The sun was swallowed by clouds long before they arrived.
The sky above Grimshed Hill had darkened to a sickly, roiling gray. The air hung thick with dampness, as though even the weather dared not breathe too loudly near the Addams estate. The carriage Dumbledore had enchanted to carry the Hogwarts delegation creaked to a halt on the uneven road just before the iron gates.
The carriage had been one of necessity, more than anything else. Dumbledore couldn't say what type of wards the Addams Manor had around it, so Apparating was out of the question. And seeing as how none of the staff knew how to drive, a carriage had been selected as their mode of transportation. Professor McGonagall had provided an enchantment so that any Muggles who saw it would see just an ordinary red sedan.
The professors stepped out one by one, robes flapping in the windless air.
And then they saw it.
Addams Manor.
It loomed at the top of the hill like something carved from shadow and nightmares. Towering spires reached like claws into the sky. The stone walls were streaked with ancient soot, ivy, and what looked suspiciously like dried blood. The windows, many of them cracked or shattered, glowed faintly with candlelight, but gave off no warmth. No sound came from within.
And yet... the house seemed to watch them.
Professor McGonagall swallowed hard, and even Pomona Sprout, who loved a good ruin, hesitated. For all his sneers and muttered insults, Snape stood perfectly still, and though no one would dare say it aloud, his fingers hovered ever so slightly closer to his wand. Only Flitwick stepped forward with any confidence, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with nervous amusement while Dumbledore regarded the manor with a long, quiet breath. Then stepped up to the gate.
A black iron bell hung from an ornate frame carved with skulls and roses.
He rang it.
A GONG reverberated so loudly that every bird in the forest took flight.
McGonagall jumped. Sprout yelped. Snape let out a strangled noise and stepped back, drawing his wand instinctively. Even Dumbledore flinched.
"I... wasn't expecting that," he murmured.
Thirty seconds passed. Then the great front door creaked open with a groan like ancient tombstones shifting.
A figure stepped forward into the gray light.
Seven feet tall, broad-shouldered, hollow-eyed, and dressed in an immaculate black suit and bow tie. He looked like the corpse of a Victorian undertaker, only better dressed.
His face was pale, nearly gray. His eyes sunken, his brow low, and his jaw slightly slack. One hand rested on the door, the other hung limp at his side. A faint wheeze escaped his throat as he inclined his head ever so slightly.
Snape screamed.
"Inferius!" he barked, raising his wand.
Before he could cast, a small but firm hand caught his wrist.
"Severus," Flitwick said calmly, "that's the butler."
Snape blinked. "The what?!"
"Lurch," Flitwick said with a tight smile. "Addams Family servant. Long-standing. Not undead. Well, perhaps technically, but not infernal."
Snape stared. Lurch stared back.
Snape lowered his wand slowly as the man—or whatever he was—gave a deep, rattling groan that might have been a greeting.
Dumbledore stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"Ah… Lurch, is it?" he said, adjusting his robes. "We are here to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Addams, regarding a young boy under their care. Might we come in?"
Lurch blinked slowly, then stepped aside; the doors opened inward with a creak that sounded disturbingly like a whisper, causing the staff to hesitate. All except the Headmaster, who strode inside without fear.
The others followed, though McGonagall kept a firm grip on her wand, and Sprout muttered every protective charm she could remember under her breath.
The entry hall was colder than outside. And larger than any of them expected.
A crimson rug ran up the floor like a river of dried blood. Suits of armor lined the walls, some holding weapons, others holding books, one cradling what appeared to be a taxidermy weasel wearing a tiara.
Above them, the chandelier was made entirely of black candles and animal bones. A grand staircase curled upward like the tail of a dead serpent.
There were eyes in the portraits.
And not the magical kind.
Flitwick nodded to a snarling portrait of a one-eyed woman with a battleaxe. "Ah. Aunt Maud."
Sprout made a noise like she was about to faint.
Snape stopped dead in his tracks as one of the suits of armor hissed at him.
"They decorate with dark artifacts," he muttered. "Of course they do. A perfect place to raise children..."
A low, melodic groan sounded behind them.
Lurch gestured with one skeletal hand and began leading them down a corridor.
Dumbledore followed without hesitation.
