A.N.: So, um, this is my first fic in years, and my second fic overall, so be kinda nice please? Though corrections are still appreciated. I know, I'm confusing, but that's ok, I confuse myself on a regular basis. I'm weird. I hope that whoever reads this actually enjoys it, but I do understand that I may have made some characters a bit OCC, so hopefully you'll forgive me for that too if it happens. I might do more if this is received well, but it is not currently in plans (unless you count my own mind). That said, please enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own either the Addams family franchise or the Harry Potter novels. I am not winning any money from this (even though I wrote more on here than I'd have willingly written on any essay), and any similarities with other shows, books, or even real events are completely coincidental.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley knew a lot about freak incidents, freaks in general and, as Vernon Dursley so aptly described, "Freaky stuff." That said nothing had prepared the bulbous man for the scene spread in front of him. It was bad enough that his wife was in hysterics due to their son's death, but he was forced to look at the result. It wasn't a simple - or clean - murder, a fact anyone could tell by just looking before losing control of their stomachs.

Dudley Dursley's body was unrecognizable, his body used as a canvas for what appeared to be a painting. His skin had been torn off and stretched so as to create a stable surface on which to paint, and his blood had been drained and then stored in a can in order to use it as paint. What really struck Vernon wasn't the messiness or the blood, however, but rather the way Dudley's body had been used as a tool. Whoever the perpetrator was, they had clearly been toying with Dudley's suffering and had planned everything carefully.

"Who would do such a thing!" yelled Vernon in anger at the police officer as soon as his stomach stabilized. "I demand that you find the culprit!" Vernon had, in fact, been accused of many things, but being smart wasn't one of them. His emotions often ended in anger over whoever he blamed, and in this case the first person to blame was the policeman.

"I'm sorry, sir, but who are you again?" The policeman asked, used to these situations.

"I'm this boy's father, that's who I am! Please tell me you're not just standing around like a no good f-ool instead of catching the perpetrator!" Vernon replied, turning purple and stumbling over his words.

"Vernon Dursley? The Inspector would like to talk to you over there" replied the policeman, ignoring the man completely otherwise and pointing towards a man in the background.

Angry at being ignored, Mr. Dursley left immediately, not paying any attention to the little girl he accidentally pushed down in his hasted and angry walk. The policeman, however, did.

"Here, let me help you," the policeman said, "You should probably rejoin your parents. This is no place for little girls. What's your name?"

In a strange and emotionless tone, the girl answered "Is it not you who should leave instead? Art in its purest form can only be admired by those who know. Either way, that's alright, I'm done here. Pugsley should be nearby."

With those strange parting words, the girl left, leaving a stunned policeman behind. A policeman who would not realize till much later that the girl had not given a name, nor had she elaborated on what he supposedly needed to know. Even then, he would chalk it up to kids being kids.

Wednesday Addams was not happy. Her brother, Pugsley, was not where he was supposed to be, she couldn't finish her artwork, and worst still, she didn't know who it was that had been watching her. She had been happy the night before, even when the stupid boy had tried to hit her, smiling in anticipation as it had been just as she was feeling the call of the night, a call that most Addams felt at least once a week. Usually, that would have been taken care of normally in America, but Grandmamma's quest took longer than anticipated, and so a prey had to be found.

A Perfect Target the boy had been, once his support and security was gone. Pugsley had taken good care of the coward's friends, and even now it would be days before the police found the results, despite the messiness of it. It was Pugsley's particular brand of art, she supposed, derived from Uncle Fester's and Gomez Addams' love of explosives and, of course, explosions. But it was an art she personally didn't find any appeal in. She much preferred her mother's way of doing things, either subtle and effective, or showy and artistic. The main element it had to have, however, was the power of instilling fear in whoever saw her designs. Thus, due to the boy's character, Wednesday had chosen to do the second option, for it seemed fitting for him to die slowly and painfully, and in public. After all, he had attempted to hurt her, and he had to feel the consequences of that. With magic, it hadn't been too hard to set it all up, just like her family had taught her. Despite being 10 years old, Wednesday was a genius, a genius that knew art, at that. And what a beautiful sight it had all created! Well, before her interruption.

There started Wednesday's problems. The Addams family, while eccentric, was very careful in how they dealt with others. Oh, they had been accused over time of many things, but Gomez Addams, the family's head and Wednesday's father, always stepped in as a lawyer. Despite having the biggest losing streak any lawyer had ever seen, Gomez always managed to win much more in a particular case than what the results showed. In fact, the end result usually became the total destruction and suffering of the one who dared attack them, a "vacation" for the Addams family parents in the prison of their choice (the equivalent of a five star hotel in their views), and a rather notable increase in the family gold. Of course, part of this success relied on the more serious crimes leaving no witnesses alive, and yet, Wednesday had let someone see her art and escape.

She didn't know how she had missed their presence, or why it took so long for her to realize it, for she was always very careful, but she did know she had to take care of this problem. Whoever it was had used magic, and that would be the clue that would lead her to them. Magic, after all, left an imprint behind, an imprint that she knew exactly how to follow. With any luck, she would also find the one they came looking for in the process.

