Moody replied. "That's why I'm still alive…"

Another boom rocked the manor, and the ceiling dusted the Aurors in gray powder as the room descended into a tense, almost overbearing silence.

Then Morticia stood, looking as regal and terrifying as a queen of darkness.

"I will consider your 'invitation.' But you may tell your Wizengamot this: Harry Potter is safe. He is loved. And he is no longer alone in the world..."

"You may also tell them," Gomez added, smile still firmly in place, "that if a single wand is raised in aggression, we will respond… accordingly."

Mad-Eye didn't flinch, though his eyes did widen slightly at the threat. "You'd be making enemies of the entire Ministry…"

Gomez leaned in, eyes sparkling with something ancient and wild. "We were born with enemies, old man. And we've buried every single one."

Behind him, several Aurors shifted; one of them—young, freckled, and clearly regretting his assignment—whispered, "They're gonna kill us all…"

Moody didn't look back, though he vowed the recruit would receive a severe castigation later. "This is your warning," he said to Morticia. "Come of your own free will. Or next time, it won't be a request…"

Morticia met his stare with polite serenity, as though she found Moody's threat as dull as the man himself, save for his impressive scars. "Then next time, bring coffins…"

Chapter Text

Three Days Later:
The heavy scent of bubbling swamproot stew clung to the rafters of the Addams' kitchen like a stubborn mist. A cauldron hissed in the corner; jars of suspiciously twitching organs lined the dusty shelves. Grandma Addams, bent and gnarled like an ancient root, hunched over Harry with surprising agility, poking and prodding at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead with a bony finger, causing Harry to flinch. The wizened witch had just returned the previous night after a lengthy visit to help a friend in Bulgaria whose son had been eaten by a ghoul. True, it had been the woman's least favorite son, but still, it was rather rude of the ghoul to eat her child without asking first. Upon returning, however, the witch had immediately ordered Harry to appear in her kitchen so she could finally examine the scar that adorned his forehead.

"Hold still, sugarbat…" Grandma grunted. "You twitch like a hexed fairy!"

"Sorry, ma'am," Harry mumbled, trying not to look at the fang-marked ladle floating in her bubbling brew.

Wednesday, true-to-form sat beside him at the worn, bone-carved table, chin in her hands, elbows on the tabletop, her eyes dark and unblinking as always. "If it starts bleeding or hissing," she said calmly, "we'll know you're cursed… Or possibly possessed…"

Harry paled at that, but Grandma grinned and chuckled darkly, "Oh, he's definitely cursed," she muttered. "Question is… by what…?"

A moment later, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a tiny black vial with a label that simply read: "Don't."

Uncorking it released a whisper of green smoke and a smell like scorched silver; with a dark grin, she tipped three drops onto Harry's scar.

The reaction was immediate: A shriek, shrill and otherworldly, erupted from the mark on his head. The sound was not human; it was pain incarnate, ancient and cruel. The cauldron stopped bubbling, the stew spoon froze in mid-air, and even the rat skeleton on the windowsill dropped its jaw comically.

Harry clutched his head with both hands, his eyes wide and terrified. Wednesday stared in eerie silence, her breath caught. It wasn't fear on her face; however, it was fascination.

But Grandma…

Grandma's face twisted into something that hadn't been seen in her expression for years: rage.

Her hand trembled, fingers curled as though ready to hex the air itself, and her voice was low, brittle. "...That monster."

"Grandma Addams…?" Harry asked, trembling. "What was that…?"

Grandma's voice shifted instantly back to sugary sweetness. "Nothing to worry your precious little head about, dear. Just a bit of ancient bad magic reacting poorly to my treatment."

Harry could tell that she was not being entirely truthful, and didn't believe her for a second, but wisely chose to keep any further questions to himself as he swallowed through the pain still emanating from his skull.

"Go on now," she said, ushering him and Wednesday off the chair. "You two go blow something up, or skin a toad or… whatever it is children do these days."

Harry still looked shaken and seemed to want to ask another question, but Wednesday took his hand and tugged him gently.

"Come on," she whispered. Fester left the dynamite out again. We can try redecorating Pugsley's room with his intestines."

As soon as the children had vanished from view, Grandma turned, eyes burning as she whipped out a gnarled black wand and sent a blasting curse at the nearby wooden wardrobe, instantly turning it to kindling a moment later. Breathing hard, the woman returned her wand to the inside of her dress before turning and making her way out of the kitchen.

XXXX

At that exact moment, in the Addams library, Fester was strapped to a spinning wooden board, arms and legs splayed like a frog being dissected, and giggling madly. Gomez stood five feet away, dressed to the nines, with an unnaturally red rose between his teeth and four knives between his fingers.

"Ready, my beloved brother?" Gomez grinned.

"Born ready!" Fester cackled back.

Instantly, Gomez flung three knives with uncanny grace—thwip-thwip-thwip—they buried into the board within inches of Fester's head.

Morticia sipped delicately from a teacup filled with something black and steaming and exhaled contentedly. "Such elegance in every throw, mon amour."

But the moment Grandma Addams strode into the study, the air changed; the temperature dropped, Morticia's porcelain skin went slightly paler, Gomez turned mid-throw, catching the blade at the last second before it left his hand.

"Mother!" Gomez greeted with a bow and a grin. "Back from Bulgaria already?"

"Tell us, did the ghoul surrender, or is he pickled in your luggage?" Morticia asked with mild curiosity.

Grandma didn't answer right away, choosing instead to grab a large container of brandy from the nearby table, which she drained in three seconds flat before throwing the bottle at Fester's head, making him cackle madly as it shattered into a hundred pieces.

"I examined Harry's scar," she said bluntly, causing the room to still; Fester's spinning slowed, and Gomez's knife dropped to the floor with a muted clink.

"And?" Morticia asked as she lifted her teacup to her lips again and took a small, polite sip.

"It's a Horcrux…"

For a heartbeat, nothing moved; then Morticia's teacup cracked in her hand, a single fracture running down its ornate design as frost began to bloom silently across the window behind her; when she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper:

"That foul thing... dared put a piece of himself inside our boy…?"

Gomez's fists clenched. "Treachery," he hissed. "A child!"

Even Fester stopped laughing, a look of shock on his upside-down face from where he hung. "That's… That's not even funny."

They knew what a Horcrux was, everyone in the dark circles of the magical world did; most feared the very concept of creating one. But the Addams Family? They hated the very idea of creating Horcruxes and viewed anyone who tried to make one as an enemy who must be killed immediately. Not because they feared death—but because they respected it.

"Death is not something to run from," Morticia said coldly. "It is sacred… Beautiful… The one promise none can break..."

"Until now," Grandma growled. "I haven't encountered one of those foul things in nearly a century. I had almost begun to hope that the knowledge of their creation had finally been lost, but it would appear that is not the case…"

"It's a pity our ancestor didn't manage to butcher Herpo the Foul before he could pass the knowledge along…" Morticia sneered softly as she recalled the Addams ancestor who had hunted the originator across three continents after learning of Herpo's attempt to cheat death. The witch had finally managed to track the man down in the end and had made his death last over weeks as she tortured him for information on where his Horcrux was hidden, but unfortunately, the knowledge of how to create the monstrosities had been given to Herpo's apprentice, who quickly released it out into the world before the Addams witch had put Herpo down. Since then, the Addams family had made it their mission to brutally destroy anyone they encountered who dared try to run from death's sweet embrace. There were some who even claimed that the Addams family had made a deal with death to destroy anyone who made a Horcrux. Their reward was what made the Addams clan so resilient to harm.

"Can it be removed?" Gomez asked, low and dark as he picked up the knife from the floor and proceeded to cut Fester's binds; a moment later, Fester fell to the floor with a painful crash. "I know our usual modus operandi is to just destroy the container, but in this situation…"

"Yes," Grandma stated, cutting Gomez off. "But not today… The ritual requires moonlight—a full moon, to be exact. That gives us three days," she said as she pulled out a pocket watch covered in blood.

"Tell us what you need," Morticia said at once.

"A silver dagger," Grandma said, putting away the watch and ticking off on her fingers. "Dragon's breath root. A vial of Lazarus water. A mandrake born on a blood moon. And a goat!"

As Fester raised himself off the floor and dusted himself off, he raised a hand. "Can it be an angry goat?"

Grandma didn't even blink: "It has to be."

Gomez began pacing, muttering in furious Spanish, while Morticia stood motionless, her expression a mask of icy wrath. "He's still just a boy… He doesn't even know what was done to him..."

"We won't let it fester," said Gomez. "No offense, brother."

"None taken," Fester said flatly.

"Our family has hunted these abominations down for over two thousand years…" Grandma hissed angrily, "No one knows how to destroy them better than an Addams! You needn't worry, Morticia, Harry will be just fine."

Unknown to all, Wednesday had been silently standing outside the library doors and had heard every word; Harry was gone, off chasing Pugsley with a skull-shaped net, allowing the girl to sneak away and listen to what was wrong with the boy she had found at the zoo.

She had heard everything and was already thinking of what she would do to the man who dared hurt her Harry, should she ever encounter him…

XXXX

Later that night, the ancient pipes of the Addams manor groaned and clanked with age and mystery as Harry stood on a wooden stool before the cracked mirror of the third-floor bathroom. The one in his room was temporarily broken due to Pugsley flushing a grenade down it. He was brushing his teeth with a slightly charred toothbrush (Fester's doing, apparently) and trying not to stare too long at the mirror. Sometimes it blinked back…

He had just rinsed and was about to hop down when—

"Harry…"

The voice was barely above a breath. Soft. Cold. Hissing.

Harry froze, and his toothbrush slipped from his hand and clattered into the sink. The mirror warped, just for an instant, as though the surface had rippled like water, and Harry spun around, wide-eyed, his heart pounding.

"W-Wednesday?" he called out. "Pugsley?"

Silence.

Only the gurgle of the pipes and the distant sound of explosions upstairs, followed by Fester's unmistakable laughter, answered him, and Harry's breath caught in his throat as he realized something: He was not alone.

Ordinarily, this would not have even made Harry blink, for the Addams Manor was filled with curiosities and oddities that made one feel as if they were constantly being watched, but this felt different… This felt… wrong.

And then—

The door creaked open.

"Harry?" came Morticia's voice, smooth as velvet and edged with steel, causing him to whirl, startled, only to see her standing in the doorway in one of her nightgowns, long and black as moonless midnight, her hair shimmering like spilled ink in the candlelight.

"You look pale, darling. Are you unwell?"

Harry opened his mouth, unsure if he should say anything. Then, the fear spilled out in a quiet whisper.

"I… I heard something… A voice. It said my name..."

Morticia's eyes sharpened instantly; her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, and her lips pressed into a faint line. For the briefest second, it looked as if her whole body stilled, like a predator scenting danger.

But then she softened, slowly stepping forward and offering Harry a pale hand.

"I see," she said, and gently helped him down from the stool. "Come, sweet boy… It's time for bed."

"What about the voice, though…?" Harry asked as he clung to her hand, grateful for her touch.

"I wouldn't pay it any mind," Morticia replied softly, though Harry could almost hear the threat hovering just under the surface, "It was most likely just a passing ghost, they occasionally appear in the manor on their way to wherever it is that they're going..."

Harry bit his lip at that, not knowing for sure if he believed her, but chose to, all the same. Morticia hadn't lied to him once since he came to live with her, a stark contrast from the other adults of Harry's life, and it was what made him trust her completely. As the two of them stepped into the hallway, Harry couldn't help but shudder; the corridor was darker than usual, but Morticia's presence banished the shadows, even if she wore them like perfume.

When they finally returned to his room, she pulled back the heavy velvet sheets and helped him under the covers, tucking him in with practiced grace.

"Am I… cursed?" Harry asked timidly as he settled onto his pillow; Morticia inwardly raged with fury at how pathetic Harry's voice sounded, and in that moment, she wished with all her dark heart that Voldemort was before her, for she would greatly enjoy 'playing' with him.

As Morticia sat beside him and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering near the scar, she forced her voice to come out calm and cool, not showing any of the rage burning inside her.

"No, dearest. But—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—the coward who murdered your parents… he left behind something foul. A remnant… Like rot left in the walls after the corpse is dragged away."

Harry flinched, and his face went as pale as freshly fallen snow. "Inside me?"

She nodded once. "But it has no claim on you! And it will never define who you are! In a few days, our family will perform a ritual… One that will rid you of it… forever."

Harry looked like he might cry at that, and he sniffled twice pathetically before asking softly: "Will it hurt?"

Morticia tilted her head as she considered her answer, before finally deciding on the truth. "Perhaps. But only for a moment, and we will all be there, you will not face it alone…"

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead gently, just beside the cursed scar, her voice dropping into a whisper. "We will rip it out, piece by piece, if necessary."

Something in her tone made the candles flicker, and for a moment, he thought he could feel terror coming from somewhere in his being—somewhere that was both a part of him and somehow… not.

Harry nodded, exhausted and trembling, but somehow calmer; as Morticia rose from the edge of his bed, her long silhouette gliding toward the door, candlelight casting slow-moving shadows along the velvet walls. She was almost to the threshold when Harry, already drifting in the haze between wakefulness and dreams, whispered:

"Goodnight, Morticia… I love you…"

The moment the word left his lips, Harry's eyes flew open, and he froze in horror as he shot ramrod straight and turned to where Morticia had frozen in the doorway.

His breath hitched, panic flaring hot in his chest; he hadn't meant to say it. It just… slipped out. The words had buried themselves somewhere deep in him over the past month, and now they had surfaced before he could stop them. She wasn't his mother. She wasn't supposed to be. What if—

Morticia paused in the doorway at Harry's words and remained deathly still for several seconds as Harry's mind whirled with panic.

For a heartbeat, Harry thought she might turn around and scold him, or worse, walk out in silence. Instead, she turned slowly, the faintest smile on her pale lips soft, solemn, and just a little sad.

Finally, she tilted her head softly and whispered, "Goodnight, my beautiful viper. I love you too…"

And then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a gentle click as Harry sat there, frozen beneath the covers, blinking at the closed door where Morticia had just exited. Slowly, trembling fingers reached up to wipe at his eyes, but the tears kept coming; not sobs, not loud or shaking, just quiet, steady tears slipping down his cheeks as he smiled faintly to himself. For the first time in his life, he had said it… And someone… hadn't flinched away from him as a result.

She had smiled.

She had said it back, and what was even more amazing was that she meant it, Harry could tell.

As Harry fell asleep that night, smiling through his tears, the darkness no longer felt quite so cold; instead, it felt like a gentle hug, as though there was nothing on this earth that could harm him.

XXXX

Author's Note:

So, I hope your weekend is going better than mine… I went rock climbing and badly injured my hands, hence the reason why this chapter took so long to write. I don't know when the next one will be, but I promise to get it out as quickly as possible.

If you would like to join my Discord, where you can find pictures that accompany this story, as well as participate in Polls that will determine where this story goes, you can find it here:

https(double slash) Discord (period) gg (one slash) WBMcpbSd

Chapter Text

Darkness pressed in like a shroud.

There was no light, floor, or sky—only a void that seemed to hum with quiet menace; Harry stood alone, barefoot and trembling, a thin nightshirt clinging to his small frame as he stared into the shadows.

A whisper slithered through the dark a moment later, making Harry jump and look around wildly.

"Harry..."

He froze, his eyes wild as he desperately searched the darkness of his surroundings for the voice's origin.

"Don't be afraid, little one..." The voice spoke again, smooth, gentle, almost kind; it echoed not in the air but in his bones, like it came from inside him.

A sound from behind him made Harry turn just in time to see a tall, pale, thin figure emerge from the gloom, wrapped in swirling robes of black smoke. His features were half-formed, like melted wax—sometimes sharp, sometimes blurry. But the eyes… the eyes never changed: red, like burning coals in a bed of ash.

"I mean you no harm," the figure smiled, raising his hands. "I've been waiting a long time to speak with you…"

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and his knees weak. "W-Who are you?"

The figure's smile widened as he stopped less than ten feet from the scared boy. "A friend. Someone who understands you…"

Harry frowned at that; every instinct in his small body was screaming at him to run, to run and not look back, but his legs had seemingly lost the ability to obey his commands. "You're the thing in my scar… The one who's been whispering..."

"A whisper, a presence... call me what you will. I've been with you all your life, haven't I?" The figure replied silkily, folding his hands into his robes. "I've seen your pain… Your hunger... The cupboard. The cold. I know what they did to you."

Harry's lip trembled, but he didn't reply, his voice suddenly lost as the figure continued in the same silky voice as before.

"They treated you like filth… Like a burden… Who do you think kept you alive, child? Gave you the strength to see another day? And then these… Addams people come along and fill your head with promises. Do you think they truly care for you? Or do they simply enjoy collecting broken things…?"

