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.
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