The rest trailed after, past snarling busts, mounted bat heads, and a room from which the unmistakable sound of organ music being played by itself emerged.
Finally, Lurch stopped outside a tall set of carved black double doors.
He let out another groan and opened them.
Inside, the Addams drawing room was every bit as strange as expected, and more.
Gomez lounged on a fainting couch in a purple robe, flipping a dagger between his fingers, while Fester was skulking in the corner, and fiddling with something that was emitting a large amount of sparks.
Morticia stood by the fireplace, dressed in a shadowy gown that moved like smoke. Her hands were folded, and her expression was unreadable.
Harry was seated between Wednesday and Pugsley at a chess table made of bone and obsidian.
All three children looked up as the professors entered.
Harry blinked at the group of strangers, gaze lingering on Dumbledore's long, silver beard and deep purple robes.
He leaned closer to Wednesday and whispered softly, "Who are they? More family?"
Wednesday didn't answer. She was watching.
Harry looked to Morticia, hesitant, but trusting.
She stepped forward with gliding grace, voice calm but cold.
"That," she said, tone sharpening like glass under silk, "is Albus Dumbledore. Headmaster of Hogwarts. Chief Warlock. Supreme Mugwump. The man who left you on a doorstep in the dark of night… and has returned to take you back."
Harry froze.
"…Back?" he echoed, small voice cracking.
"To the Dursleys," Dumbledore said gently. "Your relatives."
The air left Harry's lungs.
He couldn't breathe.
Not again. Not the cupboard. Not the cold. Not Dudley.
He shook his head. "N-no—please—"
His hands began to tremble, eyes wide with rising panic.
And then—
A cool hand touched his shoulder.
Wednesday.
Her palm steady, firm.
Anchoring.
Harry blinked rapidly, breathing uneven.
But he didn't bolt. He didn't collapse.
She kept her hand right there.
Morticia's eyes, now like twin daggers, turned to Dumbledore.
"You are not taking him."
Dumbledore straightened, trying to hold onto the calm that had cracked.
"He is not yours."
"He is not yours either," Morticia said, her voice still low, still cold. "He was discarded. We simply picked him up."
McGonagall stepped forward. "He has family—"
"They abused him," Morticia snapped, for the first time letting true anger seep into her voice. "They starved him. That is not family, that is not protection."
Snape sneered. "You think he's better off here? With you?"
"Yes," Morticia said without hesitation.
Dumbledore opened his mouth, then stopped.
Because for one brief, terrible moment… he agreed.
Harry clutched Wednesday's sleeve now. Not hiding. Just holding on.
"I will not return him to the ones who hurt him," Morticia said. "He is ours now."
Gomez stood behind her, arms crossed, smiling without warmth.
"You are welcome to stay for tea," he added. "But don't mistake hospitality for permission."
Lurch groaned somewhere behind them.
Morticia turned toward the children.
"Harry," she said softly, "why don't you take your guests to the conservatory?"
Harry hesitated, then nodded.
Wednesday and Pugsley stood with him and led him away.
As the children left the room, Dumbledore exhaled slowly.
"This," he murmured, "will not be simple."
XXXX
The heavy doors thudded shut behind Harry, Flitwick, and Sprout. The air left in their wake seemed to congeal into something colder, weightier. Gomez Addams casually lit a cigar from the fireplace, the scent of burning cloves and something faintly metallic drifting into the room.
Dumbledore remained still, framed in the center of the Addams' drawing room, but the twinkle in his eyes had long since been snuffed out. Snape stood to his left, arms crossed, and lips curled. McGonagall, though composed, was visibly tense, her hands wringing the folds of her tartan robes.
Morticia Addams, regal and terrible, stood across from them like a queen in mourning and triumph all at once. Her black gown pooled around her feet like spilled ink, and her eyes gleamed with something ancient and inhuman.
"Albus," she said softly. "You return to our doorstep. A braver man than most. Or a more foolish one."
Dumbledore bowed his head slightly. "I had hoped this would be... amicable."
"Then you hoped poorly," Gomez said cheerfully, flipping his dagger into the air and catching it by the tip. "But do go on, old sport. We love a bit of tension before tea."
Dumbledore straightened. "I am here for Harry Potter."
"Our Harry?" Morticia asked, almost lazily.