Harry's fists clenched at that, his anger seeming to break whatever hold on him was keeping him from speaking. "They're not like the Dursleys! They saved me! They see me!"

The shadowed figure chuckled softly, as though indulging a child's naïveté. "Do they…? Or do they see something else? Power. Potential. You're not like them, Harry. You're something greater…"

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Harry…" the figure oozed warmth and seduction. "You are limitless… Magic thrums in your very soul. You are destined for greatness! And they fear that! That's why they want to take me away from you! They know what we could be—together..."

"No..." Harry whispered, backing away. "You're trying to trick me..."

"I'm offering you truth," the figure hissed, the gentleness slipping momentarily. "They pretend to love you, but it's because they fear what you are! Morticia, with her cold eyes. Gomez, with his charming grin. Even that little girl who clings to your side! They think you're theirs. But you're mine, Harry! You've always been mine…"

Harry's eyes widened in horror as he finally realized just who he was speaking to. "You're Voldemort…"

The figure paused for a moment, as though surprised… then he laughed; it was no longer soft, it was a rasping, mocking, inhuman sound.

"Ah… so she told you that much… The Addams witch! Morticia thinks she's clever. But she cannot protect you… No one can!"

"I don't want you," Harry whispered, retreating another step. "They're going to get you out of me. They said so! Morticia said you'd be gone soon!"

Voldemort's form rippled violently at that, and the facade finally dropped away; the creature that stood before Harry now was no longer pretending, and in no way could be considered a man. Its face was twisted into a serpent-like visage, with slitted nostrils, a mouth full of jagged teeth, and red eyes that burned with malevolence.

"You fool!" it snarled, voice booming like thunder. "We are one! Do you hear me? ONE! Rip me from you, and you DIE!"

Harry stumbled backward as the thing surged forward, the black void twisting with its fury.

"You are NOTHING without me! You were weak, unloved, forgotten! I gave you strength! I gave you purpose! I gave you POWER! Where would you be without me? We survived because of ME!"

Harry covered his ears as the voice rang out all around him; it was in the air, in the ground beneath Harry's feet, even in his very blood. "No! I don't want your power! I don't want you in me!"

"You can't run from me, boy!" Voldemort shrieked, tendrils of shadow writhing toward him. "You will never be free!"

Harry screamed at that as the tendrils wrapped around him like vines and began trying to squeeze the life out of him; a moment later, the world shattered, and he bolted upright in bed, gasping.

Sweat drenched his body; the sheets were tangled around him like the vines, and his scar burned hotly, searing like a brand. The room was dark, quiet—but the silence felt heavy, like it was still echoing with screams as his breath hitched.

The echoes of that terrible voice still rang in his head, sneering, shrieking, and threatening. Slowly, as if afraid to wake up the nightmare, he looked around: the familiar canopy above his bed, the black curtains, the macabre portraits on the wall. He was home.

But the fear didn't fade.

His body trembling, Harry pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his face in his knees, as he tried to push out the memory.

A moment later, silent and steady tears came, and yet he didn't wipe them away; he wanted Morticia. He wanted her calm voice, cold hands, and strange lullabies. But he didn't dare call for her. Not now. Not after what he'd just heard. What he now knew.

So he cried quietly, rocking himself in the dark, scar burning like a wound that would never heal.

XXXX

The next morning, the wind hissed softly across the slated roof of Addams Manor. The sun barely pierced the clouds, casting the grounds below into a green-gray gloom. From this high perch, the Addams Garden looked like a war zone—burn marks, craters, and faint trails of smoke from Fester and Pugsley's earlier "experiments."

At the far end of the garden, Pugsley zigzagged between scorched rosebushes, wearing a dented World War II helmet far too large for his head, laughing wildly, and clutching a makeshift riot shield cobbled together from a trash can lid.

On the roof, Harry and Wednesday stood side by side, each holding a crossbow. Harry's was a small one, polished oak with a skull carved into the stock; Wednesday's was sleek and black, strung with silver thread. They'd been "playing tag" for almost an hour, which in Addams's terms meant "hunt Pugsley until he squeals."

Harry took aim and fired, his bolt hissing through the air as it flew as fast as thought toward the cackling boy below; yet, despite his best effort, his bolt thunked into the garden several feet behind Pugsley.

Wednesday frowned and lowered her crossbow as she watched the shot. "You missed again…"

Harry shrugged, cheeks pink. "I'm… not used to this..."

"Obviously." Her voice was flat but not unkind, and she studied him for a long moment. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Harry said quickly, reloading. "Just tired..."

Wednesday's expression didn't change. "You're lying."

"No, I—"

She fired her crossbow a second later, the bolt hissed through the air and buried itself in the roof tile an inch from Harry's foot, causing him to cry out and jerk back slightly.

Before he could retreat further, Wednesday moved, crossing the distance with predatory grace. She grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked him toward her until their faces were inches apart. A moment later, her black eyes locked onto his green ones like hooks sinking into flesh.

"Tell me," she said softly; yet even Harry could tell it wasn't a request.

Harry's mouth opened, then closed again. The longer he stared into her eyes, the more his resolve melted. It was like staring into a mirror that didn't blink, a void that pulled the truth out of him.

"I…" His voice cracked. "I had a nightmare… About the thing in my scar… I know what it is now… It's… It's Voldemort..."

Wednesday's eyes narrowed, but she didn't let go. She simply lifted a single brow and urged him to continue.

"He—he talked to me…" Harry whispered. "He said the Addams Family only took me in because of my power… He said you're scared of me... He offered me power. Said we're one…" His voice broke as tears welled up, trembling on the edges of his lashes. "I'm scared, Wednesday. I'm so scared..."

Her grip on his shirt tightened—not harsh, but firm, anchoring him. For a long, eerie moment, she said nothing; then her head tilted slightly, and her voice came soft and sharp as a blade.

"Is that what you think, Harry?" she asked. "That my family took you in because of your power…?"

Harry blinked, startled by the calm fury in her voice.

"Do you really believe we would save you from those pathetic Muggles for such a pedestrian reason?"

He tried to look away, but she held him steady, both with her hands and with her eyes.

"Let me make something very clear," she said, her voice low and unwavering. "We didn't take you in because of your magic. Or your name. Or the scar on your head. We took you in because you were broken, and no one cared enough to fix you. We cared."

Harry's lip trembled, and he shook his head. "But why?"

Wednesday's eyes burned darker than pitch. "Because we saw you. Because you belong with us. And because my family is a haven for the broken, the beaten, the damned, and the mad…"

He couldn't stop the tears now and quickly wiped his sleeve across his face. "He said you're afraid of me…"

Wednesday scoffed. "You? You're a traumatized seven-year-old who flinches every time someone raises their voice… I've seen shrunken heads with more menace."

Despite himself, a breath hitched in Harry's chest that might've been the start of a laugh—or a sob.

"He said… he said we're the same. That he's part of me," Harry choked out. "He said you'd try to take him away… That you're jealous... That he can teach me things. That I'll never be anything if he's gone…"

Wednesday dropped her crossbow with a loud 'bang,' and let go of his shirt, only to grip his face gently in both hands—cold fingers against tear-warm skin.

"Listen to me, Harry Potter," she said, inches from him. "That thing in your scar is nothing. It's a parasite. A shadow. And if it thinks it can slither into your head and fill it with poison, it's more delusional than I thought."

Harry's voice cracked. "But he said—"

"Enough." Her voice cut the air. "In two days, my family will rip him from your skull, screaming! You will be free. And you will still be you!"

"How do you know it'll work…?"

Wednesday's stare softened—slightly. "Because I've seen what you're going to become. I've foreseen it. Power, yes. But also, choice. You'll change the world, Harry. Not because of what's in your head, but because of who you are..."

She stepped back, retrieving her crossbow. "And I don't allow anyone to steal what's mine. Especially not cowardly half-souls hiding in scars..."

Harry wiped his cheeks, breathing shakily. "Thanks, Wednesday…"

She didn't smile; instead, she loaded a bolt and said, "Now focus. Pugsley's out of cover."

Harry nodded, pulling himself together as below, Pugsley popped his helmeted head above the scorched hedges.

"Oi! Are you two done having a moment, or what?!"

Harry exhaled a shaky laugh, raised his crossbow, and took aim.

"No more missing," he said softly.

XXXX

Two Days Later:

The Addams family's ritual chamber lay deep beneath the manor, carved into the bedrock like a temple to some forgotten god. The walls were lined with shelves of bones and ancient jars, their contents older than England itself. Faint whispers seemed to seep from the cracks in the stone, curling through the air like smoke.

At the center of the chamber, a large circle had been painted in blood-red runes — twisting letters from no language Harry had ever seen, glinting wetly in the candlelight. Five black candles stood around the circle in the pattern of a star, each flame flickering green as if fed by something other than wax. The smell was heady — iron, herbs, and something that reminded Harry of old thunderstorms.

Grandma Addams moved with surprising swiftness for someone so bent and ancient, her hands steady as she lit the last candle. Her muttering was low and sharp, every word making the runes pulse faintly. She turned to the family gathered around her. "It is time," she said simply.

Harry stood at Morticia's side, a white dressing gown draped over his small frame. The cloth felt cool against his skin, and his hand was clasped in hers. Though her touch was soft, it was unyielding. Yet, even with the protection of Morticia's hand in his, he couldn't stop his eyes from darting to the painted circle, the flickering flames, and the strange shadows stretching across the floor.

As though sensing his anxiety, Morticia knelt before him, bringing her face level with his; her hands framed his small shoulders as she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his scarred brow. "It will be alright, my dear viper," she murmured, voice like midnight silk. "Tonight, this ends. Tonight, the coward's shadow inside you dies..."

Harry swallowed, trying to steady his breathing. "You promise?"

Morticia's black eyes softened, but her words were still edged with steel. "I promise."

Behind her, Gomez cracked his knuckles, his smile fierce and sharp; Fester had rolled out a silver chest of ritual tools, each glinting with ominous purpose. Wednesday and Pugsley stood just outside the circle, silent as sentinels.

Grandma nodded once, her expression grim. "Step inside, sugar bat. The circle will keep you safe while we work."

Harry took one last look at Morticia, who gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, before letting go as he nodded.

And then, on legs that trembled but did not falter, Harry stepped over the blood-red runes and into the center of the circle.

The candles hissed.

The shadows deepened.

And the ritual began.

Chapter Text

The moment Harry stepped into the circle, the candles flared, their emerald flames spitting sparks like angry serpents. The runes around his feet pulsed red, then settled into a low, steady throb like the heartbeat of some ancient thing slumbering deep beneath the earth.

With almost physical effort, Harry forced himself to stand still, arms stiff at his sides, trying to keep his breath even, as the the air suddenly grew heavy, pressing in like invisible hands.

Grandma Addams moved next, hobbling toward the edge of the circle with a crooked silver dagger in one hand and a bundle of roots in the other; her gnarled fingers moved with careful precision as she crumbled the dried dragon's breath root into a steaming black bowl held by Pugsley, who looked unusually solemn, his usual manic smile, for once, gone; a soft plume of red smoke rose from the bowl a moment later, curling in shapes that twisted and hissed.

"Lazarus water," Grandma rasped, beckoning; Wednesday stepped forward at once, uncorked a bone-white vial, and let three slow drops fall into the bowl, causing the mixture to shimmer and glow with an unearthly sheen. Yet even as the concoction pulsed and seemed to move as if alive, she said nothing as she stepped back, her black eyes never leaving Harry, who was suddenly breathing a little harder, as if he had just completed a workout. Something in him was screaming to run, yet Harry couldn't understand why…

Then came the mandrake — withered and shivering, its tiny mouth gagged with iron thread to keep its scream contained. Grandma spoke three words in a language so old it made the stone walls groan, and the mandrake withered into ash between her hands.

Harry flinched as the elderly Addams dumped the ash into the bowl, a feeling of wrongness suddenly sweeping through him as something brushed against the back of his mind, like the brush of spider legs crawling across his brain.

And then came the goat.

It was led in by Lurch, who gave a solemn grunt as he held the angry beast by its rope. It snarled and stamped its hooves, eyes burning red as if it knew its fate; beside the animal, Fester clapped gleefully, a wicked smile firmly in place. "Angry goat! Perfectly furious! Look at him, he's seething!"

Grandma didn't wait. With a swift, practiced motion, she plunged the silver dagger into the goat's throat, causing the creature to let out a terrible sound — a bleat of fury and pain — before collapsing into a heap; its blood spraying in a graceful arc across the circle, spattering Harry's white dressing gown and making him cry out in shock.

The blood sizzled as it touched the runes, and they flared crimson like molten iron, causing Harry to whimper slightly and move as if to back away from them, as Grandma meticulously carved out the goat's heart before crushing it in her grip and dropping it into the bowl.

"Do not move, sugar bat!" Grandma called at once, forcing Harry to freeze in place. "It begins now!"

Harry was frozen — part from terror, part from the strange heat that had begun to rise beneath his skin, as if his very essence was being set ablaze. The blood from the slaughtered goat was warm, sticky, and smelled of copper and smoke as it ran lines down his gown and the few bits of skin that it had struck. He wanted to scream. He wanted to run!

But then Morticia spoke as if sensing his inner terror:

"You are brave, my darling viper," she said calmly, hands clasped before her. "I know you're afraid, just remember that what stains you tonight will be gone by daylight…"

Gomez stood behind her, holding a silver censer that belched dark smoke. His expression, normally gleeful, was grim — eyes narrowed, jaw tight. "We're with you, Harry," he said, and the boy could feel truth in every word. "Every shadow. Every scream. Every breath."

Grandma Addams began to chant, her voice rising in a cadence that made the runes crawl like living things. The shadows in the chamber deepened. The bones on the shelves rattled softly. And then — the circle screamed.

Harry clutched his head as agony unlike anything he had ever experienced ran through his very being. This was worse than the beatings he had received from Uncle Veron! Worse than the crippling hunger he had been forced to endure when his Aunt refused to feed him due to some supposed wrongdoing! At that moment, Harry would have given anything for it to stop!

A moment later, a voice — his voice — and not his voice, shrieked in rage and fear as the runes surged like lightning around his feet, and the air crackled with raw magic.

"Fools!" hissed the Horcrux-Voldemort, rising like smoke from the scar on Harry's head as the boy fought with everything in his being to stay standing, gripping his head in both hands, his mouth open in a silent scream of agony as the smoke churned and twisted until it resembled a face, connected to Harry's skull by a trail of black smoke. "You dare? You think this will cast me out? I am eternal!"

A moment later, the battle proved too much, and Harry fell to his knees inside the circle, still clutching his skull, as his scar seared like a brand.

"You are nothing but a cowardly parasite…" Morticia whispered harshly, stepping closer. "A craven fool so afraid of facing the end that all living things must face that you forced a child to house of piece of your disgusting soul. MY CHILD! And for that, I will dance on the ashes of your destruction."

"I am part of him!" The face snarled. "Remove me and you'll kill the boy!"

"No," Wednesday said, stepping forward, eyes like cold steel, causing the room to suddenly grow much colder, as though a sudden winter's breeze had blown through the room. "You poor, pitiful specter, how fragile you are… How needy. You cling to Harry like a tick clings to warm blood, whispering lies and promises like a cheap ghost at a child's séance."

Morticia smirked at her daughter's bravado as the shade seemed to choke on its own rage at Wednesday's words as she stepped forward and tilted her head, almost curious as she continued:

"You say he's yours? How quaint… As if power means possession. As if your filthy little shard of soul could ever own something as rare and precious as Harry…"

Wednesday took another step, stopping just beyond the circle of runes. Her voice darkened, not in volume but in temperature, like frost forming on glass as she stared into the burning red eyes of Voldemort's shade.

"No. He is mine. Mine to torment and torture when he forgets to set the traps correctly in his bedroom. Mine to protect when the world sharpens its knives. Mine to teach — slowly, carefully — how to love the shadows that dance on the walls when the lights go out… I will teach him to disembowel prejudice with wit, to dismember fear with facts. And when the monsters come knocking—"

A cruel smile spread across Wednesday's face as she stared at the shade. The entire room was deadly silent, as if even the air was listening to the girl's words—"He will smile, because he will know where the sharpest knives are kept."

Wednesday began to slowly walk around the circle, now, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes locked with those of Voldemort's shade. "You don't love him… You need him. There's a difference. Love does not rot and cling. Love does not carve itself into a child's skull like a parasite. You are not his destiny, you are his infection!"

As she reached the front of the circle, where she had started, Wednesday's eyes turned almost completely black, and her smile turned positively venomous; behind her, the rest of the Addams clan all seemed to have the same smile, as if they couldn't be prouder of the little girl who was currently talking down to the spirit of the darkest wizard in the last century as if he were nothing but a disobedient child. Voldemort, on the other hand, was staring in stunned disbelief; no one had ever spoken to him like this before, and now a seven-year-old child was doing so!

