Three Days Later:
The heavy scent of bubbling swamproot stew clung to the rafters of the Addams' kitchen like a stubborn mist. A cauldron hissed in the corner; jars of suspiciously twitching organs lined the dusty shelves. Grandma Addams, bent and gnarled like an ancient root, hunched over Harry with surprising agility, poking and prodding at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead with a bony finger, causing Harry to flinch. The wizened witch had just returned the previous night after a lengthy visit to help a friend in Bulgaria whose son had been eaten by a ghoul. True, it had been the woman's least favorite son, but still, it was rather rude of the ghoul to eat her child without asking first. Upon returning, however, the witch had immediately ordered Harry to appear in her kitchen so she could finally examine the scar that adorned his forehead.
"Hold still, sugarbat…" Grandma grunted. "You twitch like a hexed fairy!"
"Sorry, ma'am," Harry mumbled, trying not to look at the fang-marked ladle floating in her bubbling brew.
Wednesday, true-to-form sat beside him at the worn, bone-carved table, chin in her hands, elbows on the tabletop, her eyes dark and unblinking as always. "If it starts bleeding or hissing," she said calmly, "we'll know you're cursed… Or possibly possessed…"
Harry paled at that, but Grandma grinned and chuckled darkly, "Oh, he's definitely cursed," she muttered. "Question is… by what…?"
A moment later, she reached into her pocket and retrieved a tiny black vial with a label that simply read: "Don't."
Uncorking it released a whisper of green smoke and a smell like scorched silver; with a dark grin, she tipped three drops onto Harry's scar.
The reaction was immediate: A shriek, shrill and otherworldly, erupted from the mark on his head. The sound was not human; it was pain incarnate, ancient and cruel. The cauldron stopped bubbling, the stew spoon froze in mid-air, and even the rat skeleton on the windowsill dropped its jaw comically.
Harry clutched his head with both hands, his eyes wide and terrified. Wednesday stared in eerie silence, her breath caught. It wasn't fear on her face; however, it was fascination.
But Grandma…
Grandma's face twisted into something that hadn't been seen in her expression for years: rage.
Her hand trembled, fingers curled as though ready to hex the air itself, and her voice was low, brittle. "...That monster."
"Grandma Addams…?" Harry asked, trembling. "What was that…?"
Grandma's voice shifted instantly back to sugary sweetness. "Nothing to worry your precious little head about, dear. Just a bit of ancient bad magic reacting poorly to my treatment."
Harry could tell that she was not being entirely truthful, and didn't believe her for a second, but wisely chose to keep any further questions to himself as he swallowed through the pain still emanating from his skull.
"Go on now," she said, ushering him and Wednesday off the chair. "You two go blow something up, or skin a toad or… whatever it is children do these days."
Harry still looked shaken and seemed to want to ask another question, but Wednesday took his hand and tugged him gently.
"Come on," she whispered. Fester left the dynamite out again. We can try redecorating Pugsley's room with his intestines."
As soon as the children had vanished from view, Grandma turned, eyes burning as she whipped out a gnarled black wand and sent a blasting curse at the nearby wooden wardrobe, instantly turning it to kindling a moment later. Breathing hard, the woman returned her wand to the inside of her dress before turning and making her way out of the kitchen.
XXXX
At that exact moment, in the Addams library, Fester was strapped to a spinning wooden board, arms and legs splayed like a frog being dissected, and giggling madly. Gomez stood five feet away, dressed to the nines, with an unnaturally red rose between his teeth and four knives between his fingers.
"Ready, my beloved brother?" Gomez grinned.
"Born ready!" Fester cackled back.
Instantly, Gomez flung three knives with uncanny grace—thwip-thwip-thwip—they buried into the board within inches of Fester's head.
Morticia sipped delicately from a teacup filled with something black and steaming and exhaled contentedly. "Such elegance in every throw, mon amour."
But the moment Grandma Addams strode into the study, the air changed; the temperature dropped, Morticia's porcelain skin went slightly paler, Gomez turned mid-throw, catching the blade at the last second before it left his hand.
"Mother!" Gomez greeted with a bow and a grin. "Back from Bulgaria already?"
"Tell us, did the ghoul surrender, or is he pickled in your luggage?" Morticia asked with mild curiosity.
Grandma didn't answer right away, choosing instead to grab a large container of brandy from the nearby table, which she drained in three seconds flat before throwing the bottle at Fester's head, making him cackle madly as it shattered into a hundred pieces.
"I examined Harry's scar," she said bluntly, causing the room to still; Fester's spinning slowed, and Gomez's knife dropped to the floor with a muted clink.
