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.