"He is not yours," Snape snapped.
Morticia's eyes turned on him like twin blades unsheathed. She did not speak. She simply looked, and Snape, for all his bluster, swallowed hard.
Dumbledore intervened quickly. "We understand that you encountered him two weeks ago—"
"At the London Zoo," Morticia interrupted. "He was speaking to a King Cobra. Or rather, it was speaking to him. He was terribly polite about it."
She stepped forward, her voice deepening. "We felt it. That moment. A child of such rare dark potential. Alone. Unwanted. Afraid. But not weak. No, not Harry. He is sharp. Frayed, yes. A little broken. But oh, how much more beautiful the vessel is when the cracks are gilded in power."
McGonagall shuddered. "He's seven. He needs love, not... whatever this is."
"Do not presume to tell me what children need," Morticia said, her tone ice. "The Dursleys gave him fear. We give him purpose."
"You give him knives and poisons!" Snape barked.
"And instruction," Gomez countered brightly. "Even Pugsley didn't know how to make nightshade ice cream until his fourth birthday."
Dumbledore raised a hand. "Enough. I must insist. Harry is a child of prophecy—"
"And a child of pain," Morticia said. "You left him in the hands of monsters. Not ours. The ordinary kind. The ones who smile at church and starve their nephew in silence."
Gomez stepped beside her, placing a hand over hers, his expression turning dark. "You know, I've dueled vampires in the Carpathians who showed more warmth than those Muggles."
Morticia's voice dropped to a whisper. "Cruelty, Albus, is not a sin in this house. It is an art. But only when it serves a purpose. The Dursleys were not cruel for power. They were cruel for pleasure. And that," she said with a hiss, "is pedestrian."
Dumbledore's jaw tightened. "Be that as it may, I must bring him back. The wards at Privet Drive are essential to his protection."
"The same wards that required you to sacrifice his spirit for survival?" Morticia murmured. "You are a clever man, Albus. But cleverness is no shield against consequence."
"He is safer with us," Gomez said simply. "Because when someone threatens our family, we don't raise wards. We raise the dead."
McGonagall tried a different tactic. Her voice softened.
"Please," she said. "You must see that this is not sustainable. The boy will one day enter our world. He needs balance, not blood rituals. He needs guidance."
Morticia turned, graceful and cold. "He needs someone who will not flinch from the darkness inside him. Who will cradle it, sharpen it, and teach it to bite back."
Snape stepped forward. "If you do not relinquish the boy, I will inform the Ministry. They'll have you all thrown into Azkaban."
Fester, who had until now been gleefully pulling the wings off a mechanical bat in the corner, looked up.
"The Ministry, eh?" he said, grinning ear to ear. "Ohhh, that takes me back."
Snape sneered. "Let me guess. You've handled them before?"
"London. 1666," Fester said wistfully. "Our cousin Prudence summoned a plague wight. The Ministry didn't like it. Sent ten Aurors to arrest us."
Gomez chuckled. "They didn't make it past the foyer."
Fester sighed happily. "Two days later? Boom. Great Fire of London."
Snape turned pale.
Morticia smiled. "We do not fear the Ministry. We amuse ourselves with them."
Dumbledore exhaled slowly. He remembered now. Why he had stayed away for so long. Why he had shuddered when he first heard the name Addams whispered at a funeral long ago.
"You are making a mistake," he said quietly.
"No," Morticia whispered. "We are correcting one."
And as Dumbledore stared at the couple—dark, dangerous, devoted—he felt something he had not felt in a long time.
Not uncertainty.
Dread.
XXXX
Meanwhile, Harry was walking alongside Professors Flitwick and Sprout down a long velvet-draped hallway, Wednesday just half a step behind him. The enormous grandfather clock at the end ticked backward.
"So," Flitwick chirped, looking up at Harry. "How are you liking your time here, my boy?"
Harry brightened. "It's been wonderful! I've never had my own room before. And I get to read all the time, and Wednesday and Pugsley play with me every day! Well… most days I end up covered in something sticky or bruised, but it's still fun."
Sprout smiled kindly. "And you feel safe here, dear? You're not scared of anything?"
Wednesday's eyes narrowed.
Harry blinked. "Well... not really. I mean, some of the statues move when you're not looking at them, and Fester said the walls bleed on full moons, but he was just joking, I think."
