Title: The Sword Wielder
Author: TardisIsTheOnlyWaytoTravel
Pairings: Possible Harry/Wednesday.
Story Summary: The problem with magical, mildly-sentient swords, is that they have a mind of their own, and when they take a liking to you there's very little you can do to make them change it.
Setting:.Harry's second year. Harry Potter/Addams Family/Chrestomanci crossover.
Author notes:
This chapter was written quite a long time ago, and you can tell – it lacks the usual level of polish my current stories tend to have. All the same, it should be interesting.
Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and associated characters and ideas are from the Harry Potter books. The Addamses are based on the characters in the "Addams Family" movies made in the 1990s. Chrestomanci, the Castle, Cat and the associated characters are from the Chrestomanci series by Diana Wynne Jones.
I've wanted to write a Chrestomanci/Harry Potter crossover for ages but couldn't work out how: then I read Ishtar's excellent "Family Values" and suddenly realised how to fit Harry into Chrestomanci's world. This fic is for the person who simply ages ago read a Mary-Sue fic I wrote (long since deleted) and requested Chrestomanci stories. The Chrestomanci universe will appear in a chapter or so.
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THE SWORD WIELDER
CHAPTER ONE
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The problem with magical swords, as Harry found to his cost, is that sometimes they can take a liking to you. And when a magical sword becomes attached to you, there is very little you can do to change its mind.
-
The Sword of Gryffindor, like many swords belonging to famous wizards, was emphatically magical. While it rarely showed any signs of its inherent magic, preferring to lay there like any big ol' sword, it was in fact magical to the point of mild sentience. Which was why, when one Mr H.J. Potter used it to hack away at a giant snake, the Sword of Gryffindor was able to decide that he would make the perfect wielder.
-
It was the last day of Harry Potter's second year at Hogwarts. Despite the many uncomfortable things that had happened this year, he was still depressed about leaving the school to return to his relatives for the duration of the holidays. Although he was a wizard, thanks to the Decree for Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic he was unable to use his magic, with the result that his relatives were able to treat him any way they pleased – which was always unkindly, at the very least. Sighing, Harry opened his trunk to begin packing his things.
The Sword of Gryffindor was lying on top of a pile of robes.
Harry stared at it. He'd left the thing in Dumbedore's office, so how…?
He poked it tentatively. The sword shone brightly, and the enormous ruby set in the hilt glinted at him. Harry hastily took a step back. After a moment's thought he went down to the common room in search of Hermione.
"Hermione," she looked up irritably, "I just found the Sword of Gryffindor" – something flashed into existence in front of him, and Harry caught it reflexively – "in my trunk," he finished, staring at the sword now resting smugly in his right hand. Hermione stared too. Pretty soon, most of the common room was staring; a large sword lavishly decorated with precious stones and metals has a way of to catching the attention, and every one tended to keep an eye on Harry anyway. Interesting things had a way of happening around him.
"Harry," Hermione said, hoping to clarify something that completely defied all logic from her point of view, "did the Sword of Gryffindor just materialise in front of you?"
"It did, yeah," Harry agreed, still staring at it.
"Wicked," said Ron, impressed.
Harry waved it aimlessly.
"And before then, it had mysteriously appeared in your trunk?" Hermione persisted.
"Yeah." Harry was now holding it up in front of him and examining it closely.
"So, the Sword of Gryffindor is stalking Harry?" Seamus asked.
Hermione looked put out.
"Apparently."
"Cool." And for everyone else, that was the end of the matter.
-
Harry soon found that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the sword to leave him alone for more than fifteen minutes. As soon as fifteen minutes was up, it would suddenly appear in front of him, right where he could grab it easily; the one time he didn't bother to catch it, it vanished again before it reached the floor only to re-materialise in the air just above his head. Harry made sure he always caught it after that: being knocked senseless by a sword is not an experience one wishes to repeat.
In the end Harry left the sword in his trunk so that he could bring it back with him to Privet Drive. The sword seemed to be content with that arrangement; at least, it stopped stalking him. It stayed in his trunk, humming slightly, so that he always knew it was there. Harry wished it wouldn't. The sound was beginning to get on his nerves.
oo o0o oo
As soon as he got back to Privet Drive Harry's things were confiscated and locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry wasn't at all surprised; indeed, he was relieved, as Uncle Vernon had been muttering about burning them all the way home. Harry supposed that he was too afraid of earning the wrath of the wizards at school to risk it.
Harry wasn't pleased to be back with his horrible relatives, but his annoyance was nothing compared to the dismay he felt when he was told that 'Aunt' Marge, Uncle Vernon's obese and objectionable sister, was coming to stay.
"Oh no!" Harry wailed.
Uncle Vernon glared at him.