"And?" Morticia asked as she lifted her teacup to her lips again and took a small, polite sip.
"It's a Horcrux…"
For a heartbeat, nothing moved; then Morticia's teacup cracked in her hand, a single fracture running down its ornate design as frost began to bloom silently across the window behind her; when she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper:
"That foul thing... dared put a piece of himself inside our boy…?"
Gomez's fists clenched. "Treachery," he hissed. "A child!"
Even Fester stopped laughing, a look of shock on his upside-down face from where he hung. "That's… That's not even funny."
They knew what a Horcrux was, everyone in the dark circles of the magical world did; most feared the very concept of creating one. But the Addams Family? They hated the very idea of creating Horcruxes and viewed anyone who tried to make one as an enemy who must be killed immediately. Not because they feared death—but because they respected it.
"Death is not something to run from," Morticia said coldly. "It is sacred… Beautiful… The one promise none can break..."
"Until now," Grandma growled. "I haven't encountered one of those foul things in nearly a century. I had almost begun to hope that the knowledge of their creation had finally been lost, but it would appear that is not the case…"
"It's a pity our ancestor didn't manage to butcher Herpo the Foul before he could pass the knowledge along…" Morticia sneered softly as she recalled the Addams ancestor who had hunted the originator across three continents after learning of Herpo's attempt to cheat death. The witch had finally managed to track the man down in the end and had made his death last over weeks as she tortured him for information on where his Horcrux was hidden, but unfortunately, the knowledge of how to create the monstrosities had been given to Herpo's apprentice, who quickly released it out into the world before the Addams witch had put Herpo down. Since then, the Addams family had made it their mission to brutally destroy anyone they encountered who dared try to run from death's sweet embrace. There were some who even claimed that the Addams family had made a deal with death to destroy anyone who made a Horcrux. Their reward was what made the Addams clan so resilient to harm.
"Can it be removed?" Gomez asked, low and dark as he picked up the knife from the floor and proceeded to cut Fester's binds; a moment later, Fester fell to the floor with a painful crash. "I know our usual modus operandi is to just destroy the container, but in this situation…"
"Yes," Grandma stated, cutting Gomez off. "But not today… The ritual requires moonlight—a full moon, to be exact. That gives us three days," she said as she pulled out a pocket watch covered in blood.
"Tell us what you need," Morticia said at once.
"A silver dagger," Grandma said, putting away the watch and ticking off on her fingers. "Dragon's breath root. A vial of Lazarus water. A mandrake born on a blood moon. And a goat!"
As Fester raised himself off the floor and dusted himself off, he raised a hand. "Can it be an angry goat?"
Grandma didn't even blink: "It has to be."
Gomez began pacing, muttering in furious Spanish, while Morticia stood motionless, her expression a mask of icy wrath. "He's still just a boy… He doesn't even know what was done to him..."
"We won't let it fester," said Gomez. "No offense, brother."
"None taken," Fester said flatly.
"Our family has hunted these abominations down for over two thousand years…" Grandma hissed angrily, "No one knows how to destroy them better than an Addams! You needn't worry, Morticia, Harry will be just fine."
Unknown to all, Wednesday had been silently standing outside the library doors and had heard every word; Harry was gone, off chasing Pugsley with a skull-shaped net, allowing the girl to sneak away and listen to what was wrong with the boy she had found at the zoo.
She had heard everything and was already thinking of what she would do to the man who dared hurt her Harry, should she ever encounter him…
XXXX
Later that night, the ancient pipes of the Addams manor groaned and clanked with age and mystery as Harry stood on a wooden stool before the cracked mirror of the third-floor bathroom. The one in his room was temporarily broken due to Pugsley flushing a grenade down it. He was brushing his teeth with a slightly charred toothbrush (Fester's doing, apparently) and trying not to stare too long at the mirror. Sometimes it blinked back…
He had just rinsed and was about to hop down when—
"Harry…"
The voice was barely above a breath. Soft. Cold. Hissing.
Harry froze, and his toothbrush slipped from his hand and clattered into the sink. The mirror warped, just for an instant, as though the surface had rippled like water, and Harry spun around, wide-eyed, his heart pounding.
"W-Wednesday?" he called out. "Pugsley?"
Silence.
Only the gurgle of the pipes and the distant sound of explosions upstairs, followed by Fester's unmistakable laughter, answered him, and Harry's breath caught in his throat as he realized something: He was not alone.
Ordinarily, this would not have even made Harry blink, for the Addams Manor was filled with curiosities and oddities that made one feel as if they were constantly being watched, but this felt different… This felt… wrong.
And then—
The door creaked open.