"So scream, shade. Rage. Threaten! But understand this: you were outmatched the moment you chose to haunt MY boy. Because Harry Potter is no longer yours, he belongs to the Addams family now…"

"Well said, my little scorpion!" Gomez laughed out loud. Behind him, Fester loudly clapped his hands over his head, followed by placing two fingers in his mouth and whistling in appreciation as Wednesday stepped back next to her mother, who placed a pleased hand on the girl's shoulder.

A moment later, the shade opened its mouth to retort, but before it could, Gomez dropped something into the bowl in Pugsley's hands — a pinch of powdered silver — and the flames from the black candles shot skyward, bathing the chamber in green fire as the scar on Harry's head burst into light, causing Harry to release an ear-shattering shriek of pain, tears running down his face as he collapsed onto his back.

And then, finally, something tore loose — a mass of shadow, oily and writhing, shrieking as it peeled itself from Harry's soul, and began to billow out of the boy's scar like smoke from a chimney. For several minutes, the Addams clan watched as a seemingly never-ending pillar of smoke poured from the boy as he lay on his back, his eyes open wide, yet seeing nothing, his mouth open in a silent scream. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the last of the smoke poured forth from Harry's scar and the boy collapsed to the ground, falling unconscious in an instant as the smokey face expanded, twisting and warping until it took on the form of what appeared to be the amalgamation of a man and a snake, the smoke pouring around it like a black cloak. For a single instant, the figure hung there, suspended above the unconscious form of Harry, before rushing forward in an attempt to attack the ones who had removed it from the boy, only for the runes to pulse an angry red as he connected with the edge of the circle, throwing him back with a cry of pain, as if he had just been punched.

"You filthy wretches!" Voldemort snarled with fury as it tried to escape the circle repeatedly, only to be repulsed at every turn. "You think you can hold me! I am Lord Voldemort! The greatest Dark Lord in history!"

For a heartbeat, the chamber was silent; then Grandma Addams threw her head back and laughed. It wasn't the polite, brittle laughter of an old woman — it was rich, genuine, and filled with wicked amusement. "Greatest Dark Lord, he says!" she cackled, wiping a tear from her eye. "Oh, sugar bones, you're not even in the top ten!"

The shade froze, thrown off by her mirth. "What?"

"Oh, child," Grandma wheezed, catching her breath. "You think murdering Muggles and orphans and hiding bits of yourself in trinkets makes you a dark lord? Please. Please."

She began counting on her crooked fingers. "Ekrizdis — there's a dark wizard! Built Azkaban, filled it with dementors just because he liked the sound of screaming. Morgana Le Fay — terrifying woman, could curse a king from two countries away. Grindelwald — now he had flair. Drove half of Europe mad and still managed to look good doing it! And don't even get me started on the way that man could make love…"

A wistful look came across her features for a moment before she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Oh, and we can't forget Baba Yaga! Delightful woman. Terrible dinner guest…"

The shade vibrated with fury, its crimson eyes burning brighter as its form flickered and churned. "I am immortal! I—"

"Immortal?" Grandma interrupted. "You split your soul into pieces like a coward chopping firewood before a storm! You literally named yourself 'flees from death!'" She snorted at that before regaining control of herself. "You should have called yourself Lord Cowardmort, dear."

Morticia smiled faintly, sipping from a goblet of something thick and black that Lurch had just handed her from a silver tray. "He does lack a certain elegance..."

Gomez nodded sagely. "Terrible branding."

"Silence!" Voldemort howled. "You dare mock—"

"Mock?" Grandma's grin widened. "Oh, sweetie, this is me being polite. You wouldn't survive my mockery..."

She stepped closer to the glowing circle, her shadow stretching long and sharp across the floor. "You don't even understand the dark, child. You ran from it! We live in it! You feared death. We toast to it every night!"

The shade screamed wordless fury — but no one in the chamber flinched.

Pugsley's small voice cut through the noise like a blade:

"Grandmama's right. You're not a dark lord. You're a frightened boy who made a mess and called it a kingdom..."

Voldemort snarled with fury at having been so thoroughly mocked, his eyes moving around the circle for some weakness he could exploit, before finally coming to a stop on the unconscious boy lying beneath him.

"Fools! I'll just repossess the child! And this time, I will crush his mind so completely that nothing will be left! Only I will remain!"

Before the shade could move an inch, however, a sudden 'gong' echoed throughout the chamber, like the toll of a church bell, causing everyone to freeze in place at the sound.

As the sound echoed throughout the room again, the temperature seemed to drop below freezing, and ice began to spread across the floor and up the walls as Voldemort watched in sudden fear.

Yet, to Voldemort's confusion, the Addams Family only smiled — each of them, in their own way, as the temperature dropped further by the second, and the bell (that damnable bell!) continued to ring out.

Morticia's lips curved with dark delight.

Grandma cackled with dark mirth.

Wednesday's eyes gleamed with quiet contempt.

Fester giggled softly, and Pugsley was literally bouncing in place, the bowl in his hands sloshing dangerously.

And Gomez — Gomez simply grinned, the glint of his teeth catching the light like a blade.

The shade faltered mid-rant, its swirling form twitching with unease.

"Why do you smile?!" it shrieked, the sound distorted, as if spoken through broken glass and rotting flesh.

Gomez took a single, deliberate step forward, his shadow stretched long across the blood-soaked stone floor, reaching toward the flickering runes like a living thing. Slowly, he pulled a dark cigar from his jacket pocket, struck a match on the heel of his boot, and lit it. He took a deep draw, holding it for a moment before exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted lazily across the circle — straight into the face of the shrieking shade.

When he spoke, his voice was smooth as silk and cold as the grave.

"Because," he said quietly, "you played a dangerous game, amigo… and now, you've lost."

He took another puff, eyes narrowing.

"And it's time to pay the price for your arrogance."

The shade twisted backward, rage collapsing into something older — raw, primal terror.

"What price?! What have you done?!"

A moment later, the shadows behind it began to move.

Not twist. Not flicker.

Move.

Something vast and dark stirred in the corners of the chamber — older than the stones, deeper than death; the runes around the circle flared bright crimson as a sudden gust extinguished the candles. And then—

The chains came.

They didn't slither.

They didn't clink.

They exploded from the darkness like harpoons — spectral and glowing a cold, eldritch blue. Hooks gleamed at their tips, jagged and cruel, forged in shadow and wrath. They ripped through the air with impossible speed and struck the shade from all directions, sinking deep into its incorporeal form.

Voldemort screamed.

Not a human scream. Not a magical one.

A soul scream.

Shrill, endless, pure.

The Addams Family stood unmoved — Wednesday's eyes glinting with vindicated fury, Morticia with the calm satisfaction of a mother who had promised protection, and Gomez still puffing his cigar like a gentleman watching a long-awaited finale.

The shade writhed, limbs flailing, mouth gaping in silent agony as more chains lashed around it — dozens, maybe hundreds — dragging it downward, pulling.

Then from the void beyond the circle, a figure emerged.

A tall, cloaked entity stepped into view, its face hidden beneath a cowl that devoured light. The chains extended from the abyss of its robes, shifting like serpents with a will of their own.

As the shade of Voldemort saw the figure step out of the darkness, all pretense of bravery disappeared, and the once proud dark lord screamed in terror.

"NO—! NOT YOU—! NOOOOOOOO!"

It thrashed wildly, shrieking, pleading, begging, but the chains only tightened; the figure said nothing, it only reached out a gloved hand, and the chains snapped taut with a sound like a thunderclap. A moment later, the shade yanked forward toward the figure; Voldemort's final scream shattered every unlit candle in the chamber, and he vanished into the folds of the figure's cloak — consumed in silence…

Then, with one final rattling of chains, the figure turned, and the Addams family bowed; all of them — Morticia, Gomez, Wednesday, Fester, Pugsley, even Grandma Addams — heads lowered in deep, reverent respect.

The figure inclined its hood once in acknowledgment, and then it was gone, the chains with it; only the faint smell of smoke and old fear remained… and the boy, unconscious in the center of the circle — peaceful at last.

XXXX

Author's Note:

How's that for a chapter! I hope you all enjoyed reading this one as much as I enjoyed writing it; I actually modeled the 'chains' scene after Pinhead's entrance in Hellraiser. If there is something you didn't like about the chapter or think I could have done better, let me know. Until next time!

Chapter Text

The morning sunlight spilled through the tall, arched windows of Harry's room in soft, golden sheets — warm and gentle, like a quiet lullaby played for the dead as Harry stirred slowly beneath the weight of his thick, violet-stitched blanket, his limbs heavy as lead, muscles aching with a soreness that seemed to go down to his very bones. It was as if he'd run miles without rest, or wrestled something far larger than himself. Something monstrous…

As he slowly opened his eyes, Harry blinked wearily at the ceiling, its Gothic carvings shifting softly in the morning light like lazy phantoms, then sat up with a low groan. Every movement was stiff, like the air around him had thickened; as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touched the cold, stone floor, grounding him in the stillness of the aftermath of the previous night's horror.

Slowly, as though afraid of waking anyone else in the manor, Harry padded across the room and into his bathroom, still half-asleep, only to stop dead in his tracks.

The toilet was still a blackened, molten sculpture of destruction, courtesy of one of Pugsley's more "experimental" evenings.

But it wasn't the melted porcelain that made Harry freeze.

It was the mirror.

There, staring back at him, was… himself, but not quite.

His skin was noticeably paler — not sickly but porcelain-pure, almost luminescent in the light. His hair had grown longer and darker, falling in soft, untamed waves around his face. But it was his eyes that struck him the hardest. Once a soft, brilliant green… they now glowed, pulsing with a soft inner light, as though a piece of emerald flame had taken root within his irises.

He raised a trembling hand to touch his reflection, fingers ghosting across the mirror's surface.

Slowly — so slowly — Harry raised a shaky hand to his face, running his hand across his pale cheek before running his fingers through his now long hair.

"I… look different…" he whispered to himself.

"You do," came a calm and sharp voice behind him, making him spin around with a cry just as Wednesday stepped through the doorway of his bathroom. She tilted her head as she looked him up and down, her expression unreadable at first. Then, a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as though she was pleased with what she saw. "It suits you," she said, adding, crossing her arms.

Harry blinked. "Really?"

She nodded. "You look like you've seen death… and accepted it instead of running from it like the coward who was living in your head..."

A chuckle almost escaped him, small and uncertain, as he turned back to the mirror for one last look and stepped away, still a little rattled but strangely reassured by her presence.

Together, they left the room; Harry walked slightly behind her as they made their way down the winding staircase of the manor. The halls were quieter than usual, though distant laughter or the sound of something exploding echoed through the stone walls every so often. It was, after all, still the Addams household.

The great dining hall of the Addams manor was already filled with the scent of questionable meats, burning incense, and whatever unidentifiable blackened mass was sizzling on Fester's plate. A long, obsidian table stretched from wall to wall, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved with writhing skulls, bat wings, and leering gargoyle faces. Morticia sat serenely at the head of it all, stirring her arsenic-laced tea.

As Wednesday and Harry entered, every head in the room turned, and for the briefest moment, there was silence.

And then Morticia smiled.

It wasn't the polite smile she gave to visiting school inspectors or disapproving neighbors. This was something deeper — proud, almost reverent. Like a sculptor seeing her masterpiece finally complete.

"Oh, Harry," she said, rising slowly to her feet, her dark eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "You've never looked more yourself..."

Gomez let out a triumphant laugh from beside his wife and slapped his palm on the surface with a metallic clang. "Mí hijo! Look at you! Pale complexion, glowing eyes, haunted expression — you look like a true Addams now!"

Harry flushed red despite himself, unsure if he should thank them or hide under the table. Pugsley, who was currently stuffing something that looked suspiciously like a roasted bat wing into his mouth, frowned. "No fair. I want to be possessed! Then maybe I'd look cool too!"

Grandma Addams, who was expertly sharpening a ritual knife with one hand and flipping pancakes with the other, didn't miss a beat. "When you're older, dear. We'll see about finding a nice, proper demon to drag you screaming into the abyss."

Pugsley beamed as if she'd just promised him a pony before whispering happily:

"Best. Grandma. Ever."

Fester looked up from his bowl of charred eels and winked at Harry. "You're glowing, kid, and not just from the eyeballs! That thing's outta you, and you're still in one piece. That's a good start! Means the next ritual probably won't kill you either."

Still unnerved, Harry sat down carefully as Morticia retook her seat, looking around at the table, at the faces that should have terrified him, the food that definitely should have, and the odd comfort that seeped into him despite it all.

For a family that danced with Death and dined with darkness…

They sure made a boy feel like he belonged.

XXXX

The days that followed the ritual were oddly quiet. Too quiet, Harry thought at first, as if the absence of that ever-present chill in his scar had somehow dulled the world. But that stillness was deceptive. Something else had taken root.

Something new.

It began during a study session in the west parlor, where Morticia had draped the windows in thick velvet and lit the room with black flame candles; tomes bound in skin and stitched by cursed hands lay open between them.

Morticia held up a long, pale finger, gesturing to a passage in one particularly vile volume. "This," she said, her voice like dusk settling over a graveyard, "is the Curse of Withering Flesh — ancient, and quite illegal in most countries. It works by—"

"—binding the target's blood to the caster's breath," Harry interrupted softly, his brows furrowed. "It accelerates necrosis through sympathetic respiration, right?"

Morticia paused, her black eyes blinked once, then widened slightly.

"Well," she murmured, smiling as though Harry had just composed a poem. "Yes. Precisely. But that detail isn't in the text. How did you...?"

Harry stared at the page, his lips parted. "I... I don't know," he whispered. "I just… knew…"

Morticia studied him for a long moment, then gently closed the book with a soft thump, her smile never fading.

But despite Morticia's obvious pleasure, Harry was still frowning as a thought echoed across his mind:

"How did I know that…?"

XXXX

The next day, Harry found himself at Grandma Addams's side in her bubbling cauldron nook — a place that smelled like gingerbread and formaldehyde. They were brewing a pain tonic meant for "that unfortunate banshee on the second floor with the sore throat."

Harry had been chopping rat spleens when Grandma muttered, "Now three pinches of powdered moonstalk... unless you're dealing with—"

"—a post-mortem infection caused by soul rot," Harry said automatically. "Then it's only two, or it'll backfire."

Grandma Addams froze, her ladle mid-swirl as she turned slowly, one white eyebrow raised.

"Well now," she cackled. "Looks like someone's been reading my journals. Or perhaps... channeling them…?"

Harry's mouth opened, then closed again. He hadn't even thought — the words had just... come.

XXXX

Two days later, it happened again.

In the manor's dueling chamber, where swords hung like whispers along the walls and the floor bore old bloodstains that the wood refused to forget, Gomez tossed Harry a thin-bladed foil. "Come, my boy!" he cried gleefully. "Let's carve elegance from chaos!"

They began slow — Gomez circling like a wolf, Harry trying to keep up. But then, without warning, Harry parried a strike with perfect form and transitioned into a maneuver he'd never practiced, forcing Gomez to hop back with a delighted "Ha!"

"Well struck!" the older man beamed. "Where'd you learn that? That's Monteverde's sixth form! Rarely taught anymore — except by ghosts!"

Harry could only stare at the blade in his hand; he hadn't even known he knew how to hold a foil the week before!

XXXX

By the end of the week, Harry had begun to dread the moments when his mouth moved before his mind did; when spells whispered themselves behind his teeth, or forgotten alchemical formulas surfaced unbidden. It wasn't constant… but it was growing.

Yet in the Addams house, nothing was feared — only studied, embraced, and named, and while Harry feared what he was becoming… the family only watched with interest.

Especially Wednesday.

She never looked surprised when it happened. Only pleased. As if Harry was becoming everything she had foreseen he would become; she had talked to him often of her visions, in which Harry became more powerful than anyone else, but Harry had often laughed it off. How could someone like him become powerful? He was nothing! Nothing more than an abused child whose confidence had been shattered by those who had been trusted to raise him. Yet, Wednesday never changed her opinion that Harry would do all that her visions foretold, and often would grow cross with Harry when he argued that her visions were false. And now, whenever Wednesday would look at Harry, she couldn't help but smirk in victory, and Harry, despite himself, despite his own self-denigration, couldn't help the small growing idea that Wednesday might be right after all…

XXXX

The sitting room was dimly lit, as usual — the chandelier filled with dripping black candles, the fire crackling low in the hearth; it was just past midnight, the perfect hour for family meetings in the Addams household.

Morticia lounged with the poise of a queen spider on her fainting couch, her fingers trailing delicately across a crystal goblet filled with what was definitely not wine. Gomez paced behind her, puffing slowly on a cigar, while Fester sat cross-legged on the floor, gnawing on a femur like it was a turkey leg. Grandma Addams rocked gently in her chair by the hearth, knitting a sock with barbed wire and muttering to herself.