"You'll keep a civil tongue in your head when you're speaking to her," he ordered. "And I don't want any – any funny stuff while she's here. Marge doesn't know about your abnormality, so you behave yourself, got me?"
"I will if she does," Harry said stiffly.
"Also, we've told Marge you attend St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys."
"What??"
"And you'll be sticking to that story, boy, or there'll be trouble!"
-
So Harry sat sulkily at the edge of the kitchen as Marge was ushered in and seated with a slice of fruitcake and a cup of tea, thinking about how much more he hated her than any of his other relatives. She was immensely large and equally narrow-minded, with a racist outlook to complement her brutish, bullying personality. She also despised Harry extremely. Every time she visited she abused Harry and his parentage, and thumped him, an a couple of times had even set one of her dogs on him, the old and evil-tempered bulldog rather aptly named Ripper. It said something that even Aunt Petunia was rather less than fond of Aunt Marge.
So Harry waited, sullen and angry, for the inevitable. Sure enough, as Marge finished her tea, one mean, slitted eye turned in his direction.
"So! Still here, are you?"
"Yes," Harry replied shortly.
"Don't you say 'yes' in that ungrateful tone!" Marge growled. "It's damn good of Vernon and Petunia to keep you. Wouldn't have done it myself. You'd have gone straight to the orphanage if you'd been dumped on my doorstep."
Harry had a number of replies to that – a sharp "no, unlike you they actually have some family feeling," a rather long "if I'd been dumped on your doorstep I'd probably have lived up to my reputation and committed murder," and the short but succinct "thank God!" – but he didn't quite dare to voice any of them. He sat in scowling silence.
"Huh," Marge decided. "Manners as bad as ever. I hoped school would knock some into you. Where is it that you send him again, Vernon?"
"St Brutus's," Uncle Vernon grunted. "It's a first-rate institution for hopeless cases."
"I see," said Marge. "Do they use the can at St Brutus's, boy?" she barked suddenly. Harry gave a curt nod.
Her eyes narrowed.
"They clearly aren't hitting you hard enough. I say, Petunia, I'd write if I were you. Make it clear that you approve the use of extreme force in this boy's case."
Petunia looked slightly awkward. Harry gritted his teeth. Vernon changed the subject after a look at his face. The last thing he wanted was one of Harry's type of accidents.
Unfortunately, Marge was enjoying the conversation too much. She continued to talk about Harry.
"You mustn't blame yourself for the way he's turned out," Marge added. "Blood runs true, you know. Now, I'm saying nothing against your family, Petunia, but your sister was a bad egg. Then she ran off with a wastrel and here's the result right in front of us."
Harry stared fixedly at his plate. There was a funny ringing in his ears, and he felt almost dizzy…
"It's one of the basic rules of breeding," Marge continued, oblivious to the danger she was in. "You see it all the time in dogs. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup –"
"SHUT UP!" Harry finally roared. He shot to his feet, glaring, wand in one hand and the Sword of Gryffindor in the other. Harry hadn't the least idea where they'd come from, but it seemed like the sort of thing the sword did. He was glad to have them now, as Marge had taken on the look of an angry rhinoceros.
"Shut up!" Harry yelled again. "You know nothing about me or my parents! My mother was a talented witch, and my father came from one of the oldest, most respected families in wizarding Britain! As for breeding, theirs is far above yours!"
Harry didn't know why he added in the bit about breeding; it just seemed to fit, and was out of his mouth before he thought about it. But now Marge was on her feet and snarling at him, apparently too angry and drunk to notice the sword.
"Don't be ridiculous, boy! Your parents were no-good, lazy scroungers who got themselves killed and left you to be a burden on their decent, hard-working relatives! The world's better without them! As for you, you insolent, nasty little brat, you should have been drowned at birth like a mongrel pup!"
Harry snapped completely. A jet of red light rocketed out of the sword's tip and hit Marge squarely in the stomach. She was opening her mouth to scream at Harry again when suddenly she began collapsing in on herself.
"MARGE!!" Vernon screamed.
-
Harry made a run for it. As he neared the cupboard under the stairs it burst open, and Harry dragged out his school trunk before dashing upstairs to grab the handful of things in his room. As he clattered down the stairs again Vernon burst out of the dining room, a livid purple.
"COME BACK IN HERE AND PUT HER RIGHT!"
Harry just grabbed his trunk with one hand and pointed the sword at him with the other.
"She deserved it," Harry snarled. "She deserved what she got. Now leave me alone before I curse you too."
He strode to the front door and flung it open, marching down the front path still with that odd red mist before his eyes, thinking that at that moment what he wanted most was to be a world away from the Dursleys and Privet Drive and Marge.
