The morning sunlight spilled through the tall, arched windows of Harry's room in soft, golden sheets — warm and gentle, like a quiet lullaby played for the dead as Harry stirred slowly beneath the weight of his thick, violet-stitched blanket, his limbs heavy as lead, muscles aching with a soreness that seemed to go down to his very bones. It was as if he'd run miles without rest, or wrestled something far larger than himself. Something monstrous…
As he slowly opened his eyes, Harry blinked wearily at the ceiling, its Gothic carvings shifting softly in the morning light like lazy phantoms, then sat up with a low groan. Every movement was stiff, like the air around him had thickened; as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touched the cold, stone floor, grounding him in the stillness of the aftermath of the previous night's horror.
Slowly, as though afraid of waking anyone else in the manor, Harry padded across the room and into his bathroom, still half-asleep, only to stop dead in his tracks.
The toilet was still a blackened, molten sculpture of destruction, courtesy of one of Pugsley's more "experimental" evenings.
But it wasn't the melted porcelain that made Harry freeze.
It was the mirror.
There, staring back at him, was… himself, but not quite.
His skin was noticeably paler — not sickly but porcelain-pure, almost luminescent in the light. His hair had grown longer and darker, falling in soft, untamed waves around his face. But it was his eyes that struck him the hardest. Once a soft, brilliant green… they now glowed, pulsing with a soft inner light, as though a piece of emerald flame had taken root within his irises.
He raised a trembling hand to touch his reflection, fingers ghosting across the mirror's surface.
Slowly — so slowly — Harry raised a shaky hand to his face, running his hand across his pale cheek before running his fingers through his now long hair.
"I… look different…" he whispered to himself.
"You do," came a calm and sharp voice behind him, making him spin around with a cry just as Wednesday stepped through the doorway of his bathroom. She tilted her head as she looked him up and down, her expression unreadable at first. Then, a smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as though she was pleased with what she saw. "It suits you," she said, adding, crossing her arms.
Harry blinked. "Really?"
She nodded. "You look like you've seen death… and accepted it instead of running from it like the coward who was living in your head..."
A chuckle almost escaped him, small and uncertain, as he turned back to the mirror for one last look and stepped away, still a little rattled but strangely reassured by her presence.
Together, they left the room; Harry walked slightly behind her as they made their way down the winding staircase of the manor. The halls were quieter than usual, though distant laughter or the sound of something exploding echoed through the stone walls every so often. It was, after all, still the Addams household.
The great dining hall of the Addams manor was already filled with the scent of questionable meats, burning incense, and whatever unidentifiable blackened mass was sizzling on Fester's plate. A long, obsidian table stretched from wall to wall, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved with writhing skulls, bat wings, and leering gargoyle faces. Morticia sat serenely at the head of it all, stirring her arsenic-laced tea.
As Wednesday and Harry entered, every head in the room turned, and for the briefest moment, there was silence.
And then Morticia smiled.
It wasn't the polite smile she gave to visiting school inspectors or disapproving neighbors. This was something deeper — proud, almost reverent. Like a sculptor seeing her masterpiece finally complete.
"Oh, Harry," she said, rising slowly to her feet, her dark eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "You've never looked more yourself..."
Gomez let out a triumphant laugh from beside his wife and slapped his palm on the surface with a metallic clang. "Mí hijo! Look at you! Pale complexion, glowing eyes, haunted expression — you look like a true Addams now!"
Harry flushed red despite himself, unsure if he should thank them or hide under the table. Pugsley, who was currently stuffing something that looked suspiciously like a roasted bat wing into his mouth, frowned. "No fair. I want to be possessed! Then maybe I'd look cool too!"
Grandma Addams, who was expertly sharpening a ritual knife with one hand and flipping pancakes with the other, didn't miss a beat. "When you're older, dear. We'll see about finding a nice, proper demon to drag you screaming into the abyss."