"What we've seen this week," Morticia said at last, her voice soft as silk pulled across bone, "is… remarkable."

"A miracle," Gomez murmured, smiling. "And terrifying. But in a good way!"

"Which is the best kind," Fester added cheerfully, wiping marrow from his chin.

"But we must face it," Morticia continued, her tone sharpening. "Something has changed in him... Knowledge surfacing where it shouldn't. Instincts awakening far beyond his years…"

Gomez exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Like a ghost whispering in his head... or memories that were never his own."

Everyone turned to Grandma, who hadn't spoken yet — a rare silence, given her usual tendency to narrate even her own digestive issues. A moment later, she set down her knitting and leaned forward as her chair slowly rocked back and forth, her eyes glittering with the kind of ancient knowing only grandmothers and ravens possess.

"It's not a curse," she said firmly. "It's a gift."

Morticia arched one elegant brow. "A gift…?"

"From Him," Grandma whispered, her voice reverent. "From Lord Death himself. To the last true son of the House of Peverell…"

At the mention of the Lord of the first promise, even the fire seemed to quiet.

"The Peverell's?" Gomez asked, straightening. "As in the Peverell's? Death's chosen?"

"The very same," Grandma nodded. "Old blood. Older than this house… And young Harry — he's the last of them. One child of the three brothers… and the only one who's ever escaped Death's design not once — but twice!"

"By dying?" Fester asked hopefully, dropping the bone he was munching on.

Grandma waved him off. "No, by surviving. And now... with that soul shard burned out of him, Death has whispered back what was stolen. Giving him the knowledge that dwelled within…"

"You think this is a repayment?" Morticia said slowly. "A rebalancing of some sort?"

"A blessing, darling," Grandma smiled. "Wrapped in shadow, sure. But a blessing nonetheless..."

"But how do we know that's all he inherited?" Gomez asked suddenly, his voice grave. "The magic, the instincts — yes. But Voldemort was more than a memory. He was a manipulator. A monster…"

Morticia narrowed her eyes. "Are you asking if Harry could become like him?"

Gomez hesitated, taking a deep puff from his cigar before releasing it in a puff of smoke as he replied. "...Yes."

"No," Morticia said after a moment, "he won't. Because we'll guide him. Shape him. If any... sociopathic tendencies remain," she continued, cool as moonlight, "then we'll ensure they are properly focused..."

"Unlike that whimpering shadow's ever were," Grandma sneered. "Using dark magic just to avoid dying? Pathetic..."

"Cowardice disguised as ambition," Morticia agreed. "A waste of good talent..."

Fester leaned back on his hands. "So, we make sure Harry doesn't waste his."

"And make sure he aims it at the right people," Gomez added calmly. "Preferably ones who deserve it…"

"Exactly, querida," Morticia purred, reaching for her husband's hand.

There was a pause, then Fester clapped his hands together. "Well! In that case, we simply teach him the Addams way!"

Grandma let out a hoot of laughter. "Start with poison theory and blackmail! The rest will come naturally!"

"I'll begin sword work with him tomorrow," Gomez added proudly. "He's got quick hands. And a terrifying stare!"

Morticia raised her glass. "To our son. To Death's chosen. And to family."

Everyone raised their drinks — goblets of blood, bone-chilled sherry, or arsenic tea — and toasted the little boy upstairs, now fast asleep in a room full of shadows and snakes.

A moment later, Gomez looked at the table in the center of the room where the roll of parchment lay, which Alastor Moody had brought earlier in the week, bearing the golden wax seal of the Ministry of Magic.

Gomez took a long drag from his cigar, then exhaled slowly, deliberately, letting the smoke form the shape of a grinning skull before it vanished into the air.

"Now, onto the matter at hand ," he said at last, eyes glinting with anticipation as he took a seat beside his wife. "They've summoned us… The Wizengamot wants a word..."

"A word," Morticia murmured, amused. "How quaint. I wonder which one. 'Help'? 'Mercy'?"

Fester cackled. "They'll be begging for both by the time we're through."

Gomez grinned widely. "I say it's long past time we reminded the Ministry why their ancestors whispered our name like a curse."

Grandma snorted. "Pfft, back in my day, the last time we visited the Ministry, six Unspeakables had to retire afterward. One of 'em still screams every time he sees a black cat..."

Fester brightened at that. "Can I go this time? I want to see if they'll scream if I bring my spider toad!"

"We'll all be going," Morticia said coolly, her eyes never leaving the parchment. "The children as well, but we must remember to curb our enthusiasm."

Fester looked up at that. "Define 'curb…'"

"Fewer explosions than last time," Morticia clarified. "And no vivisections unless absolutely necessary."

Fester groaned. "You're so strict."

"It's only fair, brother." Gomez chirped. "After all, we're not going there to start a war. Just to finish a conversation."

"A conversation they started," Morticia added darkly. "By threatening Harry."

The room fell quiet for a moment, the temperature seeming to drop just slightly as Gomez's smile vanished. His next words came low and serious:

"They called our children a dangerous influence... questioned our right to raise Harry… whispered about custody hearings."

Morticia's grip on her glass tightened. "They will not touch a single hair on his head."

"Let them try," Grandma muttered as she returned to her knitting. "They'll find out real quick how dangerous an influence can be."

"But we do need to be... strategic," Morticia added, her voice calm once more. "We cannot afford to give them reason to think we're unstable."

"Too late," Fester said, beaming proudly.

"I mean provably unstable," Morticia smiled.

Gomez chuckled and leaned forward, stubbing his cigar out on a skull-shaped ashtray. "Then let's give them a show they'll never forget. Polished, poised… and just terrifying enough to remind them that the Addams Family plays a very long game."

"I'll prepare our testimony," Morticia said smoothly. "And our robes. Black, of course."

"I want to wear my plague doctor mask," Fester chimed in.

Grandma waved a hand. "Let him. It'll distract them long enough for me to hex the judge."

"We'll bring Harry, of course," Morticia added. "Let them see what he's become. Let them realize he's not a weapon… unless we decide he needs to be."

A moment later, a small voice echoed throughout the room, making the adults turn smartly to see Wednesday, still in her pajamas, with a look of cruel anticipation on her face. "And if they try to take him…?"

The silence was cold and immediate.

"We burn the Ministry," Fester said to his niece, eyes suddenly gleaming.

"No," Gomez said, rising with grace and fire in his stride as he strode toward his daughter. "We make them beg us to leave it standing."

Wednesday smiled at that, her eyes burning with an almost inhuman fire as she took in her father's words; Harry was hers, and no one would take him from her, at least not without a copious amount of blood…

Chapter Text

Harry stood before the mirror in his bedroom at the Addams manor, his brow furrowed as he fumbled with his tie. The blood-red fabric refused to cooperate, writhing like a stubborn serpent between his trembling fingers as he tried not to show how terrified he was. He had faced monsters and ghosts since coming to Addams Manor, endured the unbearable weight of a soul not his own... but nothing had prepared him for the prospect of facing the entire Wizengamot.
A sharp tug on the knot made it worse, and Harry let out a frustrated sigh; that was when he felt her presence behind him.

"Harry, my darling, you're going to strangle yourself," came Morticia's voice, smooth and soft like velvet draped over a coffin. "You're too young to experience such an exquisite feeling… That comes after you're properly married."

As Harry blushed at the idea, she stepped into the mirror's reflection behind him, her silhouette gliding like smoke as she turned him to face her. With an elegant sweep, she knelt before him, her long black dress pooling like shadow on the floor; her hands, cool and certain, brushed his away and expertly tied the knot.

"There," she murmured, giving the tie a final twist and smoothing his collar. "Handsome. Like a raven in mourning. All that's missing is a bloodstain..."
Harry gave a small, nervous laugh, his fingers twitching. "Do you really think I look okay…?"
Morticia tilted her head, her black eyes gleaming. "You look… deliciously tragic, my dear. The kind of boy ancient poets would have wept over while carving your story into gravestones…"

Harry bit his lip. "What if they try to take me away?"
Morticia paused only a heartbeat, then she smiled.
"If they try," she said sweetly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead, "we will paint the Wizengamot chamber red, and plant roses where the bodies fall..."

Harry stared at her wide-eyed, hearing no trace of deception in her voice as Morticia's smile grew fond. "No one takes what belongs to the Addams Family, my love. Least of all you."

Just then, the door burst open with a flourish. "Car's ready!" Gomez declared with cheer, cigar trailing smoke in one hand and his cane in the other. His pinstripe suit gleamed, his grin was dazzling, and there was madness in his eyes that always made Harry feel strangely safe.
Morticia stood and turned, linking her arm with Harry's as she guided him toward the door. "Let's not keep them waiting," she said.
"Time to remind the Ministry," Gomez added, giving Harry a wink, "why wizards used to check under their beds for Addamses."
As the three of them walked out of the bedroom, a faint BOOM echoed from somewhere deep in the manor, followed by Pugsley's delighted cackle, yet Harry couldn't help but smile.

XXXX
The chamber of the Wizengamot was unnaturally quiet.
For once, the great hall — with its high, echoing arches of black marble and flickering torches enchanted to burn blue — did not ring with argument, laughter, or pompous self-congratulations. No, this time, only a nervous rustle of silk robes and the soft hiss of a dozen whispered conversations broke the silence; even the magical quills of the Daily Prophet reporters had stilled, parchment long since forgotten in trembling laps.

Every seat was filled.

From the ancient noble families in their high balconies to the lowliest court scribes along the lower benches, to the numerous spectators and reporters who had all fought tooth and nail to secure a spot in the audience; all eyes were fixed on the great double doors at the far end of the chamber.
And then — they opened as the Addams Family entered.

They did not walk. They arrived.

Gomez was first, dressed in a razor-cut pinstripe black suit lined with blood-red satin, his cane clicking with each deliberate step. A cigar was clamped between his teeth, leaving a trail of smoke behind him, and his smile was wide and dazzling — the kind that made snakes shed their skin out of discomfort. At his side, Morticia glided like a living wraith, her hourglass figure wrapped in flowing shadows and starlight silk. Her eyes were twin obsidians, glinting with amusement and murder in equal measure that made more than one man blush with lust and terror in equal measure.

Behind them strode Uncle Fester — bald dome polished to a shine, dressed in a tattered plague doctor's cloak, complete with a beaked mask; his hands sparked faintly with something blue and unstable as he giggled once, softly, to no one.

Grandma came last of the adults, leaning on her gnarled bone-white staff as she hobbled in with an ancient grace that made time itself seem to hesitate; her cloak was stitched from bat wings and funeral veils, and her eyes gleamed like old coals.
The aura that rolled off them was oppressive. Power — raw, archaic, and utterly untamed — oozed from their every pore. Even the air around them seemed heavier. Darker. Wrong in a way the average witch or wizard couldn't explain, only instinctively fear.

Whispers ceased entirely.

More than one lord swallowed hard; several visitors crossed themselves without realizing. One junior Wizengamot clerk fainted.
Lucius Malfoy, seated at the center-right of the noble tier, turned a chalky shade of white. His hand trembling as he clutched the armrest of his chair, memories of the last time he had been this close to the Addams family slamming into him like a tsunami; unable to stop himself, the memories began to bombard him: the blood. The screams. The laughter…

And then…

Harry entered.

If the adults had brought dread, the boy brought silence — a stunned, wide-eyed hush that swallowed even breath.

He walked slowly, his hand tightly clasped in Wednesday's, who moved beside him like a sleek shadow. Behind the pair, Pugsley followed, wearing a suit that was eerily similar to his father's; his eyes down at his hands as he played with something that looked suspiciously like a grenade. Yet it was Harry's appearance that stopped even the most jaded wizards in their tracks: skin pale as moonlight, black suit tailored to perfection, and a blood-red tie that seemed to shimmer like freshly spilled lifeblood. His long, ink-dark hair was pulled into a short, elegant ponytail, a silver clasp at its base.

But his eyes — those eyes burned.

Once emerald green, they now glowed with a terrible, inhuman brilliance. Magic radiated from him like heat from a forge, and yet it didn't burn — it chilled. It whispered.

A child.
But not a boy.
Not anymore.

Dumbledore paled visibly, his lips drawing into a tight, unreadable line as his eyes scanned the boy, his mind going back to a similar boy that he had met over fifty years ago…

Cornelius Fudge leaned close, whispering with barely-contained panic, "My God, Dumbledore. Look at him! What have they done to the boy?!"

"I don't know, Cornelius," Dumbledore replied, voice grave. "That is but one of many things we must ascertain…"

As they reached the center of the chamber, Grandma Addams gave a theatrical sigh before pulling out her knarled and misshapen wand. With a flick of her wrist, four throne-like chairs materialized in a burst of violet fire, their armrests adorned with leering skulls and silver filigree as they floated a few inches off the ground, humming with latent malice.

Without ceremony, the adults took their seats as the tension of the chamber grew ten-fold; even the most dimwitted could respect what had just happened, creating those thrones was a power move, plain and simple.

Gomez leaned back with a flourish, stretching his legs and puffing lazily on a fresh cigar.
Morticia crossed one leg over the other and began adjusting her gloves, each motion the definition of elegance — and veiled threat.
Fester immediately pulled his mask up and reached beneath his robes and retrieved a small glass vial full of glowing blue beetles, which he began to eat absentmindedly, making more than one viewer gag in disgust.
Grandma muttered something in Romanian and adjusted a ceremonial dagger at her hip before resting her staff across her lap.

Wednesday and Harry sat on a long obsidian bench along the side wall. She remained perfectly composed, legs together, hands folded. Harry sat stiffly, unsure where to place his hands — until Wednesday gently reached out and clasped one. Meanwhile, Pugsley lazily took his seat beside Harry, his eyes still focused on his task as the chamber watched the family in silence; even the portraits lining the walls seemed unwilling to speak.

A moment later, Dumbledore, the Chief Warlock, banged his staff against the floor once, the sound echoing like a gunshot and causing everyone to look at him.

"Let the record show," he said hoarsely, "that the Addams Family… has arrived."

The air in the Wizengamot chamber instantly seemed to grow heavy, thick with the kind of fear that crawled beneath the skin and stayed there. Dozens of eyes darted toward the Addams Family where they sat, unmoving, like statues carved from some dark and unknowable material.
At the center dais, Minister Cornelius Fudge adjusted his robes with trembling hands; his usual bluster was nowhere to be found; even from his elevated seat, he looked like a man addressing predators in the wild.

With a nervous gulp, he cleared his throat and spoke hoarsely: "We are gathered here today to… to address a matter of great concern," he began, his voice quivering slightly before he forced it to sound firm. "The matter of Harry James Potter — the so-called Boy Who Lived — and his unlawful removal from the custody of his legal guardians, the Dursley family."

The words echoed throughout the silent chamber like a condemned prisoner stepping into a dragon's cave, yet not one member of the Addams Family moved as the words crashed around them.
After a moment, Fudge fumbled through a stack of parchment and continued to read aloud with the precision of a man who wished desperately to be somewhere else. "The Ministry of Magic has received reports alleging—" he swallowed, "—that the child was taken from his Muggle relatives by members of the Addams Family. That said family has since refused all contact with the Ministry, declined to cooperate with inquiries, and has repeatedly ignored formal summons."

He hesitated, darting a nervous glance at Morticia, who was sitting perfectly still — her head tilted slightly, her expression unreadable, her lips were curved in what might have been a smile as Fudge continued, voice cracking only once:
"Furthermore, the Ministry has received troubling accounts of the Addams Family's—ah—unorthodox practices. Exposure of a minor to advanced Dark rituals, dangerous experiments, and—erm—certain… occult activities inconsistent with the welfare of a child."

A murmur swept the room, as Gomez exhaled a puff of smoke from his cigar, the sound loud in the still air.

"The charges under consideration," Fudge pressed on quickly, "are as follows: Kidnapping of a minor, endangerment of said minor, and potential corruption through exposure to Dark influences. Each of these three charges carries a sentence of immediate imprisonment in Azkaban."
Each word seemed to weigh more heavily than the last, and yet the Addams family STILL had not moved or shown any hint of fear.
"And," Fudge finished, "to determine whether Harry Potter must be removed from the care of the Addams Family and returned to the custody of the Ministry — or to more suitable guardians."

His part done, Fudge set his parchment down; his forehead damp with sweat, and a look of supreme relief on his face. "The floor is now open to questioning."
For a moment, no one spoke; then a figure rose from the left tier — an elderly wizard draped in the crimson robes of House Nott.

"By what right," Lord Nott asked, voice ringing through the chamber, "did you take this boy from his legal family?"
The silence that followed was suffocating as the Addams family looked at the man as one might view an annoying bug. Finally, Morticia rose, every motion was slow, deliberate — the kind of grace that made people forget to breathe; when she finally spoke, her voice was velvet wrapped around steel:

"By the right of compassion," she said.

