Over the years, the Hogwarts staffroom had been many things: lively, tense, celebratory, but rarely was it this silent.
Minerva McGonagall sat stiffly in her chair, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes were sharp behind her spectacles. Dumbledore stood near the fireplace, gazing into the low flames, hands clasped behind his back. Beside him, Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick sat close together on the couch, both subdued but thoughtful. Professor Snape paced nearby, for once, absent his usual sneer; in its place was a thoughtful expression.
"Is it true?" Snape asked suddenly, turning to face Dumbledore with a sharp look. "What that woman said at the manor… about the boy speaking Parseltongue. Is it true?"
Dumbledore's expression was difficult to read. "I believe it is, Morticia Addams has no reason to fabricate such a detail."
Snape exhaled through his nose, nearly a scoff. "No reason? She's part of the darkest magical family still walking this earth, Albus. And she suddenly stumbles upon a boy speaking to snakes? That is not a coincidence…"
Flitwick cleared his throat gently. "It's a rare gift. Ancient, powerful, and... unnerving, when coming from a child like Harry…"
"The only other known Parselmouth in the last half-century was the Dark Lord!" Snape snapped. "It's not something children should possess. Especially one from a light family like the Potters! James Potter might have been a swine, but even I am forced to admit that his family was firmly light-sided."
Professor McGonagall glared daggers at the Potions professor for a moment, and opened her mouth to retort, only for Professor Sprout to cut her off.
"Do we even know how he came by the gift?"
Snape shook his head. "We don't, but I want to know; we all should…"
Dumbledore sighed, running his hand down his beard. "There are theories, I suspect... Voldemort's attack left more of a mark on Harry than the lightning scar."
McGonagall's voice was tight. "So, the boy who lived may have inherited more than just protection…" The staffroom fell silent at that as each professor processed that information, a wave of horror rolling through them at the implications.
"And now," she continued grimly, "he's living with a family whose idea of bedtime stories includes poison, execution, and blood magic."
"They've raised children before…" Sprout said gently, though her face remained worried. "Wednesday and Pugsley may be strange, terrifying even, but they're cared for…"
Flitwick nodded. "They're... unusual, yes. But there's a structure. Discipline, even. I asked Harry several questions while we were there, and he never once showed signs of fear."
Snape sneered at his coworker. "That doesn't mean he's not being manipulated. The boy is as dimwitted as his father and probably doesn't even know he's being turned dark."
"I must admit..." Sprout said slowly as McGonagall glared at Snape, "those Addams children are... well, I don't quite know how to describe them, to be perfectly honest."
"That's putting it mildly," Flitwick chuckled, swirling the tea in his cup. "Wednesday has a manner of speech that's... deliberate. Old-fashioned, even. Yet, she's only seven."
"She doesn't smile..." Sprout added. "Not once the entire time we were with her, not even when I showed her a sunflower charm..."
"She accepted it, though," Flitwick pointed out with a grin. "Tucked it into her braid like a poisoned dart, I think that was her way of being polite..."
Sprout laughed gently. "And her brother, Pugsley… Merlin, help us. That boy was gleefully building something that looked suspiciously like a bomb as Harry was giving us a tour. I could have sworn I saw a stick of... what is it the muggles call it? TNT?"
McGonagall paled at that, and Dumbledore seemed to age years as they watched.
Flitwick nodded sagely. "He asked if he could borrow a few bowtruckle claws and some doxy venom for 'experiments.' I'm not entirely sure he was joking."
Snape gave a slow, disdainful blink.
"Am I to understand," he drawled, "that you've both been charmed by a pair of sociopathic children who likely spend their evenings flaying squirrels for sport?"
Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit dramatic, Severus."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Snape sneered. "Was it not Pugsley who asked me, dead serious, whether the forbidden forest had anything he could 'put in a cage for Wednesday's birthday'?"
Sprout took a long sip of tea to hide her smirk.
"They're strange, yes," Flitwick said diplomatically. "But not cruel. There's a sharpness to them, like iron blades. Not malicious… just forged differently."
Snape snorted. "Forged? More like distilled from the dregs of some Victorian nightmare, it's a wonder they haven't been exorcised."
Sprout gave him a firm look. "They like Harry. That's what matters to me. He seems to… fit with them. In his own way..."
Flitwick nodded, softer now. "He followed Wednesday around like a shadow. She kept one hand on his shoulder nearly the whole tour. Protective, almost."
"Or possessive," Snape snapped. "Either way, it's unsettling. Children aren't meant to grow up surrounded by death, blades, and dark magic."
"They're not growing up in it," Sprout said firmly. "They're growing up with it. There's a difference."
Snape's lip curled, but he said nothing as the fire crackled in silence.