"It's only during blood eclipses," Wednesday corrected calmly.
Flitwick chuckled uneasily. "And... the Addams adults? They treat you well?"
Harry tilted his head. "They treat me like I'm... wanted. Like I'm interesting. They even let me ask questions, and Fester says I'm good at making candles from bone marrow."
Sprout tried not to blanch.
Wednesday stepped in smoothly, her voice quiet but firm. "If you're here to spy on my family or look for excuses to take him away, I suggest you stop."
Flitwick raised his hands gently. "Not at all, Miss Addams. We're simply... concerned educators."
"Then educate yourselves better," she replied.
Harry looked between them, puzzled. "Is something wrong?"
"No, Harry," Sprout said quickly. "We just want to make sure you're happy."
He gave her a small, honest smile. "I am. I really am."
Wednesday's gaze remained cool, causing both Professors to gulp nervously under her stare; this was unlike any child they had encountered before.
They turned the corner and stepped into the Addams greenhouse, where carnivorous plants waved lazily at them, and a cauldron of black orchids hissed at their presence.
"This place is mad," Flitwick muttered in awe.
Wednesday smiled. "That's the point."
And Harry, caught between horror and delight, simply nodded in agreement.
XXXX
Back in the drawing room, Dumbledore's voice had grown tired but no less firm.
"There must be some middle ground," he tried once more, his voice straining under the weight of futility. "Some compromise. We only want what's best for the boy."
Morticia stared at him as though regarding a particularly amusing beetle. "You mean what's best for you."
"You cannot possibly believe this is sustainable," McGonagall added, still clinging to hope. "Eventually, someone—"
"Eventually," Morticia cut in with venomous grace, "the world will either learn to respect Harry Potter or to fear him. Either outcome suits us."
Snape hissed through his teeth. "This is madness."
"This," Gomez said, gesturing with theatrical pride, "is family."
At that moment, Flitwick and Sprout returned through the main doors, Harry bounding cheerfully at their side, a black rose in one hand and a shrunken head in the other. Pugsley and Wednesday trailed behind, looking entirely too pleased.
Flitwick's face was grave but composed. "He's happy. Healthy. A bit... unconventional but loved."
Sprout nodded slowly. "This is not abuse. This is... something else."
Dumbledore paled.
"Then I have no choice," he said at last, voice low. "I will be forced to report the Addams family to the Wizengamot for kidnapping."
Harry blinked. "Who got kidnapped?"
Morticia's smile bloomed like nightshade. "Why, you did, darling. But only from a life so dull and lifeless, it would have been a mercy to bury it."
Wednesday patted his shoulder. "Consider it a rescue mission."
And as Dumbledore opened his mouth to respond, he realized that nothing he could say would matter here. Not in this house of shadows. Not with this family of wolves who had already claimed Harry as one of their own.
And Harry? He only smiled, clutching the black rose tighter.
XXXX
The time had come to leave. Dumbledore gathered his cloak around him, turning silently to the door. The other Professors followed, their faces pinched with unease.
"Albus," Morticia's velvet voice called out from behind.
He paused.
Turning back, he saw her standing tall and pale beside Harry. Her hand rested gently on his shoulder, her long fingers curled protectively. Harry looked up at her as if she were carved from starlight and shadow, a goddess incarnate.
Dumbledore felt it in his bones: the boy was already lost to them.
"Give my sincerest regrets," Morticia said, voice low and deadly, "to the families of the Aurors the Ministry will no doubt send."
Gomez chuckled, exhaling a plume of cigar smoke. "And let them know an Addams always pays their debts. We'll make sure the funerals are tasteful."
Dumbledore paled further, lips parting with nothing to say.
No words came. No threats. No hope.
The door groaned open, and then boomed shut behind them—loud as a gavel, final as a tombstone.
Within the manor, the Addams family smiled.
Outside, the wind howled like a warning.
XXXX
Author's Note:
With all of my stories, I follow a pattern. I release five to six chapters to test the waters and see if the material attracts an audience. If so, I release more. If not, then my story stops at five or six. I hope you all have enjoyed this story so far, and if I see people enjoying it, I will release more chapters in the future. Until next time, stay golden, Ponyboy.