The chamber stilled at that as though the crowd were watching a great performance that would never be seen again, and so must be committed to memory.
"When we found Harry," she continued, stepping forward a single pace, "he was at the London Zoo alone, save for his dreadful Muggle relatives... He was painfully thin, starved, and his clothes were several sizes too large. His spirit..." Her voice softened — not with pity, but something far colder. "...was broken…"

No one interrupted. No one dared.

"We spoke to him," Morticia went on, her eyes locked unerringly on Dumbledore now, her tone calm, elegant — and venomous beneath the surface. "He was polite. Frightened. Terrified of displeasing anyone. He didn't even know magic was real! That alone was an affront to me! A child as powerful as Harry, not even knowing his own heritage!"

The crowd furiously began to whisper to one another at that, creating a buzzing to echo throughout the chamber as though someone had released a horde of bees.

"So," she continued softly, instantly silencing all noise once again. "We took him… We fed him… We gave him warmth… And when he smiled for the first time, I realized we had done what your world — your heroic, moral wizarding society — never could..."

The chamber had gone utterly still; even Fudge, for once, was speechless as reporters' quills scratched furiously, ink spattering as they captured every word.
Lucius Malfoy sat perfectly rigid, remembering all too well that same cold tone years ago — the tone that preceded blood.

Morticia turned slightly toward the bench where Wednesday, Pugsley, and Harry sat; Harry sat small and stiff between the two, staring down at his hands. The tips of his ears were bright red, and his throat was tight as he felt hundreds of eyes burning into him.
Wednesday's hand slipped into his, small but strong; her black eyes glaring across the chamber at Dumbledore, murderous in their stillness.

Dumbledore, to his credit, didn't look away — but there was shame in his eyes. Deep, and unmistakable.
Morticia's gaze lingered on him for one long, suffocating moment more before she finally returned to her seat, her words slicing through the silence like a blade through silk.

"We did not take Harry Potter," she said softly, almost lovingly. "We rescued him. And I assure you, Minister... we will not return what we have saved…"
The room erupted — reporters shouting, lords demanding silence, a dozen voices overlapping in disbelief and outrage.

Through it all, the Addams Family sat unmoving.
Smiling.
Composed.

And above it all, Harry Potter — seven years old, clutching his friend's hand — sat in the heart of the chaos, a frightened boy wrapped in shadows that loved him more fiercely than any light ever could. The uproar had lasted nearly five full minutes before the Chief Warlock could restore even a semblance of order; half the Wizengamot was shouting for Harry's removal, while the other half — though paler and quieter — clearly wanted nothing to do with provoking the Addams Family any further.

At last, the chamber stilled again; Fudge, his collar slick with sweat, cleared his throat and attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace.
"Very… moving," he said shakily. "Truly. But this court requires facts! The question was by what right you took the child, and Lady Addams has… provided her reasoning. Now, are there any further questions?"

Dozens of hands rose at once, causing Fudge to wince. "...One at a time, please."

A tall witch in purple robes rose from the left balcony at once and was quickly motioned to speak.

"Lady Greengrass," the clerk murmured as he recorded her name.

Lady Greengrass inclined her head toward Morticia. "I mean no offense," she began carefully, "but… what sort of life does the boy lead in your care? We've heard... concerning rumors. Explosives. Swords. Rituals…"

Morticia smiled faintly. "Ah, you've heard about the explosives… That would be Pugsley. A delightful little hobby. He and Harry have grown quite close…"
The chamber erupted again in gasps and whispers.

"You allow the child to play with bombs?" one witch spluttered.

"Of course not," Gomez interjected with a grin from where he was lazily lounging, one leg hanging over the arm rest of his chair. "We supervise!"
There was a stunned silence at that for a moment before Fester leaned forward helpfully. "And the boy's a natural! Very steady hands — barely burned off any eyebrows the last time!"

A few reporters exchanged terrified looks.
From the opposite side, Lady Longbottom rose slowly, her expression grim.

"Is it true," she asked, "that the boy participates in rituals of dark magic? The kind that... well, most would consider dangerous even for adults?"
Grandma Addams let out a wheezing laugh at that. "If by dangerous you mean effective, then yes."

"Mother," Morticia murmured without turning her head, but Grandma just waved her off.
"Oh, hush. These people ask questions, I'm giving answers."

With a small smirk, Morticia rose again, unhurried, and the chamber instantly went quiet.

"Harry studies," she said smoothly. "We teach him the nature of magic — all of it. The light, the dark, and the endless gray in between... Knowledge is not evil,
Lady Longbottom. Ignorance is..." Her gaze swept the room. "And you've all had quite enough of that..."

Someone near the back audibly swallowed; from the upper bench, Lord Nott stood again. "And what of his… appearance?" He gestured vaguely toward Harry, who sat silently beside Wednesday and Pugsley. "The child looks half-possessed! His eyes glow like cursed emeralds! What have you done to him?"

Morticia's lips curved upward. "We freed him."

"From what?"

"From the filth of another man's soul," she replied simply.

A collective shudder rippled through the crowd; Dumbledore's hands clenched on the edge of the dais as something that he long feared was seemingly proven true. He said nothing — but Morticia's eyes never once left him, and he swallowed nervously before strengthening the walls around his mind.

"His scar," Morticia continued softly, her voice carrying through the chamber. "The one your world celebrates like a mark of divinity? It was a prison. A cage holding what remained of a coward's fragmented soul. A Horcrux! We removed it, and it screamed as it died…"

Gasps erupted, parchment fluttered, and the Chief Warlock's staff struck the floor twice before the chaos could grow.
"Order!"

Morticia merely sat again, serene. "He's far healthier now... Pale, yes. But vitality comes in many shades…"

Gomez leaned over with a wide grin, cigar smoke curling around his face. "You should have seen him last week! Fencing like a champion, quoting necromantic theory before breakfast — ah, magnífico!"

"Necromantic theory?!" Fudge choked.

Fester nodded proudly. "He's got the brains for it! Give him another year or two, he'll be raising corpses with the best of us!"

At that, several wizards outright stood in outrage.

"This is unacceptable!" shouted Lord Greengrass.

"This is madness!" cried Lady Longbottom.

"What proof do you have of this tale?" Lord Nott demanded. "There hasn't been any record of a Horcrux in England in nearly three centuries!"

"That's because of us!" Grandma Addams sneered back. "You pathetic wizards and witches scorn us but it's our family that hunts those abominations down and destroys them! That has been the task given to our clan for over two thousand years by Lord Death himself! And you would be wise to remember that…"

That silenced them more effectively than a spell.

Harry sat rigid, face flushed, eyes fixed on the floor; his small fingers twisted in his lap, and for all his strange new power, he looked very much like a boy who wished the earth would swallow him whole. Morticia glanced toward him and her expression softened. "Harry," she murmured, low enough that only those nearest could hear, "do not hide, darling... You did nothing wrong."

Gomez rose from his chair and spread his arms wide. "If anything, my friends," he said grandly, "the boy has thrived! We gave him freedom. Strength. Education in the ways your society fears to name." He grinned. "And a proper sword arm!"

"You're corrupting him!" someone shouted.

Gomez's eyes gleamed. "On the contrary, señor, we're cultivating him…"

Another round of murmurs broke out — some fearful, some fascinated; Lucius Malfoy leaned toward his neighbor, whispering hoarsely, "We cannot provoke them… not again." His hand trembled slightly as he remembered the screams of twelve Death Eaters vanishing into blackness.

Grandma leaned back in her chair, smiling through her crooked teeth. "You people talk like the dark's a disease… It's not! It's a dance. And Harry's learning to lead!"

"Learning?" Morticia corrected gently. "He was born for it."

The statement hung in the air like a thundercloud; even the portraits along the walls had gone still, their painted inhabitants watching with uneasy fascination.
Finally, Dumbledore rose, looking old — older than anyone in the room had ever seen him.
"Lady Addams," he began softly, "you may truly believe you're helping him. But this… influence of yours… what if it turns him toward destruction?"

Morticia regarded him with something close to pity. "Destruction is part of life, Headmaster. One cannot fear the scythe and still expect the harvest..."
Her words sank into the silence like stones into a lake, leaving more than one member of the dark faction torn between agreement and disgust that they actually agreed with the words of an Addams…
"Harry Potter," she continued, "was abandoned to rot. My family took him in, not to twist him into something dark, but to let him become. You fear what he might grow into because you never once asked what he was growing from."

Harry looked up then — meeting her gaze, then Dumbledore's, and though he said nothing, that faint, eerie green light in his eyes flared — and for the first time, even Dumbledore felt something cold crawl down his spine at the anger he saw there; anger that was all too reminiscent of a boy he had met over fifty years before…
XXXX

For the next twenty minutes, the chamber echoed with the shouts and arguments as the various lords tried to be heard over their neighbors, as each voiced just why the Addams family was unworthy of raising England's national treasure.
Finally, Dumbledore shouted for silence, and the room descended into a tense silence as the Chief Warlock slowly climbed to his feet.
"It is obvious that further examination is needed before a decision can be made; therefore, each member of the Addams family will be interviewed separately using Veritaserum. If it is acceptable, we will begin with Morticia Addams."

Morticia nodded at once as a Ministry worker — pale, shaking, and visibly reconsidering all his life choices — approached her with a trembling hand and a small silver vial.

"M-madam," he stammered, "three drops under the tongue, please."

Morticia's gaze flicked up to him like a knife glancing off steel.
"Only three?" she asked softly, lips curving. "How… quaint."

He gulped and nodded, nearly dropping the vial, as Morticia took it delicately between her fingers and applied the drops herself; her movements were regal, unhurried, and her black hair cascaded like a veil down her back. The moment the potion touched her tongue, the chamber grew silent.

"State your name and relation to the child," Dumbledore called out, his voice carrying across the chamber.

"Morticia Frump Addams," she replied evenly. "Mother, by choice if not by blood."

A ripple of whispers echoed at the word mother.

"Do you claim responsibility for the boy's current upbringing?"

"I do. Every word he learns, every scar he forgets, every fear he unlearns — I claim all of it."

The questions began quickly after that— sharp, formal, cautious.

"What do you teach him?"

"Discipline. Eloquence. Empathy, in moderation. The uses of poison, both literal and political."

"What exposure does he have to dark magic?"

"All magic is dark, darling," Morticia purred. "The only question is whether one dances with the shadows or hides beneath them."
Dumbledore frowned at that, wanting to argue against her but realizing that this was not the time nor the place. "And… how is he treated under your care?"

Morticia's voice softened. "Like a son… Like something precious… Like something the world tried to throw away…"
Her words left no room for mockery, and when the antidote was given, no one seemed to be able to meet the woman's eyes due to the blazing fury within.
The next to be questioned was Gomez, all charm and chaos, flicking ash from his cigar as if he were strolling through a ballroom instead of a trial.

"Three drops, sir," the Ministry worker whispered, terrified; Gomez beamed at the young man.

"Of course, amigo! Nothing like a truth potion to start the day right."
The man flinched as Gomez tilted the vial back and drank four drops instead, causing the worker to stare in shock.

"Señor Addams," began Dumbledore nervously, "what have you been teaching the boy…?"

"Courage!" Gomez declared instantly, slapping the armrest of his chair so hard that it tilted slightly for just a moment. "Fencing! Honor! The art of dancing with death and not flinching!"

A hush fell.

As though basking in the tense atmosphere, Gomez leaned forward with a mischievous glint. "Also, chess. He's terrible, but he's enthusiastic…"

"Do you expose him to violence?" Dumbledore demanded, his eyes tightening as he gazed down at the man seated before him.

Gomez laughed, delighted. "Violence? No, señor! We train him to survive it."

"Are you aware," pressed another lord, "that Harry Potter has been seen handling a sword?"

"Of course!" Gomez grinned. "What else should a boy handle? A wand? Pah. Too impersonal. A sword teaches you to respect your opponent… and their anatomy."

The scribe's quill hesitated mid-word.

"And what of his morals?" Dumbledore demanded, voice tight.

"Ah," Gomez said fondly, "those are Morticia's department."

The gallery chuckled nervously. Gomez's laughter was genuine — yet no one joined in as the antidote was administered and the man returned to his cigar.
The next to be questioned was Fester, and when the Ministry worker approached him, several Aurors unconsciously shifted their hands toward their wands, causing him to wave cheerfully. "Don't mind me! Not planning to explode today!"

This did little to soothe the Ministry worker's fears, as the man approached, looking as if he might faint, trying to hand him the vial; Fester snatched it, downed the entire thing, and grinned, his teeth faintly glowing. "Delicious! Tastes like regret and lemon."

"Mr. Addams," said the questioning witch, trying not to stare at the faint crackle of blue lightning around his fingers, "what is your involvement in the boy's education?"

"I teach him science!" Fester said proudly. "Electricity! Explosions! Cause and effect!"
Someone near the front muttered, "Mostly effect…"

"He's brilliant," Fester continued happily. "Blew up the garden shed just last week. Perfectly executed! Only took out one hedge and a few squirrels."

"Do you think this is appropriate for a child?"

"Absolutely! Builds character — and excellent aim!"

There was an audible groan from the gallery.

"Do you care for him?" Dumbledore asked.

For the first time, Fester's grin softened. "Course I do. He laughs at my jokes."

That, somehow, was more disarming than any explosion, and as the Ministry worker gave Fester the antidote, the chamber was as silent as a grave. The next to be questioned was Grandma, and this was the one who had the young man's knees shaking as he slowly approached and held out the trembling vial.

"Go on then, boy," she rasped. "Three drops. Or four. I'm not picky..."

The interrogator spoke with cautious respect the moment the old woman swallowed the potion. "You are the family matriarch, yes?"

"Been called worse," Grandma said cheerfully.

"What is your role in the boy's life?"

"I cook. I brew. I keep the spirits in line."

"By spirits you mean…?"

"The dead ones. And occasionally the living ones who won't stop whining."
A ripple of uneasy laughter ran through the chamber.

"What have you taught young Harry?" Lady Longbottom asked.

"Potions. Patience. The importance of testing one's work on rats before one's enemies."

The scribe faltered. "…Excuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, leaning forward. "That boy has talent. Real talent. And manners too — always asks before borrowing my bonesaw."

"You—you let him handle what?" Lord Greengrass squawked.

"Only the small one."

Several of the interrogators went pale at that.

"Tell me," Grandma said suddenly, "does your Ministry give this much fuss over children taught to kill with wands?"

No one replied to that, and a few turned red with either shame or humiliation.

"That's what I thought," Grandma said as she pulled her own antidote from her robe and swallowed it with a grimace.
When Wednesday took the stand, half the reporters stopped writing; her presence — calm, composed, and disturbingly poised for a child — drew the eye like gravity itself, and the Ministry worker hesitated for a moment as he approached the girl.

"Three drops, Miss Addams."

She fixed him with a blank stare. "Two."

"Three is required—"

"Two," she repeated.

With a small whimper, he relented and gave the girl two drops before quickly hurrying away to a safe distance as Dumbledore smiled gently and asked:

"State your name."

"Wednesday, Friday Addams."

"And your relationship to the boy?"

"Mine."

Dumbledore blinked at that. "...I beg your pardon?"

"My friend," she clarified. "My playmate. My partner in mayhem."

Dumbledore looked slightly alarmed. "And you… play safely?"

"Sometimes," she said. "It depends on who survives."

A ripple of nervous laughter spread, then died instantly when she didn't smile.

"What do you think of Harry Potter's upbringing here?" Cornelius Fudge asked.
Wednesday turned her head slightly toward where Harry sat. "He smiles now," she said simply. "Before, he didn't. That's all that matters…"

Her words hit harder than any adult's defense, and when she stepped down, even the most cynical in the room avoided her gaze.

"Next witness," called the robed clerk, voice slightly more strained than it had been earlier. "Pugsley Addams."

A murmur ran through the courtroom at the boy's strange name. Some chuckled. Others shifted in their seats uneasily.
The boy in question stood up from the bench and cheerfully made his way to the witness box. Unlike the others, he bounced on the balls of his feet as he walked, his eyes scanning the towering stone chamber like it was an amusement park. He wore a tidy black suit with a skull-shaped tie pin and had what could only be described as a thrilled expression on his round face.
As he sat down, the chair creaked. Loudly.

The clerk stepped forward, visibly tense. "Mr. Addams. Just three drops of Veritaserum, if you please."

"Oh, I've had it before!" Pugsley said brightly, reaching for the vial. "Grandma used it on me when I was lying about sneaking into the mausoleum again."

He tipped the three drops under his tongue with no hesitation and gave the vial back like a good student, before turning to face the assembled witches and wizards with a smile that was far too excited for the gravity of the occasion.

"State your full name for the record," said the interrogator, trying to maintain decorum.

"Pugsley Addams." He beamed. "First of my name. Scourge of hamsters. Wizard-in-training. Also apparently not legally allowed to buy fireworks in three countries now." He looked very proud of that.