Pugsley beamed as if she'd just promised him a pony before whispering happily:
"Best. Grandma. Ever."
Fester looked up from his bowl of charred eels and winked at Harry. "You're glowing, kid, and not just from the eyeballs! That thing's outta you, and you're still in one piece. That's a good start! Means the next ritual probably won't kill you either."
Still unnerved, Harry sat down carefully as Morticia retook her seat, looking around at the table, at the faces that should have terrified him, the food that definitely should have, and the odd comfort that seeped into him despite it all.
For a family that danced with Death and dined with darkness…
They sure made a boy feel like he belonged.
XXXX
The days that followed the ritual were oddly quiet. Too quiet, Harry thought at first, as if the absence of that ever-present chill in his scar had somehow dulled the world. But that stillness was deceptive. Something else had taken root.
Something new.
It began during a study session in the west parlor, where Morticia had draped the windows in thick velvet and lit the room with black flame candles; tomes bound in skin and stitched by cursed hands lay open between them.
Morticia held up a long, pale finger, gesturing to a passage in one particularly vile volume. "This," she said, her voice like dusk settling over a graveyard, "is the Curse of Withering Flesh — ancient, and quite illegal in most countries. It works by—"
"—binding the target's blood to the caster's breath," Harry interrupted softly, his brows furrowed. "It accelerates necrosis through sympathetic respiration, right?"
Morticia paused, her black eyes blinked once, then widened slightly.
"Well," she murmured, smiling as though Harry had just composed a poem. "Yes. Precisely. But that detail isn't in the text. How did you...?"
Harry stared at the page, his lips parted. "I... I don't know," he whispered. "I just… knew…"
Morticia studied him for a long moment, then gently closed the book with a soft thump, her smile never fading.
But despite Morticia's obvious pleasure, Harry was still frowning as a thought echoed across his mind:
"How did I know that…?"
XXXX
The next day, Harry found himself at Grandma Addams's side in her bubbling cauldron nook — a place that smelled like gingerbread and formaldehyde. They were brewing a pain tonic meant for "that unfortunate banshee on the second floor with the sore throat."
Harry had been chopping rat spleens when Grandma muttered, "Now three pinches of powdered moonstalk... unless you're dealing with—"
"—a post-mortem infection caused by soul rot," Harry said automatically. "Then it's only two, or it'll backfire."
Grandma Addams froze, her ladle mid-swirl as she turned slowly, one white eyebrow raised.
"Well now," she cackled. "Looks like someone's been reading my journals. Or perhaps... channeling them…?"
Harry's mouth opened, then closed again. He hadn't even thought — the words had just... come.
XXXX
Two days later, it happened again.
In the manor's dueling chamber, where swords hung like whispers along the walls and the floor bore old bloodstains that the wood refused to forget, Gomez tossed Harry a thin-bladed foil. "Come, my boy!" he cried gleefully. "Let's carve elegance from chaos!"
They began slow — Gomez circling like a wolf, Harry trying to keep up. But then, without warning, Harry parried a strike with perfect form and transitioned into a maneuver he'd never practiced, forcing Gomez to hop back with a delighted "Ha!"
"Well struck!" the older man beamed. "Where'd you learn that? That's Monteverde's sixth form! Rarely taught anymore — except by ghosts!"
Harry could only stare at the blade in his hand; he hadn't even known he knew how to hold a foil the week before!
XXXX
By the end of the week, Harry had begun to dread the moments when his mouth moved before his mind did; when spells whispered themselves behind his teeth, or forgotten alchemical formulas surfaced unbidden. It wasn't constant… but it was growing.
Yet in the Addams house, nothing was feared — only studied, embraced, and named, and while Harry feared what he was becoming… the family only watched with interest.
Especially Wednesday.