Then Flitwick added, with a quiet laugh, "Still, I don't envy the poor soul who tries to bully Harry now. Between Wednesday's stare and that creepy hand that follows him about, I dare say he's better protected than most first-years."
"You think Wednesday will teach Harry how to make that guillotine?"
Flitwick chuckled. "Only if he promises to let her test it."
McGonagall looked at Dumbledore with a heartbroken expression as her two colleagues chuckled at one another. "We've lost him, haven't we…?"
Dumbledore's eyes didn't leave the fire. "I don't know."
"We can't let them raise him unchecked; he's Harry Potter, Albus! He's the symbol of everything we fought for! Think of what Lily and James would say for Merlin's sake!"
Snape turned away from the others, a war going on within himself. On the one hand, he reveled at the thought of how James Potter, sanctimonious bastard that he was, was no doubt rolling in his grave at such a dark family raising his son. But on the other hand, Snape knew that Lily would be terrified, and it was for her sake alone that he had willingly become Dumbledore's spy and betrayed the Dark Lord.
"Honestly, I think they'd be nervous about who was raising their son…" Flitwick added quietly. "But… I also think they'd be happy that their child's finally found a place where he doesn't feel unwanted…"
Despite the way everyone was feeling, no one seemed able to come up with a counterargument to that, instead choosing to stare quietly at the dancing flames in the hearth as thunder rolled outside the castle, as though even the weather could sense the inner struggle going on within each of them.
XXXX
The halls of Addams Manor were unusually still.
It was late, and the shadows stretched long and quiet across the stone floors. In the west wing, one room alone was lit, Harry's.
Morticia stepped inside, her movements as silent as ever, and found him sitting up in bed, staring out the window, his arms wrapped around his knees.
"Can't sleep?" she asked softly.
Harry turned his head, surprised but not startled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stay up."
Morticia smiled and crossed the room, her pale skin almost glowing in the dark room. "Nightmares?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. I just... I keep thinking he's going to come back. That he's going to take me away."
She didn't ask who Harry was referring to; she already knew. Instead of replying, she sat down beside him on the bed, the mattress barely dipping under her weight. Her voice, when it came, was low and cold. "If he tries again, there will be blood…"
Harry looked up at her, his eyes filled with trust for the only adult who had ever made him feel like he was worth something.
"I mean that, darling. The last man who tried to take something from me bled for days before he died, and you're far more precious than he was."
There was a flicker of fear in Harry's eyes, but it passed quickly, replaced by something else. Something warm and safe.
"You're not afraid of them?"
"I'm not afraid of anyone," Morticia said calmly, tilting her head as though confused by Harry's question, "Fear is for those who have not danced naked under a full moon as it rained the blood of their enemies."
Harry lay back down, relaxing slowly as he pondered Morticia's words. There were times when he was still afraid of the family who had taken him in, but other times, Harry felt safer than he had ever felt living amongst the Dursleys.
Morticia stayed where she was, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Then, in a low whisper, she began to hum. The melody was strange; low and mournful, each note curled like smoke in the air, full of half-forgotten lullabies and the hush of distant thunder. The lyrics, when she began to sing, were darker still:
"Hush now, darling, shadows creep, Through the window, into sleep. Hear the whispers, soft and low, From the place's dreams don't go…
Blood and bone and midnight's breath, secrets kept in tangled death. Fear no ghost, no ghoul, no wight, You're safe within the endless night."
For any other child, the song might have summoned screams and nightmares that would make it impossible for them to sleep that night.
Harry? Harry's eyelids fluttered. His breathing slowed. Something about the haunting cadence calmed him more than anything ever had.
As he drifted into sleep, he mumbled softly, "Goodnight, mummy…"
Morticia didn't move. She sat for a long moment, her hand still resting against his temple, watching his chest rise and fall. Then she rose and pulled the blanket up a little higher, gently brushing her hand over his scar.
Outside the door, Gomez leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a lit cigar burning between his lips. A grin twitched at the corners of his mouth; Thing was sitting comfortably on his shoulder.
"You heard him?" Morticia said as she stepped out and closed the door gently behind her.
Gomez tilted his head. "He said it without thinking."
"That makes it real, mon cher…" Morticia smirked, causing Gomez to gasp lightly, placing a hand over his heart.
"Oh, Tish… You know what French does to me…"
Morticia smirked at that, offering her arm, which Gomez immediately took before rapidly kissing up the length of it; once he reached her shoulder, he dipped the pale woman and began to passionately kiss Morticia, making her gasp lightly.
"Come," she said smoothly, as Gomez raised her back up, "I'm in the mood to celebrate."
Gomez beamed. "Cara Mia… Can we use the rack again?"
"Oui…" Morticia smirked as the two walked down the dark hallway, arm in arm.