The interrogator looked at the child as though he were a poisonous snake for a moment before he coughed and asked. "And your relation to Harry Potter?"

"He's my best friend!" Pugsley declared. "Also, my guinea pig sometimes. Wednesday says experimenting on living subjects is more scientifically accurate..."
Dozens gasped as quills flew across parchment.

The interrogator froze. "I—I beg your pardon?"

Pugsley frowned. "Oh, don't worry. We always wear goggles! And we don't do anything lethal. Wednesday says killing Harry before he reaches his potential would be a waste..."

Another pause. "Can you describe how he is treated in your household?"
Pugsley tilted his head, thinking. "Well, he eats with us. Sleeps in the manor. Gets tucked in by Morticia. He gets hugs, sometimes, if he doesn't look like he'll panic. He studies with us, trains with us… Sometimes I chase him with axes for fun, but only when he's feeling up for it."

"Chase him with axes…?" Dumbledore said in horror.

"Yeah. Good cardio."
A shaky voice from the Wizengamot gallery muttered, "Dear Merlin…"

"And do you think Harry is happy?" Dumbledore asked in a shaky voice.
Pugsley nodded so quickly his head bobbed. "Way happier than when we found him! He used to flinch a lot, you know? And he was all skinny and sad. Like a cursed library mouse. Now he smiles sometimes! Especially when he hits something with his sword!"

A particularly high-strung witch near the front dabbed her forehead with a lace kerchief.

"And what do you believe your family's intentions are with regard to Mr. Potter?" Fudge asked.
Pugsley blinked. "Um. Raise him? Help him learn magic? Help him become terrifying and powerful and maybe one day take over the Ministry?"
Dead silence.

"…That last part was a joke," Pugsley added quickly.

No one laughed.

He glanced at his family; Gomez gave him a thumbs-up. Morticia looked proud. Grandma mouthed, "Nice delivery."

The interrogator cleared his throat shakily. "Would you say Harry is being corrupted?"
Pugsley gave the man a blank stare. "He lives in a haunted mansion. Sleeps next to a sword. Can read ancient blood runes and quote the Laws of Necromantic Transference. Of course, he's being corrupted! It's called education."

A moment later, there was a clatter in the gallery as someone fainted; Grandma stared for a moment before cackling in amusement.

"Last question," said the now visibly sweating Fudge asked. "Do you love your friend?"

Pugsley blinked. "Yeah. He's awesome. He stopped me from setting myself on fire last week. That's a real friend!"

"…That will be all," Dumbledore said softly.
Pugsley hopped down and cheerfully waved at the assembled crowd. "Bye! Hope no one explodes before lunch!"

The room watched him walk back to the Addams bench in stunned, horrified silence for a moment before Dumbledore managed to break the tense silence:
"Harry James Potter."

The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath; on the Addams bench, Harry stood slowly, Wednesday's hand squeezed his once before letting go. He looked smaller than ever under the towering marble arches and the watching eyes of a hundred strangers, and his black suit seemed too formal, too adult for the boy wearing it.

Slowly, he stepped into the witness box as the same Ministry worker — now visibly shaking after administering Veritaserum to five different Addamses — approached with a silver vial. His voice cracked as he spoke. "T-three drops, Mr. Potter."
Harry obeyed quietly, tilting the vial back and letting the cold potion slide down his throat, grimacing at the taste but saying nothing.

The interrogator, a gray-haired wizard with a gentle tone, stepped forward. "Harry," he said softly, "can you tell us how you've been living since going to… the Addams family?"

Harry's small fingers twisted in the hem of his jacket. "Um… good, sir. Really good. I have my own room now. I don't sleep in the cupboard anymore…"
A murmur swept the room, and Dumbledore slowly closed his eyes, a look of profound guilt crossing his face.

Harry swallowed hard. "Mrs.—um—Morticia makes sure I eat three times a day. And Grandma says I'm too skinny, so she gives me potions that taste awful, but she smiles when I finish them. Mr. Gomez teaches me sword fighting, and Wednesday and Pugsley are my friends..."
His eyes flicked nervously toward the Addams family. Morticia smiled at him, a slow, approving curve of lips that made Harry's heart steady.
"They… they treat me nice," he said, his voice trembling just slightly. "Like I'm supposed to be there. Like I matter…"

The interrogator nodded gently. "And how do you view them, Harry? Morticia and Gomez Addams?"

Harry hesitated, staring down at his shoes. Over the past few weeks, a word had begun to grow in Harry's mind whenever he thought of the family that had taken him in; yet, the idea of actually speaking the word out loud seemed more terrifying than anything he had yet faced in Addams Manor. Somehow even more terrifying than facing Voldemort again. Slowly, he lifted his head — his green eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight — and looked directly at Morticia. As he did so, a feeling of great strength seemed to fill him, and he couldn't help but smile at her.

"She's my mum," he whispered. "And he's my dad..."

Gasps filled the chamber.

Harry blinked rapidly as tears gathered in his lashes. "I love them. They… they treat me like I'm not a freak..."
Across the hall, a lord stood abruptly, red-faced. "Child, why would you call yourself that?"
Harry looked at him — confusion and old shame mingling in his expression. "That's what my aunt and uncle called me," he said simply. "Freak. Useless. Waste
of space. They said people like me didn't deserve food or friends..."

A stunned silence fell.
Dumbledore's knuckles whitened against the rail; his face had gone pale, his eyes wide with something dangerously close to guilt. It did not go unnoticed. Several of the Wizengamot members turned to look at him, whispers spreading like a virus.

The interrogator spoke softly. "Harry… are you happy with the Addams family?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you feel safe?"

Harry nodded quickly. "Safer than I've ever been…"

"Do they hurt you?"

"No, sir," Harry said, almost offended. "They'd hurt anyone else who tried to hurt me, but never me!"

A few chuckles of disbelief escaped the gallery — quickly silenced when Grandma Addams smiled at the sound.
The interrogator lowered his parchment, his expression oddly gentle. "Harry," he said finally, "if the Ministry were to decide that you should be placed elsewhere — back with your relatives, or with another family — how would you feel?"

The boy froze, the silence in the chamber becoming absolute as they all watched Harry's lip tremble. "Please don't make me go back," he whispered. "Please. I'll be good, I promise. Just don't send me away!"
A single tear slid down his cheek as his small voice cracked. "Please. Don't take me from them…"

For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Morticia rose slowly from her seat, the faintest curl of her lips visible — not smug, but deadly. Gomez placed his hand over his heart, eyes glistening with something fierce and unspoken, and even the torches seemed to burn lower; and in that stillness, one thought ran like ice through every mind present:
'Whatever the Ministry decided next… there would be a reckoning.'
XXXX

The moment Harry was escorted from the witness stand — trembling, eyes wet, but still walking tall — the room burst into a cacophony of raised voices.
The chamber of the Wizengamot, already frayed with tension, now snapped like a bone under strain. Lords and Ladies leapt to their feet, voices shrill with fear, arrogance, and fury. Purple-robed officials waved scrolls and pointed fingers, while the gallery buzzed with rapid, excited quills.

"This is a disaster!"

"He called that creature his mother!"

"That boy is the key to the future of Wizarding Britain! He must be protected!"

"You mean controlled! Protected from what? From being happy?!"

"He looks like a bloody vampire!"

The debate raged — dignity forgotten, civility discarded. And though the Addams Family remained seated at their conjured thrones, radiating amused indifference, more than one official refused to meet their eyes.
Dumbledore had yet to speak. He sat with his hands folded, his expression unreadable — but not untroubled. There was a weight in his gaze now. A reckoning.

Then a single, unmistakable voice rose above the storm.
"I demand order!"

All eyes turned to the pink-clad figure who had just risen — squat, saccharine, and smug.

Dolores Jane Umbridge.

Her voice was falsely sweet, thick with condescension. "This court has heard enough testimony to see the truth. That boy — Harry Potter — has been corrupted. Warped by exposure to these monsters." She waved one stubby hand toward the Addamses, nose wrinkling. "And I use that word deliberately."
A few murmurs of agreement echoed through the room. "The Addams Family," Umbridge continued, "is a stain upon our world. They glorify death, consort with unnatural forces, and raise their own children in an environment so twisted it borders on criminal. Why, even their youngest daughter referred to Harry Potter as hers — like a possession!"

At that, Wednesday tilted her head and smiled slowly, causing several Lords to look away.

"I say," Umbridge said firmly, "not only must Mr. Potter be removed from their influence immediately — but so too should the Addams children. Before they become the next Dark Lords we must fight!"

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then — thwip.

A sharp hiss of air.

Umbridge blinked.

And a tiny dart embedded itself squarely between her eyes.

She froze — comically so — then slowly blinked once, staggered backward… and collapsed into her chair like a sack of pudding, her head lolled, mouth agape, and a faint snore escaping her lips.

Gasps and cries erupted across the chamber; several witches screamed. A wizard shouted "Assault!" Another pulled his wand, only to freeze as Morticia calmly tilted her head in warning. In the chaos, Uncle Fester stood, pulling his plague doctor mask back down as he put his blowgun back in his robes. "The squeaking toad was giving me a headache," he said plainly, brushing imaginary lint off his coat.

Silence fell again as the chamber stared in horror at the family.

Gomez puffed once on his cigar, then gave a little toast to his brother with two fingers. "Gracias, Fester," he said cheerfully.
Fester bowed. "Anything for family."

Morticia remained seated, long fingers coiled around the armrest of her throne. She didn't move. She didn't blink. But her voice, when it came, sent a chill slithering down the backs of every man and woman present.

"She's lucky," Morticia murmured, "that all she received was a dart... Had she touched one hair on my children's heads…" She trailed off, her black eyes flashing. "She would not be breathing…"

The Ministry fell into terrified, reverent silence; even the torches dimmed, as if unwilling to draw attention. Several Lords near the front shifted uncomfortably; Lucius Malfoy had gone corpse-pale, his hand trembling faintly as he adjusted his cravat.
Dumbledore cleared his throat — a small, miserable sound. "The… er… the chamber will now take a brief recess to deliberate."

"No," came a sudden voice.
Gomez rose slowly, brushing ash from his sleeve. "There's no need, mi amigos. You've already decided…"
He walked a few steps forward, each tap of his shoes echoing like a drumbeat. "You want to take Harry from us. You fear what he's becoming — what he could become… Because you know, deep down, that he's not yours anymore…"
He stopped in the center of the hall, arms open in mock invitation. "But go ahead. Try."

No one moved; the weight of his words sat thick in the air.

"And should you succeed," Morticia added, rising to her feet with predatory grace, "know this — the Ministry will weep tears of blood…"

Several gasps rang out. A woman fainted in the gallery. One wizard began scribbling a note for a Portkey home.

Across the bench, Grandma Addams cackled.

"Let them try, Morticia. It's been far too long since I've hexed a judge into a flobberworm."

Even Pugsley grinned, reaching for his slingshot; the chamber — faced now with not one but eight Addamses in various states of glee, menace, and homicidal readiness — shuddered with unease.

And yet… not every creature.

From the third tier of the crimson-robed Lords rose a man with more arrogance than sense — Lord Percival Wilmont, a minor noble whose lineage was more gold than greatness; his lip curled with disdain as he shouted, "This is an outrage! These freaks threaten the authority of the Ministry! They should be put down!"

And then — in one fluid motion — he drew his wand and fired.

A beam of sickly yellow light streaked through the air, aimed straight for Gomez Addams.

What happened next was a blur.
Gomez moved.
Not like a man, but like a shadow slicing through firelight; the spell passed through empty air as Gomez dodged with an elegant twist of his shoulder, spun once, and ran straight into the tiered stands, his boots hit the stone like thunder — and before anyone could blink, there was a flash of silver.
A Bowie knife, gleaming with a well-loved sheen, was buried to the hilt in Lord Wilmont's chest; the man gasped, staggered… then slumped back into his seat, dead before his wand clattered to the marble floor as gasps of horror and disbelief exploded around the chamber.

A witch screamed.
Cornelius Fudge shot to his feet, face pale and sweaty. "Arrest him!" he shrieked. "Murder! That was murder!"

But Morticia rose before a single Auror could move, her black dress whispered like a silk guillotine.
"My husband," she said, voice soft and freezing, "acted in self-defense. And he was provoked!" Her eyes narrowed, and something ancient stirred behind them. "Any attempt to retaliate will be considered a declaration of war upon the House of Addams."

Wands were lowered.
No one moved.

"Now," she continued, strolling forward with eerie calm, "I ask you… is that a war you think you can win?"
The question hung in the air like a scythe as a tremor passed through the chamber.

And then — from the far right — a voice cracked like a whip through the silence.
"STOP!"
Lucius Malfoy had risen, his hands held high, face a mask of terror and urgency. "Everyone just STOP!" he screamed. "Before you get us all killed!"
He turned, spinning to face the Minister, the Warlocks, the Lords. "Do you not understand what we're dealing with?! Do you not remember what they are?!"
He pointed toward the Addams Family, who now stood united at the center of the floor — silent, statuesque, and terrifying.
"I was there — I remember!" Lucius's voice shook now. "The last time someone threatened them, the river ran red!"

His words echoed like a prophecy; in the gallery, a reporter dropped her quill.
Even Dolores Umbridge, beginning to stir from her tranquilizer-induced nap, whimpered faintly as Gomez calmly withdrew his knife, wiped it on the corpse's robes, and sheathed it with a spin. "Honestly," he said, "I didn't even aim for the heart. Must've just gotten lucky."
Pugsley clapped enthusiastically, while Wednesday leaned toward Harry and whispered, "That was the slowest I've ever seen him move. He must be getting old..."

Harry was still frozen, wide-eyed, but nodded faintly.

Cornelius Fudge slowly sat back down, his mouth opening and closing; then, in a voice hoarse with disbelief, he muttered, "We… we need to deliberate."
Morticia turned, rejoining her family like a queen returning to her court.

"Do," she said, brushing back her hair. "But know this — if you attempt to take Harry from us… you will find out what it means to fear the dark."
Without another word, the Addams family rose as one and stalked out of the chamber into the waiting room while those present stared in horror, their gaze torn between the fresh corpse in the room and the family that had caused it. As the entrance doors boomed shut behind them, the chamber, once again, fell into a silence that felt very much like dread.
XXXX

The waiting chamber outside the Wizengamot's great hall was a solemn, echoing cavern of pale stone and silence. The walls, carved from ivory marble, bore no portraits — only the crest of the Ministry of Magic, embossed in cold silver.
The Addams Family had been led here after the outburst, the blow dart, and the murder. The door to the main chamber now stood shut, sealed with magic as the Wizengamot debated their verdict with what few shreds of dignity they had left; yet the Addamses were not concerned.
Morticia sat on one of the long benches, her back straight, legs crossed, fingers lightly drumming the seat next to her. Gomez stood at her side, still twirling the blood-wiped Bowie knife between his fingers as though the meeting had only whetted his appetite.

Fester hummed quietly as he polished his plague doctor mask. Grandma was muttering to a small jar filled with something that blinked.
And near the far wall, Harry stood.
On his left, Pugsley.
On his right, Wednesday.
The trio looked like a morbid fairy tale painting — the haunted prince flanked by his loyal, unnerving sentinels. Harry's hands trembled faintly at his sides, but he stood tall all the same, his glowing green eyes fixed on the sealed doors.

They all looked up when the doors creaked open and Albus Dumbledore stepped into the waiting chamber; he looked older than he had in years, the light behind his half-moon glasses dimmed. His robes, though regal, looked almost too heavy for him.

He said nothing at first.
Neither did they.

Finally, Morticia rose, slow as smoke curling from a funeral pyre. She turned to face him with that unreadable gaze — the kind that saw not just a man, but the cracks beneath his surface.

"Headmaster," she said, her voice silk over steel.

Dumbledore bowed his head. "Lady Addams…"

"I assume you've come to offer condolences… or excuses?"

Dumbledore's sigh was quiet, full of ancient weariness. "I came," he said, "to speak… to acknowledge what has happened — and what I allowed to happen."
"Allowed," Morticia echoed, each syllable sharpened like a dagger. "A generous word… It wasn't negligence, Dumbledore. It was abandonment."

The old wizard looked pained. "I believed it was the safest option. Blood wards, isolation—"

"You believed," Morticia interrupted, her tone still soft, "that hiding a child in squalor would protect him? That starving him of affection would keep him grounded... That giving him to brutes would keep him… humble?" Her voice turned cold. "You handed a child to monsters. And not even interesting ones…"

Dumbledore's eyes drifted to Harry, whose head was bowed, the tips of his ponytail brushing the collar of his black coat; the boy not even bothering to look at him.

"I never meant for him to suffer," Dumbledore said in a hollow tone.

"And yet he did." Morticia's eyes gleamed. "Your intentions are wind, Albus. Meaningless! It is your actions that matter. And your actions would have delivered a broken Harry Potter to Hogwarts' gates..."

