London was gray that evening, as if the sky itself mourned something it couldn't name. The rain fell in thin needles, steady and cold, washing filth down forgotten gutters and into unseen alleys. In one of those alleys, a child sat curled against a rusting dumpster, as silent and lifeless as a discarded doll.
He couldn't have been more than five. Thin. Bruised. Eyes too old for his face. The oversized shirt he wore bore faded cartoon characters, their cheer mocking his misery. The child's lips were chapped, bloodied. He didn't cry. He hadn't in days.
Pain was his companion. Hunger, his lullaby.
A flash of lightning illuminated the alley, and for one perfect moment, the world saw him.
So did she.
From under a black umbrella topped with a raven's skull, Morticia Addams tilted her head and stepped into the alley's mouth.
"Oh, Gomez," she murmured, her voice a symphony of silk and smoke. "Come look. A child of shadow."
Her husband appeared beside her, all charm and chaos, his mustache twitching with delight. "How utterly tragic!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with gleeful sorrow. "He's… magnificent."
The boy's eyes fluttered open—green, vivid, haunted. He did not recoil. Fear was wasted on monsters who smiled at pain.
"Who…?" His voice was a croak.
"I am Morticia," she said, crouching with impossible grace. "And this is my beloved Gomez. We are… collectors of the unusual."
"We prefer the term family," Gomez added, grinning. "And you, little creature, look very much like one of us."
The boy blinked slowly, uncertain. Was this another dream?
"You're bleeding," Morticia said, brushing his cheek with gloved fingers. "From within."
He flinched at her touch. She didn't pull away.
"We can fix that," Gomez said gently. "But only if you let us."
The boy opened his mouth, then closed it. The rain ran down his face like tears.
"My name is Harry," he whispered.
Morticia's smile deepened. "Of course it is."
An hour later, the boy was wrapped in a black velvet cloak lined with red satin, seated beside Morticia in a gothic black limousine. The warmth of the interior was surreal—soft, dry, clean. Morticia watched him from beneath her heavy lashes.
"We'll be home soon," she said. "You'll meet Wednesday and Pugsley."
"Are they… strange?"
Gomez roared with laughter. "My dear boy! Only the strangest survive in our house."
Harry almost smiled.
The Addams Family mansion loomed ahead like a cathedral of nightmares—twisted spires, ivy-choked windows, wrought-iron gates groaning in the wind. It should have frightened him.
Instead, it felt… familiar.
Wednesday Addams stood on the front steps, holding a crossbow. Her braids were perfect. Her expression was not.
"You brought a child," she said flatly.
"Found him in the alley," Morticia replied serenely.
"Is he cursed?"
"Not yet," Gomez answered. "But I have high hopes."
Pugsley peeked out from behind his sister, holding what looked like a hand grenade.
Harry stepped forward. The children stared at each other.
"Do you want to see the dungeon?" Wednesday asked.
Harry's eyes lit up for the first time in days.
"Yes."
She turned and walked inside. He followed without hesitation.
That night, Harry lay in a four-poster bed covered in black silk, under the watchful gaze of a taxidermy raven. The fire cracked in the hearth. Shadows danced on the walls.
He couldn't sleep. Not because he was scared—but because, for the first time, he wasn't.
From the crack beneath the door, he saw Thing skitter by on its fingers, chasing something that meowed and hissed in Latin. Somewhere in the house, Uncle Fester cackled like a lunatic.
And Harry Potter—abandoned, unwanted, broken—felt… wanted.
He whispered into the dark, as if testing the word.
"Family."
The house creaked in reply. Almost as if it understood.