With a swirl of magic the equally furious Sword of Gryffindor obliged him.
oo o0o oo
Harry hit the floor with a thud. He groaned and wondered what had just happened, anger leaching away almost immediately to leave complete confusion.
"Look Pugsley, it's a boy," a girl's voice said calmly. "Maybe he'll let us borrow his sword."
Harry rolled over, wand and sword still in their respective hands, to find two very odd-looking children watching him.
The boy was burly and fair-haired, and wore black trousers and a black-and-white shirt. At first glance he didn't seem very intelligent, but his eyes were bright and keen.
As for the girl, she was – well – gothic. She wore a long-sleeved blouse that buttoned right up to the throat, with a black pinafore dress and black stockings, and little black boots. Her hair was black too and as dark as Harry's, and was done in two plaits with one on each side of her head. She was staring at Harry with a disturbingly flat expression.
-
"Maybe we can decapitate him with it," the girl mused. Harry scrambled backwards, eying her warily.
"Uh, I'd prefer not," he suggested. The sword rang reaffirmingly. "The sword agrees."
The girl's gaze rested on the sword now.
"Interesting," she said. "A sword with opinions. Isn't that interesting, Pugsley?"
The boy grinned a slightly feral grin.
"Interesting," he agreed. Then, as though Harry had just passed some kind of test, the girl smiled at him.
"I'm Wednesday, and this is my brother Pugsley," she introduced. "He's older than me by ten months so he's bigger than I am, but I'm the smarter one. We're Addams. Who are you?"
Harry got awkwardly to his feet.
"I'm Harry Potter." Harry still didn't trust them. "Where am I?"
Wednesday raised her eyebrows.
"Our house, of course. Do you want a tour?"
-
That was how Harry found himself being given a tour of the creepiest house he had ever seen.
"This is the armoury," Pugsley announced cheerfully. "We don't use it that much anymore, but Father occasionally borrows a couple of the rapiers to fence with Mother."
Wednesday disappeared around a corner for a moment.
"It's silly to be walking around with that sword all the time," her voice echoed back, "so I thought we could lend you a sheath for however long you're here."
She reappeared carrying a sword sheath in both hands which she wrapped around Harry's waist. Harry watched bemusedly as she adjusted its size and did up the buckle before taking a step back.
"You can sheath your sword now," Wednesday said. She smiled at him. Harry smiled back, a little uncomfortably; her eyes were gazing into his with an intensity that he wasn't used to. It was a little disturbing. He looked away and slid the sword into he sheath.
"Girls," Pugsley muttered. "Let's show you the dungeons," he said loudly. Wednesday brightened – at least, she seemed to. It was a little hard to tell.
"You'll like it there, Harry," and taking his empty hand, began leading him away. Bewildered, and slightly alarmed, Harry glanced at Pugsley; but the boy just stomped along behind him, looking resigned and refusing to meet Harry's eyes.
-
The Addams children were leading Harry down a hallway when a female voice asked,
"Children, who is this?"
Harry turned with the other two to find a tall pale woman with dark hair and eyes standing behind them. Her black dress was clinging and spidery, and her lipstick was very, very red. In her own way she was as gothic as Wednesday was, but in a grown-up, beautiful sort of way. To Harry she looked like a B-grade movie vampira.
"This is Harry," Pugsley offered. "He appeared in the basement when we were carrying out Satanic rituals."
"What have I told you about those?" the woman said sternly. "They make a terrible mess for poor Lurch. Blood stains are so difficult to remove. If you must carry out Satanic rituals, do it outside where they're easier to clean up."
Wednesday took a step forward and slipped a hand into Harry's, fixing her solemn eyes on her mother's face.
"Can we keep him?" she asked simply.
"If he has no where else to go, he is of course welcome to stay here," her mother said. "But I am sure his family will be worried about him." Her eyes lingered on this clothing, worn and far-too-large hand-me-downs from Dudley.
Harry shook his head vigorously.
"My aunt and uncle hate me," he said earnestly. "They didn't want to take me in when my parents died, but they had to. They're normal and I'm not, and they hate that. Please don't make me go back."
The woman gazed at him, her eyes as dark and unreadable as Wednesday's.
"Of course we won't, Harry," she said finally. "You're welcome to stay as long as you like. I'm Morticia." She turned and began gliding down the hallway, tendrils of dress trailing behind her like tentacles. "Pugsley dear, do lend Harry some of your clothes when he come down to dinner. Our guests must be properly dressed." A moment later she was gone.
-
Wednesday and Pugsley both grinned at Harry, but there was a look in Wednesday's eyes that he thought ought to alarm him. Somehow, though, Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He gotten past being at all scared, and was approaching extremely interested indeed. This was a very different sort of world to the one he'd left behind in Privet Drive.
END CHAPTER