"WHAT?!" shrieked Petunia Dursley in her shrill and ear-piercing voice. Vernon Dursley had just come back, still shell shocked and muttering about incompetence.

"You mean there's nothing they can do? Our Duddy just got… butchered, like an animal, and they are not going to do a single thing?" Petunia cried.

"I am just as angry as you, Pet, but the facts are facts. They don't even have a lead on, and they can't even find Dudley's friends. Their hands are tied. Normal and honest folk couldn't have done this. I bet, however, that it has to do with those… freaks. Nothing this unnatural would happen if they didn't exist." Vernon's anger, unable to stay with the police, had shifted targets.

Petunia stared at him, the few remaining gears in her head turning and leading to a single – and erroneous – conclusion. "It's that little bastard's fault, isn't it? Strange things have happened ever since he came. He attracts danger, weirdness, and freakiness. It's his entire fault, it must be!"

"Now Pet, be careful. Of course it is, but we have to be careful. Think about what the neighbors…"

"I DON'T CARE! They're already looking at us because of… because of…" Petunia couldn't speak out a reality she hadn't accepted, and letting out a sob instead. "I just want him gone, Vernon. I want him dead."

"Alright, alright. I'll do anything for you, Pet, you know that. And the bastard does deserve it, he's the one at fault. I'll take care of him; tonight. Don't worry."

With that, Petunia allowed herself to cry in despair, shifting the sadness she felt into anger at her nephew. If all went well, he would be dead, avenging her dear Dudleykins, and a new life would start, so that at least this wouldn't happen again.

Unknown to Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, however, their nephew had heard everything they had said. Despite the Dursley's family best efforts, little Harry Potter had realized early on that he had something the family didn't. Magic.

Given many chores (even at age six), he had accidentally found himself projecting his magic in ways that would help him in those different tasks, enhancing his senses, and allowing him to escape from his cousin. Maybe it was his inner nature, maybe it developed because of the abuse he had suffered under his supposed family, or maybe it involved some other factors, but Harry had soon developed a hatred and bloodthirstiness rarely seen in children that age once he understood the cause for his abuse. Why should he be hated for something outside his control? It didn't make sense to six-years-old Harry.

So he secretly practiced with his magic, unfortunately only really getting it to enhance his senses (unless accidental), turn him invisible, and increasing his healing rate. The problem was, Harry had no real way of releasing the anger that consumed him early on. While death was definitely present in his mind (thanks, in part, due to his aunt and uncle who would constantly remind him of his parent's death), but the idea of causing it hadn't really crossed Harry's mind. That is, until he saw HER on his tenth birthday.

Harry had never really thought of blood as being beautiful, before, especially considering most of the blood spilled was his own, but that night changed everything for him. He had been running away from Dudley when he spotted a girl his age. Catching his breath, he waited a few meters away from her, invisible.

"Hey, YOU!" screamed one of Dudley's less than brilliant followers, "you better answer me or else! You seen an ugly dwarf with messy hair running around?"

Harry watched fascinated as the girl didn't even blink as a meaty fist was waved in front of her. Dudley, behind the rest, narrowed his eyes. A younger looking girl, not afraid of him? That would not do. This was his domain! Signaling to the others, two of his supposed underlings grabbed each of the girl's arms. Still, she did not blink and, if anything, did smile a fraction.

Then suddenly, a younger kid arrived, wearing a black and white striped sweater. He seemed to be having fun, genuinely smiling. Harry perceived, however, a small twinkle in his eye, the kind that only schemers really get.

"Hey, I'm Pugsley!" The boy said, out of politeness— a trait fully ingrained by his mother, of course.

"I don't care what your name is! Just tell us if you've seen the Freak" said Dudley's number one fan, Pier Polkiss.

"I wasn't aware you knew Great Uncle Freak" finally uttered the girl, tonelessly.

"Who? Whatever, just tell us if you've seen anyone go through here."

"I have," said Pugsley, with a huge smile. "Come this way!" he led them.

Shrugging, the group headed to where Pugsley was going, letting go of the girl. By the time they realized Dudley wasn't behind them, it was too late.

Harry, still invisible and near the girl, noticed that his cousin seemed unable to move. Could it be…? Another power user? His thoughts were confirmed when the girl merely clapped her hands, and Dudley was forced up, levitating in the sky with a look of terror. So he wasn't alone then… About to reveal himself, Harry was glad that he had waited once he saw the girl in action.

He watched as the girl tortured his cousin, he watched as she peeled and stretched the skin, and he watched as she used Dudley's blood to paint. He watched breathlessly, fascinated, even scared, until his wretched watch alarm rang, at which point he started running, getting back to the house as fast as possible.

Once assured he hadn't been followed, and that he hadn't awoken his relatives, he checked himself and his reactions out. He was shivering, and whether it was from fear, or excitement, or both, he did not know. He was smiling, and he couldn't help but place his smile as demented, quite off on a child's face. He was imagining it all over again, except that this time it was him doing it. No, actually, it was them, together, doing it. It was art, in his mind. It was like having watched the artist paint a masterpiece. He wanted to, no, needed to be like that!