Gomez stepped forward then, tossing his knife into the air and catching it with a smirk. "We gave him knives and nightmares instead. Much better for a growing boy."

Dumbledore's lips twitched, perhaps in shame, perhaps in reluctant agreement.

"I must ask," he said gently, "what you intend. Do you truly mean to raise him in your… ways?"

Morticia didn't look away. "We are raising him. As one of our own! He learns magic. Steel. Blood. Honor. He is fed. Protected. He is loved, Albus!"
Dumbledore looked again at Harry, and this time, the boy met his eyes — and what Dumbledore saw there made his heart ache.

Pain. Fear. But also… strength.

And behind Harry's shoulders, Wednesday's black gaze was locked on the old wizard like a loaded crossbow. Pugsley's grin had the gleam of a boy who knew how many ribs it took to pierce a lung.

"They guard him," Dumbledore murmured.

"Fiercely," Morticia replied. "As we all do. He is ours now, and he will never be that scared, forgotten child again!"

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Then… perhaps you were the family he always needed."

Morticia's smile was cold, but not cruel.
"That," she whispered, "is the first wise thing you've said all day..."

A moment later, the doors to the Wizengamot began to creak again, the runes flaring gold.
"It's time," Gomez said, straightening his lapels.

Harry took a deep breath as Wednesday reached down and took his hand, while Pugsley cracked his knuckles.
As he watched the family stride back into the chamber, Dumbledore couldn't help but worry his lip slightly as he folded his robe; Harry certainly looked happy, but the old man couldn't help but worry all the same as he recalled the intense anger that he had seen in the boy's eyes when Harry looked at him, as though blaming him for his early years. With a weary sigh, Dumbledore followed the family back into the chamber, his guilt and shame as heavy as chains.
XXXX

The great chamber of the Wizengamot was gripped by a silence so absolute it felt as though the room itself were holding its breath. The usual murmur of whispering witches and wizards, of rustling robes and clearing throats, was gone — smothered by the weight of fear.
Every single member of the Wizengamot sat frozen in their seats, eyes fixed on the family before them. No gavel rang. No formalities were observed.
No one dared.
The Addams Family stood as they had since returning— unbothered, statuesque, exuding a presence that curled into every crack of the stone walls like smoke.

And Harry stood among them, small and pale, with glowing green eyes that looked too ancient for seven years. The black suit, the blood-red tie, the slicked-back hair — it was all perfectly polished. Yet it was the faint trembling in his hands that betrayed how hard his heart was pounding in his chest as he held onto Wednesday's hand as if it were the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Finally, it was Cornelius Fudge who stood; the Minister of Magic's face was ashen, the papers in his hands crumpled from his grip, his voice shook with the weight of forced authority as he spoke.

"After… extensive deliberation," he began, his eyes flicking nervously toward Gomez, "the Wizengamot has… come to a conclusion."
The chamber leaned forward, though none dared breathe.
"It is the… unified decision of this council," Fudge continued, "that—though it is against all precedent, protocol, and — and reason — the minor known as Harry James Potter shall remain under the guardianship of the Addams Family."

A gasp ran through the chamber.
Fudge pressed on quickly. "This decision is based on… the boy's own testimony… the verified truth of care provided… and the overwhelming, ahem, evidence that any attempt to forcibly remove the child from said family would be… ill-advised."
He didn't dare meet Morticia's eyes as the silence stretched.
And then—

A wet shimmer lined Harry's lashes, his chest hitched, but he made no sound, just reached up and brushed the tears away with the back of his hand — hastily, defiantly — as though embarrassed to show any emotion in front of so many people.
But Morticia saw, she always did.

The matriarch of the Addams Family stepped forward with the grace of a funeral dirge and gave a shallow bow of her head, just enough to be acknowledged, but not nearly enough to be mistaken for gratitude.

"Then there is nothing further to discuss," she said, her voice rich and cold.
Without another word, she turned toward her family and tilted her head as if to say 'Time to go.'

Gomez adjusted his cufflinks, straightened his lapels, and called out casually — as though discussing lunch. "Oh — and if the late Lord Merton's family seeks restitution for today's… unpleasantness," he said, "they may contact us directly." He smiled — wide, warm, and entirely without mercy. "We are always open to negotiation."

The chamber remained dead quiet as Gomez gave a cheerful final wave. "Do send flowers."

A moment later, their chairs evaporated into black smoke; Grandma clicked her staff. Fester tucked his plague doctor mask under his arm. Wednesday and Pugsley stepped beside Harry, who stood taller now — straighter — as though some last invisible chain had been unshackled.
And then, together, the family turned and left the Wizengamot hall.

No applause. No farewells.
Only silence.
A silence drenched in dread, broken only by the echo of boots on marble.
And behind them, the Ministry of Magic watched in frozen terror and silent fury — knowing that the battle for Harry Potter had been fought…
…and lost.
XXXX

Hogwarts (later that night):

The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting long shadows across the walls of the Headmaster's office. Dust motes drifted lazily through the warm air. The portraits of former headmasters hung in utter silence — many of them pretending to nap, others with eyes narrowed in quiet thought.
Albus Dumbledore stood at the tall window behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the darkened grounds of Hogwarts. Behind him, Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall sat in quiet contemplation — the silence between them thick with unease.

"It was not the verdict I expected," Minerva said at last, her voice soft but laced with tension. "But I suppose it was the only one they could give… under the circumstances."

"The Addams Family," Snape said, sneering slightly. "What a charming circus of death and aristocratic horror. And now they hold James Potter's spawn..." His eyes narrowed. "Who knows what they're teaching him. What he's becoming…"

Minerva turned toward him, her expression concerned. "That's what worries me, Severus. The boy looked so… different. So strange. That glow in his eyes…" She trailed off, a chill creeping into her voice. "And yet, he still held Wednesday's hand like a lifeline. He's seven. Still just a child..."
Snape scoffed faintly. "Child or not, something changed in him. The question is: what will return to Hogwarts in four years' time? A boy… or a sociopath?"

Neither of them noticed Dumbledore move until he slowly turned to face them, his face half-cast in flickering shadow.

"He is happy," the old man said quietly. "That is all that matters, for now…"
McGonagall blinked at him. "Albus…"

"I placed him with blood," Dumbledore continued, his voice laced with an emotion neither had heard from him in years — regret. "And that blood starved him. Beat him. Called him a freak." He sat slowly behind his desk, folding his hands. "Now, he has found something else. Something far from ordinary, yes. But they treat him with… affection. They do not see him as a symbol. They see him as Harry."

"And what if they're molding him into something dangerous?" Snape pressed.

Dumbledore smiled — but the smile did not reach his eyes.
"My dear Severus… he was always destined to be dangerous. The question is whether he will become a weapon… or something far worse."

Minerva looked down, fingers clenched tightly in her lap. "And what do you believe?"
The fire snapped loudly.

Dumbledore's eyes — once twinkling, now dim and weary — turned toward the flickering flames. "I believe that whoever steps through the doors of this castle in four years' time… will be the child they shaped. Whether that boy is light, dark, or something else entirely…" He leaned back, the weight of years settling across his shoulders. "…is up to fate."
XXXX

Addams Manor:

The moon hung high over Addams Manor, its pale light spilling through Harry's bedroom window in a soft silver glow. The room was dark but comforting — full of strange shadows and stranger shapes. A snake skull rested on one shelf. A cracked porcelain doll blinked from a rocking chair. And beside the bed stood Morticia Addams, her silhouette framed by the flickering candlelight.

Harry lay beneath his obsidian-black blanket, his green eyes glowing faintly in the dark, still adjusting to the strange new energy in his body. He shifted, clutching the covers as Morticia gently smoothed his hair back from his forehead with icy fingers.
Neither of them spoke for a moment, letting the silence stretch and settle like silk around them.
Then Harry, his voice barely more than a whisper, said, "I… I called you mum today."

Morticia's hands paused for a breath before continuing their soft strokes.
"I noticed," she said.

Harry swallowed hard, eyes darting up to meet hers. "Is… is that alright?"
Morticia did not answer right away. Instead, she slowly sat down on the edge of his bed, her elegant form like a raven carved in velvet. Her black eyes shimmered in the candlelight as she looked down at him with a gaze that could pierce through the veil of death itself.

"It is more than alright, mon petit serpent…" she murmured. "But it is not for me to decide."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"
Morticia reached up, brushing a thumb across the scar that had once bound him to a monster.

"Soon, Halloween will fall upon us — the Night of Spirits, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest," she said softly, her voice like smoke curling through old trees. "On that night, we will call upon the ones who gave you life. We will summon Lily and James Potter."
Harry sat up slightly, heart thudding in his chest. "You… you can do that?"

Morticia smiled faintly, something ancient and reverent flickering in her expression. "Of course. They will be invited to witness. To see who you are now. What you have become. And if they grant their blessing…"

She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow, the same place where his scar had once burned so cruelly.

"…then you will truly be ours. Not just in name. But in soul."

Harry stared at her, speechless. The idea filled him with both awe and something he hadn't fully felt before — hope. Hope that his real parents might see him… and be proud.

Morticia smoothed his blanket, then stood with a slow grace. "Sleep well, darling. Tomorrow, we begin preparations. Your parents deserve a proper Addams welcome."

She moved toward the door with that uncanny glide that always made it seem as if she wasn't walking but floating. Just as she reached the threshold, Harry's voice called after her, small and unsure.

"Goodnight, Mummy..."

Morticia paused. She turned, and her smile was soft — not sharp and sardonic as it so often was, but warm in its own, haunting way.

"Goodnight, my son…"

She closed the door with a whisper, and in the dark, Harry lay back, staring at the ceiling as his heart beat fast and slow all at once.

Chapter Text

It had been two weeks since the trial.

Two weeks since the Ministry of Magic — with trembling hands and white faces — had allowed the Addams Family to walk away with Harry Potter under their roof and in their care; and in that time, the wizarding world had burned with outrage. Howlers arrived at Hogwarts by the hundreds! They screamed accusations, threats, and denouncements loud enough to shake the stones of the castle. They came from members of the Wizengamot, Ministry officials, and ordinary citizens — some howlers even exploded upon delivery, leaving scorch marks and magical residue in their wake.

At the heart of it all stood one man.

Albus Dumbledore.

He sat silently in his office, his elbows resting on his desk and his hands steepled beneath his chin, as another pile of howlers erupted from the corners of the room, filling his office with an unending chorus of shouts and invectives. Honestly, it was only due to the noise-blocking charm that Dumbledore had placed around himself that kept him from permanent hearing loss at this point. Yet, even with the charm firmly in place, Dumbledore could still hear the howlers surrounding him, roaring with indignation, and demanding he explain just how he could have failed so spectacularly. One screamed that he was a disgrace to the name of Gryffindor! Another demanded he resign. A third called him a senile fool and blamed him for handing the Boy Who Lived over to "blood-soaked monsters."

"HOW DARE YOU!" One particularly loud Howler had thundered. "You put the Boy Who Lived in a cupboard?! Under the stairs?! He was skin and bones, Albus! You did that! How do you live with yourself!"

That one had struck Dumbledore deeper than all the others, as if every one of his hundred years had suddenly come crashing down upon his shoulders—crushing him beneath the weight of guilt, regret, and the aching knowledge that he had failed the child of two of his most beloved students.

Even now, when he closed his eyes, Dumbledore could still remember that night with terrible clarity.

The cold.

The quiet street.

The small bundle on the doorstep.

A lightning-shaped scar, visible beneath dark curls as he laid the child down on a blanket, tucking the letter beside him like some pitiful shield against the cruelty of the world.

He had told himself it was necessary, that blood wards justified everything, that protection was worth discomfort.

He had walked away before the sun rose, and never once, in all those years, had he truly looked back; now he knew what that choice had done…

He saw it in every, every furious article, every enraged Howler, every desperate plea scrawled across parchment demanding to know how the savior of their world could have been reduced to a neglected ghost in his own home.

A cupboard.

A child reduced to a shadow behind a locked door.

"How would you judge me now, Lily?" he had murmured softly to no one after that particular Howler.

He could almost see her as she had been — bright, fierce, unapologetically kind. The sort of woman who would have accepted death without a tremor but never forgave betrayal.

And James — proud, reckless, devoted — who always had a grin firmly stuck to his face, no matter what life had thrown his way; he and Lily had trusted Dumbledore with their son… and he had failed them both.

He had not protected Harry.

The world knew now… Knew what he had done. Knew what he had allowed. The Boy Who Lived, raised unloved and unwanted, starved and shamed until he ran to the waiting arms of monsters in mourning clothes.

And those monsters—those terrifying, blood-soaked Addamses—had loved him.

Had given him warmth. A place to belong.

And in his heart, for the first time in many years, Albus Dumbledore felt utterly, inescapably ashamed.

A few days after that, ANOTHER scandal rocked the magical world as the Daily Prophet released the second horrifying thing that had been revealed at the Addams trial: Harry Potter had been the first living Horcrux container in human history. The truth had broken like wildfire across the wizarding world, thanks in no small part to the Daily Prophet and its favorite vulture, Rita Skeeter, who printed headlines so scandalous they made even the most cynical witches flinch:

"BOY WHO LIVED OR DARK LORD REBORN?"

"POTTER TAINTED BY DARKNESS: WHAT ELSE IS THE ADDAMS FAMILY HIDING?"

"MINISTRY SCANDAL: WHO KNEW WHAT, AND WHEN?!"

As soon as the story dropped, another horde of Howlers descended upon Hogwarts, and these had been even worse than the first ones sent.

"You left a child with a piece of the Dark Lord in his soul!"

"How could you not know?! HOW?!"

"Was the great Albus Dumbledore just too busy playing chess with children's lives to notice a soul parasite?!"

The accusations had hurt like a physical wound to his pride, but more than that, they made Dumbledore indescribably angry, a feeling he had not felt in several decades. Had he not proven himself a staunch ally to the light over the course of his very long career? How could people even SUSPECT that he would have allowed an innocent child to suffer under something so evil! He had suspected… yes. A connection between Voldemort and Harry; one did not live for nearly a century without gaining some wisdom about a plethora of different subjects regarding magic, and upon looking at Harry's scar, Dumbledore had immediately known that Voldemort had done something to the child. But not even in his wildest dreams would Dumbledore have suspected this! Not the darkest of all magical abominations buried in the boy's flesh, placed there by a being more monster than man by the end.

Yet, despite his MANY attempts to disabuse people of the idiotic notion that he had known what Harry's scar was, Rita Skeeter and the Daily Prophet continued to sensationalize Harry's new placement and what had been living inside his head, like sharks attacking after smelling fresh blood.

And all the while, Dumbledore had been burning through decades of favors like parchment in a hearthfire—calling in oaths, arm-twisting old allies, reminding people of past victories and darker times; all in an attempt to save his political and educational career. But it wasn't enough… It would never be enough…

As the last Howler finally stopped shouting, Dumbledore breathed a weary sigh of relief before slowly ending the charm surrounding him, his mind still racing with everything that had happened over the past fortnight.

A moment later, the office door creaked open and Severus Snape entered in a swirl of black robes, looking more sour than usual; Professor McGonagall followed close behind, her emerald-green robes sharp against the gloom of the room.

"Another Howler got lost on the way to your office and landed in the dungeons," Snape drawled. "It attempted to set fire to a suit of armor…"

McGonagall sniffed sharply at that. "The press is demanding you resign, Albus. And I've received no fewer than seventeen letters from the parents of students insisting Harry be placed in a different home!"

"Where, exactly?" Dumbledore asked tiredly. "Who would he be safer with than them?"

Snape's eyes glittered. "Safer? That depends on your definition… The boy now glows with arcane magic, stares like a basilisk, and walks like a ghost. I watched his trial testimony, Headmaster. That is not the boy you left on a doorstep..."

McGonagall's face tightened for a moment before her expression shifted to one of grief. "He said he loved them... He begged not to be taken away…"

Snape looked away at that, torn between sympathy for an abused child (being one himself) and an overpowering feeling of contempt for the child of his former bully.

"Whatever else they are," McGonagall continued, "the Addams Family gave him something we did not… A home."

Dumbledore nodded faintly, the feeling of guilt making itself known once again.

"Yes," he murmured. "And that is what James and Lily would have wanted, isn't it?"

A long silence fell at that as each took a moment to quietly remember the couple who had once walked these very halls and brought such light to it.

"And what happens..." Snape drawled after a moment, "When the boy receives his letter, Headmaster? After living for four years with those monsters? Will he still be Potter's brat? Or the next generation's Dark Lord?"

"How dare you!" McGonagall spat back angrily. "A goblin has a better chance of becoming Minister of Magic than James and Lily's son becoming a monster like the one who murdered them!"