"Harry?" came Morticia's voice, smooth as velvet and edged with steel, causing him to whirl, startled, only to see her standing in the doorway in one of her nightgowns, long and black as moonless midnight, her hair shimmering like spilled ink in the candlelight.
"You look pale, darling. Are you unwell?"
Harry opened his mouth, unsure if he should say anything. Then, the fear spilled out in a quiet whisper.
"I… I heard something… A voice. It said my name..."
Morticia's eyes sharpened instantly; her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, and her lips pressed into a faint line. For the briefest second, it looked as if her whole body stilled, like a predator scenting danger.
But then she softened, slowly stepping forward and offering Harry a pale hand.
"I see," she said, and gently helped him down from the stool. "Come, sweet boy… It's time for bed."
"What about the voice, though…?" Harry asked as he clung to her hand, grateful for her touch.
"I wouldn't pay it any mind," Morticia replied softly, though Harry could almost hear the threat hovering just under the surface, "It was most likely just a passing ghost, they occasionally appear in the manor on their way to wherever it is that they're going..."
Harry bit his lip at that, not knowing for sure if he believed her, but chose to, all the same. Morticia hadn't lied to him once since he came to live with her, a stark contrast from the other adults of Harry's life, and it was what made him trust her completely. As the two of them stepped into the hallway, Harry couldn't help but shudder; the corridor was darker than usual, but Morticia's presence banished the shadows, even if she wore them like perfume.
When they finally returned to his room, she pulled back the heavy velvet sheets and helped him under the covers, tucking him in with practiced grace.
"Am I… cursed?" Harry asked timidly as he settled onto his pillow; Morticia inwardly raged with fury at how pathetic Harry's voice sounded, and in that moment, she wished with all her dark heart that Voldemort was before her, for she would greatly enjoy 'playing' with him.
As Morticia sat beside him and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, fingers lingering near the scar, she forced her voice to come out calm and cool, not showing any of the rage burning inside her.
"No, dearest. But—" she paused, choosing her words carefully, "—the coward who murdered your parents… he left behind something foul. A remnant… Like rot left in the walls after the corpse is dragged away."
Harry flinched, and his face went as pale as freshly fallen snow. "Inside me?"
She nodded once. "But it has no claim on you! And it will never define who you are! In a few days, our family will perform a ritual… One that will rid you of it… forever."
Harry looked like he might cry at that, and he sniffled twice pathetically before asking softly: "Will it hurt?"
Morticia tilted her head as she considered her answer, before finally deciding on the truth. "Perhaps. But only for a moment, and we will all be there, you will not face it alone…"
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead gently, just beside the cursed scar, her voice dropping into a whisper. "We will rip it out, piece by piece, if necessary."
Something in her tone made the candles flicker, and for a moment, he thought he could feel terror coming from somewhere in his being—somewhere that was both a part of him and somehow… not.
Harry nodded, exhausted and trembling, but somehow calmer; as Morticia rose from the edge of his bed, her long silhouette gliding toward the door, candlelight casting slow-moving shadows along the velvet walls. She was almost to the threshold when Harry, already drifting in the haze between wakefulness and dreams, whispered:
"Goodnight, Morticia… I love you…"
The moment the word left his lips, Harry's eyes flew open, and he froze in horror as he shot ramrod straight and turned to where Morticia had frozen in the doorway.
His breath hitched, panic flaring hot in his chest; he hadn't meant to say it. It just… slipped out. The words had buried themselves somewhere deep in him over the past month, and now they had surfaced before he could stop them. She wasn't his mother. She wasn't supposed to be. What if—
Morticia paused in the doorway at Harry's words and remained deathly still for several seconds as Harry's mind whirled with panic.
For a heartbeat, Harry thought she might turn around and scold him, or worse, walk out in silence. Instead, she turned slowly, the faintest smile on her pale lips soft, solemn, and just a little sad.
Finally, she tilted her head softly and whispered, "Goodnight, my beautiful viper. I love you too…"
And then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a gentle click as Harry sat there, frozen beneath the covers, blinking at the closed door where Morticia had just exited. Slowly, trembling fingers reached up to wipe at his eyes, but the tears kept coming; not sobs, not loud or shaking, just quiet, steady tears slipping down his cheeks as he smiled faintly to himself. For the first time in his life, he had said it… And someone… hadn't flinched away from him as a result.
She had smiled.
She had said it back, and what was even more amazing was that she meant it, Harry could tell.
As Harry fell asleep that night, smiling through his tears, the darkness no longer felt quite so cold; instead, it felt like a gentle hug, as though there was nothing on this earth that could harm him.