She never looked surprised when it happened. Only pleased. As if Harry was becoming everything she had foreseen he would become; she had talked to him often of her visions, in which Harry became more powerful than anyone else, but Harry had often laughed it off. How could someone like him become powerful? He was nothing! Nothing more than an abused child whose confidence had been shattered by those who had been trusted to raise him. Yet, Wednesday never changed her opinion that Harry would do all that her visions foretold, and often would grow cross with Harry when he argued that her visions were false. And now, whenever Wednesday would look at Harry, she couldn't help but smirk in victory, and Harry, despite himself, despite his own self-denigration, couldn't help the small growing idea that Wednesday might be right after all…
XXXX
The sitting room was dimly lit, as usual — the chandelier filled with dripping black candles, the fire crackling low in the hearth; it was just past midnight, the perfect hour for family meetings in the Addams household.
Morticia lounged with the poise of a queen spider on her fainting couch, her fingers trailing delicately across a crystal goblet filled with what was definitely not wine. Gomez paced behind her, puffing slowly on a cigar, while Fester sat cross-legged on the floor, gnawing on a femur like it was a turkey leg. Grandma Addams rocked gently in her chair by the hearth, knitting a sock with barbed wire and muttering to herself.
"What we've seen this week," Morticia said at last, her voice soft as silk pulled across bone, "is… remarkable."
"A miracle," Gomez murmured, smiling. "And terrifying. But in a good way!"
"Which is the best kind," Fester added cheerfully, wiping marrow from his chin.
"But we must face it," Morticia continued, her tone sharpening. "Something has changed in him... Knowledge surfacing where it shouldn't. Instincts awakening far beyond his years…"
Gomez exhaled a long plume of smoke. "Like a ghost whispering in his head... or memories that were never his own."
Everyone turned to Grandma, who hadn't spoken yet — a rare silence, given her usual tendency to narrate even her own digestive issues. A moment later, she set down her knitting and leaned forward as her chair slowly rocked back and forth, her eyes glittering with the kind of ancient knowing only grandmothers and ravens possess.
"It's not a curse," she said firmly. "It's a gift."
Morticia arched one elegant brow. "A gift…?"
"From Him," Grandma whispered, her voice reverent. "From Lord Death himself. To the last true son of the House of Peverell…"
At the mention of the Lord of the first promise, even the fire seemed to quiet.
"The Peverell's?" Gomez asked, straightening. "As in the Peverell's? Death's chosen?"
"The very same," Grandma nodded. "Old blood. Older than this house… And young Harry — he's the last of them. One child of the three brothers… and the only one who's ever escaped Death's design not once — but twice!"
"By dying?" Fester asked hopefully, dropping the bone he was munching on.
Grandma waved him off. "No, by surviving. And now... with that soul shard burned out of him, Death has whispered back what was stolen. Giving him the knowledge that dwelled within…"
"You think this is a repayment?" Morticia said slowly. "A rebalancing of some sort?"
"A blessing, darling," Grandma smiled. "Wrapped in shadow, sure. But a blessing nonetheless..."
"But how do we know that's all he inherited?" Gomez asked suddenly, his voice grave. "The magic, the instincts — yes. But Voldemort was more than a memory. He was a manipulator. A monster…"
Morticia narrowed her eyes. "Are you asking if Harry could become like him?"
Gomez hesitated, taking a deep puff from his cigar before releasing it in a puff of smoke as he replied. "...Yes."
"No," Morticia said after a moment, "he won't. Because we'll guide him. Shape him. If any... sociopathic tendencies remain," she continued, cool as moonlight, "then we'll ensure they are properly focused..."
"Unlike that whimpering shadow's ever were," Grandma sneered. "Using dark magic just to avoid dying? Pathetic..."
"Cowardice disguised as ambition," Morticia agreed. "A waste of good talent..."
Fester leaned back on his hands. "So, we make sure Harry doesn't waste his."
"And make sure he aims it at the right people," Gomez added calmly. "Preferably ones who deserve it…"
"Exactly, querida," Morticia purred, reaching for her husband's hand.