Before a fight could begin between his two professors, Dumbledore exhaled, gazing into the flickering light of the damaged instruments. "Whoever walks through Hogwarts' gates in four years… whether it be a wizard or a warlock, a saint or a shade… we must be ready."

It was apparent that Snape and McGonagall wanted to continue this discussion, yet Dumbledore was tired —so very tired —of hearing shouts ring out in his office; with a tired sigh, he closed his eyes, listening to the quiet—for once, no howlers. Just silence.

But that silence would not last, experience had taught him that...

XXXX

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the country, the gates of Addams Manor had never been livelier.

Dozens of protestors and reporters alike had taken up residence outside the ancient black-iron gates, camping beneath enchantments and storm clouds, waving banners that read things like:

"Save the Boy Who Lived!"

"Down with Necromancers!"

"The Addamses are NOT a fit family!"

But not a single protestor had dared to step past the gates; even the bravest—or stupidest—among them knew better. Rumors told of hissing shadows that moved without wind. Of skeletal birds perched atop the walls, watching. Of soft voices whispering promises of torment just beyond the stone.

So they protested. Loudly. But from a safe distance.

The Addams Family, in turn, seemed to relish the attention; Gomez had taken to hitting enchanted golf balls from the third-floor balcony directly into the crowd, cackling as they exploded on contact into harmless, but deeply unsettling things—shriek-bubbles, temporary hair-loss fog, a gout of spectral confetti. Occasionally, one would sneak past a too-slow shield charm, causing screams and curses from the picket line.

Seated beside her husband, Morticia delicately sipped her black rose tea, her posture the picture of gothic grace. A pair of silver-rimmed theatre binoculars rested in her gloved fingers as she peered out over the unruly crowd beyond the manor gates.

"Oh, look, Gomez," she murmured with velvet amusement, "they've misspelled 'soulless abominations' again. How charmingly incompetent…"

Gomez chuckled beside her, smoke curling from his cigar as he admired the protest signs with an artist's eye, as Thing pulled another golf ball from the bag beside Gomez and placed it on the tee. "They do try, cara mia. So spirited—so profoundly wrong, but spirited nonetheless."

A few paces away, Uncle Fester gleefully waved a conductor's baton as though leading a deranged orchestra; with every chant of outrage and every shouted demand, he cackled louder.

"I haven't heard wailing this dramatic since Cousin Grimhilda's funeral duet with a banshee! Ah, memories!"

Morticia took another sip of her tea before speaking, voice calm and expectant. "Isn't it time for Harry's lessons?"

"Indeed!" Gomez exclaimed cheerfully, teeing up one final golf ball. With a practiced swing, the ball whistled through the air—smacking a protestor squarely between the eyes with a sharp thwack! The man crumpled with a startled cry, while the crowd erupted in gasps, quickly throwing up shield charms.

With a laugh, Gomez kissed the smoking end of his club, tossed it high into the air, and with impeccable precision, it landed perfectly in his golf bag. A moment later, Thing scurried up Gomez's trouser leg and leapt gracefully onto his shoulder, giving a theatrical wave to the crowd below.

"Bullseye," Gomez grinned. "That's the last one for today."

Uncle Fester twirled his baton, tucked it into his coat, and gave the dazed crowd a theatrical bow. "Such drama! Such tension! I give them a three out of ten."

Without another word, the brothers turned and strolled inside, their silhouettes vanishing into the candlelit halls of the manor.

Morticia remained for a moment longer, smiling faintly as she lowered her binoculars. "Such passion," she murmured, watching the panicked protestors scramble to rouse their fallen comrade. "It's almost adorable…"

With a graceful turn, she followed her husband and brother-in-law, the long train of her gown whispering across the stone floor like a silk shadow.

XXXX

Two weeks, that's how long it had been since the Wizengamot had decided to allow Harry to remain with the Addams Family.

Fourteen days of chaos, torment, and the most affectionate form of psychological and physical warfare Harry had ever endured.

He was currently half-dead.

Not because of Voldemort. Not because of Death Eaters. But because of Wednesday and Pugsley.

At the moment, he lay flat on his back in the training courtyard behind the manor, his breathing shallow and labored, his shirt scorched from the latest "game" that had involved a real flamethrower, a collapsing rope bridge, and Pugsley's terrifying new invention called the whirligig of knives.

"You almost made it that time," Wednesday said, leaning over him like a raven perched on a fresh corpse, her voice calm and unreadable. "Your screams were less high-pitched."

"That's progress," Pugsley added brightly, dragging the still-smoldering contraption back toward the tool shed with a whistle.

Harry gave a faint groan and blinked up at the dark clouds. "Thank you… I think."

Wednesday offered him a gloved hand, which he took gratefully, groaning as she helped him up like it was nothing; despite the bruises and scrapes now decorating his arms and neck like medals, he had the distinct feeling she approved of his suffering.

Once upright, he staggered toward the main house—only to find himself intercepted by Fester and Gomez, both grinning like lunatics and holding what appeared to be—

"Please, not more dueling drills!" Harry yelped, taking a step backward, only to be stopped by Wednesday's firm grip on his shoulder.

"Knowledge is power, mijo!" Gomez bellowed enthusiastically, tossing Harry a sword. "And power is best wielded through combat, style, and Latin flair!"

"You may be a wizard," Fester added, twirling a rusted cutlass with glee, "but that doesn't mean you get to skip swordplay! Come on—stab me a little! It builds character!"

Gomez leaned forward beside his brother, grinning in a way that was far too encouraging.

"Too many witches and wizards think a wand is all they need. One little Expelliarmus and they're useless! But a good blade—" he slammed the cutlass into a nearby dummy, which promptly split in two— "never runs out of magic."

Harry sighed. Loudly. Then he squared his shoulders and lifted the sword.

This… was his life now.

The lessons never stopped.

If he wasn't dodging Pugsley's latest death trap or trading morbid philosophical musings with Wednesday during "skull-polishing hour," he was being pushed to his absolute limit by the adults.

Grandma had him brewing potions that boiled without heat and screamed when stirred counterclockwise. Morticia tutored him on the theory of infernal runes and soul binding—though she always made sure to end the session with tea and poisoned scones.

Gomez sparred with him twice a day, and between sword swings, lectured on the nuances of wizarding law and when it was appropriate to kill your enemies (which, surprisingly, had a very detailed code of etiquette in the Addams household).

Even Lurch, silent as ever, had Harry practicing elocution by reciting the rights of the damned in Latin backwards as Harry practiced playing the piano. Badly.

And then there was Fester.

Uncle Fester's lessons were… unconventional. "You may be a wizard," he often said while strapping on leather gloves that crackled with static, "but that doesn't mean you get to skip science!" With manic glee, he taught Harry the fundamentals of electricity by strapping copper wires to pickled troll hearts and making them dance like grotesque marionettes.

More importantly, he drilled into Harry's head the need for wandless defense. "Wizards are spoiled," he said, tossing Harry a rusty frying pan. "Nine out of ten can't fight if you take their little stick away. But not you. You? You'll headbutt a werewolf with a smile and a brick in your hand!"

Their duels usually ended with something on fire—or mildly exploded—but Harry had to admit, he was getting faster. Stronger. A little stranger…

And through it all, Harry couldn't deny the truth: He knew things he shouldn't know.

He hadn't read the books. No one had taught him. But the knowledge was just there. Memories—foreign yet intimate—seeped into his mind. During one of Morticia's lectures on cursed sigils, Harry had interrupted to explain the original application of the markings in the tombs of ancient Numidia.

Morticia had gone still, her eyes slowly widening, then softening with admiration.

"My darling viper," she said, caressing his cheek. "You're blossoming into something most exquisite."

Harry had felt both proud… and terrified; often, Harry felt as if the Addams Family knew something about him, knew the reason for his sudden burst of knowledge, but if they did, they seemed determined not to share it with Harry. He'd asked Morticia quite a few times for an answer as to why he knew things that even he had to admit he shouldn't know, but she had always just smiled and replied with the same mysterious answer:

"Some knowledge is earned… some is gifted… and some?" She leaned closer, her breath cool as the crypt, her gaze unreadable. "Some knowledge remembers you."

Harry always blinked at her answer; a part of him knew he should be terrified by some of the things he seemed to know, but the other part trusted Morticia implicitly and so let the matter lie, at least for now anyway. He was sure they'd tell him, in time.

Just as Harry's thoughts began to drift again, a booming cry rang out:

"En garde, mi pequeño caballero!"

Gomez lunged forward, saber flashing like a streak of silver; Harry barely managed to raise his blade in time—the clash of steel rattled up his arm, jarring him to the shoulder, and the force nearly knocked him off balance.

Off to the side, Fester threw his sword into the air, clapping like a delighted maniac as it spun upwards above his head while Thing perched proudly on his shoulder, and mimicking the applause with rapid little slaps against Fester's bald head.

Wednesday and Pugsley watched with matching intensity—though for very different reasons. Pugsley munched from a grease-stained paper bag filled with writhing, sugar-dusted beetles, eyes gleaming in amusement. Wednesday, however, had narrowed her gaze to a surgical focus. Harry knew that look. If he didn't put on a decent show, she'd express her disappointment later… creatively.

With a resigned groan, Harry braced his footing, lifted his saber once more, and muttered under his breath,

"Why couldn't I have just been raised by werewolves instead?"

And thus began another long, exhausting, and oddly wonderful day in the Addams household.

XXXX

Two Weeks Later:

The protesters were gone.

For the first time in weeks, the gates of Addams Manor stood unopposed. No angry chants. No handmade signs. No nervous Ministry watchdogs peering through telescopes. Just a cold mist curling along the wrought-iron fence and a full moon peeking through swathes of churning storm clouds.

They had fled two nights prior, murmuring about the "cursed day," the "veil thinning," and how even standing too near the gates might invite madness—or worse. Halloween had arrived, and none in their right mind would linger near the house that death itself respected.

The manor rose from the earth like a cathedral of shadows, its towering spires framed by skeletal trees wrapped in barbed ivy. Black roses bloomed in the moonlight, and a thousand jack-o'-lanterns leered with malicious glee from every windowsill, their candles flickering green.

A full gallows creaked lazily in the front yard, swaying in the breeze; from it hung straw effigies of grinning bureaucrats and reporters, lovingly stitched by Wednesday. The air smelled of burnt cinnamon, gunpowder, and something far older.

Inside, all was elegance and eerie anticipation; Gomez was the very picture of old-world nobility, dressed in midnight tailcoats lined with blood-red silk. A crimson rose adorned his lapel—still dripping, fresh from the garden. Morticia, as always, was hauntingly resplendent; her dress clung like nightshade in bloom, her jet-black hair cascaded over her shoulders like a raven's wing in moonlight, and in her pale hands, she held a silver goblet of something steaming and dark.

Uncle Fester had forgone subtlety entirely. He wore a ceremonial robe stitched with necromantic glyphs and a hat shaped like a screaming skull. In fact, it DID scream. Occasionally.

Grandmama Addams paced near the great hearth, her cloak stitched from spider silk, tossing bone runes across a goat skull for omens. Even Thing had decided to dress up, sporting a dark black bowtie wrapped around its wrist.

And the children—

Wednesday Addams was breathtaking in her own chilling way; her dress was raven-black with crimson trim, stitched with lines from her favorite dirges, and adorned with tiny, dangling bones for earrings. Her braid was coiled into a crown, and in her gloved hand she carried a black candle that burned with blue fire.

Pugsley wore a pinstriped tunic that resembled an executioner's uniform more than any child's garment, complete with a bandolier of toy weapons (some real, some not), and his grin promised trouble; his pockets were suspiciously full, and something inside wriggled.

And Harry...

Harry stood apart, shifting nervously beneath the flickering candlelight; he wore a black suit tailored to fit like a funeral shroud, his crimson tie slightly askew, though he hadn't noticed. His long black hair had been slicked back, but a few strands had escaped,

curling stubbornly near his temple. His emerald eyes—still glowing faintly with residual magic—seemed brighter than the firelight around him; yet despite the excitement around him, he couldn't stop the thoughts gnawing at his mind:

What if they hate me?

What if they blame me?

What if... they don't want me?

Despite himself, he shivered; what if his parents looked at him and saw nothing but a mistake?

A moment later, Morticia knelt in front of him, her movements fluid and feline, and reached up to adjust his crooked tie with the grace of a priestess preparing her sacrificial offering. Her pale hands smoothed the collar, and she smiled at him—not kindly, but knowingly, lovingly, darkly.

"Why do you tremble so, my beautiful viper?" She smiled softly.

"What if they're disappointed in me?" he whispered. "What if they blame me for—"

"Nonsense, even the dead know beauty when they see it, mon trésor," Morticia said at once, cutting Harry off. "And what parent could resist being proud... of something so delightfully haunted?"

Harry swallowed at that, but some of the tightness in his chest faded, and he nodded, still uncertain, but willing to believe her, for she had never lied to him before, and he had no reason to believe she would start now. A moment later, somewhere beyond the black-draped halls, the bells began to toll midnight, and Gomez smiled, chewing happily on his cigar before he turned and raised a glass of shadowed absinthe. "Let us begin."

Together, they ascended the staircase and moved down a hallway that Harry had never explored before, and as he approached the door to the summoning chamber, Harry's steps slowed as he took in the door before him.

It loomed before him like a relic from a forgotten age—an ancient Gothic door carved from dark, gnarled wood that seemed to drink in the candlelight around it. Twisting vines of black iron coiled across its surface, forming serpentine patterns that shimmered faintly as if alive. At the center, a grotesque iron knocker shaped like a screaming skull hung from the mouth of a serpent, its eyes hollow and waiting.

Above the doorframe, the arch was inscribed with eldritch runes in a language lost to sane men, each glyph carved so deeply that they seemed to bleed shadows. Charms of bone, glass, and obsidian dangled from rusted chains, clinking softly in a breeze that did not blow, and the air grew heavier with every step closer, thick with the scent of old parchment, grave soil, and something faintly sulfurous; the very wood of the door pulsed faintly—slow and deep—like a slumbering heart.

As the family continued toward the door, Harry swallowed hard as he realized something: It was not a door to keep people out, it was a door to keep something in…

The door creaked open with a sound like the slow splitting of ancient bones, revealing a chamber that pulsed with eerie stillness and sacred dread; the walls were carved from black stone, each slab veined with silver and obsidian, polished to a mirror sheen yet somehow absorbing light instead of reflecting it. Dim sconces of wrought iron lined the room, their candles unlit, waiting. The air was cold, dry, and thick with incense and something older, something raw, that seemed to tug at the soul.

In the center of the room stood a single round table—massive and made of black stone—resting precisely within a pentagram etched deep into the floor. At each point of the pentagram stood a tall black candle, already lit with flickering green flame, their eerie glow casting grotesque shadows that danced across the walls like wraiths. The wax bled downward like slow trails of poison, pooling in runic channels etched beneath each pedestal.

At the head of the table was a high-backed chair with thorns carved into its arms, the rightful throne of Grandma Addams, which she would use for the ritual. Before her sat a crystal ball the size of a human skull, glowing faintly from within with pulses of pale light that flickered like a heartbeat.

The Addams Family moved without a word, each taking their place around the circle with a grace that felt both reverent and ancestral, Lurch standing in the shadows like a silent sentinel; Pugsley and Wednesday guided Harry to his seat between them, his hands trembling slightly as he sat.

Morticia reached across the table, taking Gomez's hand on one side and Fester's on the other; one by one, they completed the circle, fingers clasped like iron chains as Grandma's voice rang out like a whisper heard through the bones of the earth.

"By blood and bone, by will and name,

We call the spirits through the flame.

Lily and James of noble heart,

From veil to flesh, we bid you part!"

A moment later, thunder boomed—deep and sudden—as if the house itself disapproved, and the flames of the green candles shot skyward all at once, howling like banshees. Every unlit candle in the chamber roared to life simultaneously, bathing the room in ghostly firelight. Harry cried out, gripping Wednesday's hand tight, yet she didn't complain or flinch—only held tighter in return.

"By the tears of the mourning son!" Grandma cried again, louder this time, her voice rattling the very air. "By the love that death could not undo—I summon you!"

A moment later, the room descended into silence; a quiet, eerie, all-consuming silence.

Then, a cold gray mist began to gather above the table, swirling like smoke in water; it twisted and turned, then split—two shapes forming, one taller, the other slighter. Their forms shimmered, not yet fully there, but unmistakably human.

Then, a voice called out—soft, fragile, filled with aching love—

"Harry...?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he heard the voice call out his name, and his heart stuttered as a memory suddenly broke through of that same voice softly singing a lullaby to him as he fell asleep; his voice cracked as he whispered, eyes wide and wet,

"Mummy…?"

Author's Note:
I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it, and if not, please feel free to let me know what I could have done better. Constructive criticism helps me make each chapter better. If you'd like to join my Discord, where you can view pictures that accompany this story, as well as participate in polls which decide where the story will go, you can find it here:
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