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.