There was a pause, then Fester clapped his hands together. "Well! In that case, we simply teach him the Addams way!"
Grandma let out a hoot of laughter. "Start with poison theory and blackmail! The rest will come naturally!"
"I'll begin sword work with him tomorrow," Gomez added proudly. "He's got quick hands. And a terrifying stare!"
Morticia raised her glass. "To our son. To Death's chosen. And to family."
Everyone raised their drinks — goblets of blood, bone-chilled sherry, or arsenic tea — and toasted the little boy upstairs, now fast asleep in a room full of shadows and snakes.
A moment later, Gomez looked at the table in the center of the room where the roll of parchment lay, which Alastor Moody had brought earlier in the week, bearing the golden wax seal of the Ministry of Magic.
Gomez took a long drag from his cigar, then exhaled slowly, deliberately, letting the smoke form the shape of a grinning skull before it vanished into the air.
"Now, onto the matter at hand ," he said at last, eyes glinting with anticipation as he took a seat beside his wife. "They've summoned us… The Wizengamot wants a word..."
"A word," Morticia murmured, amused. "How quaint. I wonder which one. 'Help'? 'Mercy'?"
Fester cackled. "They'll be begging for both by the time we're through."
Gomez grinned widely. "I say it's long past time we reminded the Ministry why their ancestors whispered our name like a curse."
Grandma snorted. "Pfft, back in my day, the last time we visited the Ministry, six Unspeakables had to retire afterward. One of 'em still screams every time he sees a black cat..."
Fester brightened at that. "Can I go this time? I want to see if they'll scream if I bring my spider toad!"
"We'll all be going," Morticia said coolly, her eyes never leaving the parchment. "The children as well, but we must remember to curb our enthusiasm."
Fester looked up at that. "Define 'curb…'"
"Fewer explosions than last time," Morticia clarified. "And no vivisections unless absolutely necessary."
Fester groaned. "You're so strict."
"It's only fair, brother." Gomez chirped. "After all, we're not going there to start a war. Just to finish a conversation."
"A conversation they started," Morticia added darkly. "By threatening Harry."
The room fell quiet for a moment, the temperature seeming to drop just slightly as Gomez's smile vanished. His next words came low and serious:
"They called our children a dangerous influence... questioned our right to raise Harry… whispered about custody hearings."
Morticia's grip on her glass tightened. "They will not touch a single hair on his head."
"Let them try," Grandma muttered as she returned to her knitting. "They'll find out real quick how dangerous an influence can be."
"But we do need to be... strategic," Morticia added, her voice calm once more. "We cannot afford to give them reason to think we're unstable."
"Too late," Fester said, beaming proudly.
"I mean provably unstable," Morticia smiled.
Gomez chuckled and leaned forward, stubbing his cigar out on a skull-shaped ashtray. "Then let's give them a show they'll never forget. Polished, poised… and just terrifying enough to remind them that the Addams Family plays a very long game."
"I'll prepare our testimony," Morticia said smoothly. "And our robes. Black, of course."
"I want to wear my plague doctor mask," Fester chimed in.
Grandma waved a hand. "Let him. It'll distract them long enough for me to hex the judge."
"We'll bring Harry, of course," Morticia added. "Let them see what he's become. Let them realize he's not a weapon… unless we decide he needs to be."
A moment later, a small voice echoed throughout the room, making the adults turn smartly to see Wednesday, still in her pajamas, with a look of cruel anticipation on her face. "And if they try to take him…?"
The silence was cold and immediate.
"We burn the Ministry," Fester said to his niece, eyes suddenly gleaming.
"No," Gomez said, rising with grace and fire in his stride as he strode toward his daughter. "We make them beg us to leave it standing."
Wednesday smiled at that, her eyes burning with an almost inhuman fire as she took in her father's words; Harry was hers, and no one would take him from her, at least not without a copious amount of blood…