The satchel was digging into my shoulder again, heavier than it had any right to be. I kept telling myself it was just books, but the three flutes buried at the bottom hummed in the back of my head like a secret I wasn't ready to share.
Enid trotted down the steps of Ophelia Hall beside me, practically glowing in the morning sun. She had her phone out, thumbs moving like lightning. Probably updating her werewolf group chat about nail polish colors or moon cycles.
"You look like you didn't sleep," she said, glancing at me.
"I didn't," I muttered.
"Flutes again?"
I didn't answer, and she didn't push. She just bumped my shoulder with hers and gave me that look that said she was here anyway. It helped more than I wanted to admit.
A car pulled up then. Sleek. Black. The kind of car that didn't belong on gravel. Everyone turned to look. Out stepped a girl in a black dress with a stare like a coffin lid closing.
"Guess that's the Addams girl," Enid whispered.
I was already turning away. Something about her eyes made the satchel feel twice as heavy. I wasn't in the mood to be dissected today.
"I'll catch you later," I said quickly.
"What? But—"
I kissed her cheek before she could finish, fast enough that it left her blinking, then headed back inside. Let her meet the new girl on her own. Whoever Wednesday Addams was, she wasn't my problem.
From the second-floor landing, I could still hear things. The Quad had a way of carrying voices.
"She's a little intense, huh?" Enid's chirp floated up.
Then Wednesday's reply, cold as glass: "I don't do flowers and rainbows."
I leaned against the wall, adjusting the strap of my satchel. Down below, students were already whispering about me too, same as always.
"That's him, the Piper's heir."
"Rat tamer."
"Careful, or he'll play you like a song."
The usual background noise.
I slipped a hand into my pocket, fingers brushing the smooth wood of one of the flutes I'd shoved there earlier, just to be safe. For no reason. For every reason.
Enid's laugh carried across the Quad again, bright and unbothered. And then Wednesday's voice cut in, sharp, unimpressed. Their tour was just beginning.
___________________
Wednesday pov,
The sound came before she saw him.
A faint, drawn-out whistle—low, steady, and almost too deliberate to be casual. The sort of tune that made your spine feel like it was being tugged by invisible strings.
Wednesday Addams stopped in the corridor, eyes narrowing at the boy leaning against the window frame. Pale, sharp features. Ash-blonde hair half-shadowing his face. A wooden flute tucked in his hand, though he wasn't playing—just holding it as if it were an extension of his arm.
"You must be the Addams girl," he said without looking up. His voice was smooth, but carried a rasp, like smoke curling around words. "They say you put a school of norms in the hospital. Impressive."
Wednesday's gaze sharpened. "And you are?"
He glanced at her at last, gray-green eyes glinting faintly. "Krömer. Elias. Most people just call me Eli. Some prefer less flattering names. Pied Brat. Rat-Whistler. Ghost of Hamelin. Take your pick."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "Descendant of the Pied Piper?"
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "The family shame, yes. Don't worry. I've only lured a few dozen children into the woods. All survived. More or less."
Wednesday studied him for a long beat. "Most people would hide that kind of stain in their family tree."
"Most people are boring." He twirled the flute lazily in his fingers. "You, however… I imagine you'll find use for stains. They suit you."
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "I like you already. You're insufferable."
"And you're immune," Eli replied smoothly, straightening. "Most people fidget when I whistle. You didn't even blink. Interesting."
She raised an eyebrow. "Maybe your song isn't as irresistible as you think."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so it carried like a secret. "Or maybe you're darker than the music."
Wednesday met his gaze without flinching, the silence between them charged—like two blades crossing for the first time.
Finally, she said, "Stay out of my way, Krömer. I have no interest in being anyone's puppet."
"And I have no interest in strings that don't pull," he countered, backing away with a faint bow. "But… if you ever need a tune to unsettle the masses, you know where to find me."
The whistle followed her down the hall—low, haunting, and almost like laughter.