"Why?" he whispered to himself, out loud. Why was this his reaction? Harry Potter may have been fairly young, but he did understand the concepts of normal behavior. How could he not, with relatives like his? Was there something wrong with him? In the end, Harry resolved to sleep and do the next day's chores like normal.

Except, the next day was very different for Harry. He couldn't help but visualize, at first, the same happening to his aunt. Then, he couldn't help but see it as him doing it to his aunt. Finally, he couldn't help but visualize a completely new way of doing this art, of painting on a canvass, a way that was purely Harry's. The seed was planted.

Thus, when Petunia and Vernon learned the news (and didn't Harry get delightful shivers down his spine as his enhanced ears heard everything), and when Vernon returned and promised to kill Harry, Harry decided to do his very recent but also very vivid dream a reality. He decided to kill them before they killed him, to survive, and to do so artfully.

Having been forced to do the gardening and the cleaning, Harry already had access to all sorts of poisons. Not knowing which to use, and not understanding what each would do, he decided to just mix them all together, then attempted to mix it with everything he prepared in the kitchen. Clumsy, yes, and normally Petunia, at least, would've noticed, but her state of mind wasn't quite there on that day, luckily for Harry, and both her and Vernon ingested a decent amount of poison. Now Harry's canvass was set, and his mind screamed in delight, realizing his artistic self, his murderous self, as years of hatred poured out.

Taking a kitchen knife, Harry cut them right on the spot. His abilities didn't give him the same freedom as the girl's had, not enhancing his strength enough to be able move whales and horses like Vernon and Petunia around, but they did allow him to carve the knife deeper in their bodies than he would've been able to do otherwise. And thus, he began carving shapes, images, and anything he could think of to complete his masterpiece. Once he was done, though unsatisfied still, he almost put the knife down before he felt one pointed at his back.

Surprised, he let the knife drop to the floor and spun around quickly, only to come face to face with the girl from the night.

Wednesday had followed the magic's tracks to a boring neighborhood, on that was obviously lacking in imagination, if the same houses and gardens were of any indication. Her own magic, however, screamed in delight, having sensed blood before even Wednesday's nose could. Sneaking into the house, Wednesday witnessed an unexpected, though welcome, sight. A murder in action, and, if her magic told her right, a first murder at that, the most exhilarating of them all.

The boy creating the murder seemed to be her age, attractively skeletal, and with skin pallor that Wednesday knew her mother would envy. His blood red lips appeared to be natural, but the amount of blood in the area made her withhold her judgment in that area. More importantly, however, while obviously a novice, the boy was clearly trying to do more than just kill. He was watching the dead bodies just as she had been watching the one the night before. He was carving just as she had been painting. Seeing the boy about done, and thus seeing the spectacle coming to an end she pointed her own knife at his back, and felt him turn, startled.

"Wh- YOU!" screamed the boy, seeing her.

"I take it you saw me," Wednesday stated simply. In her mind however, cogs were rotating and she put two and two together, Grandmamma's quest, the two murders, and the boy's vivid green eyes, unseen before by her.

"Um… maybe?" the boy replied, seeming unsure of his answer.

"I wasn't asking."

"Well, oh."

"I do have to mention my appreciation of your work, however." She stated, carefully watching his reaction. It could still be someone else, after all.

"I… I don't… I've never… It's my first time." The boy shuffled his feet. "To be frank, I don't know where it's coming from. I never had the urge till… yesterday."

"I see." And Wednesday stared at the boy, smirking for the pieces fit together, as the boy stared at her back, waiting for her to act.

It was in this position that Gomez Addams, father of Wednesday Addams and head of the Addams family found them once he had finally managed to track down his daughter.

"Aaah, Wednesday!" he said in a most cheerful tone, "I see you're making new friends in the area."

"Father, this is the one." Wednesday expressed to him, as the boy kept quiet, stunned, but also observing.

"This is the one what? The one that got away? The one that killed Great Aunt Acidica? The one postman that traveled in time with us and was lost? The one…" Gomez listed.

"Father," his daughter interrupted, "The one that got away and the one that Grandmamma mentioned from her crystal ball two weeks ago."

"AH! Yes, I see, that does indeed make sense," Gomez looked around. "Tell me, my boy, how would you like to be an Addams?"

"What, um, what does that mean exactly?" carefully asked the boy.

"It means you will be getting the best family in the world, us!" said a youthful voice from the chimney. Pugsley and Morticia had arrived.

"Oh my, this must be him, I'm guessing?" commented Morticia, her mind quick to catch up after seeing the state of the room, the bodies, and the stare Wednesday was giving the boy, "It would be so lovely if it was. He would fit right in with us, no problems."

"I would have a family? A real family? And why do you keep asking if it's me? And you don't mind, well… this?" asked the boy, looking confused, hopeful, and guarded, pointing at the bodies.

A pleasant and warm laugh resonated in the room as Gomez went right up to the boy and started talking. "Our family has many gifts, gifts that have assured our survival. One of them is divination. Let's just say that an interesting description was given to us about someone we should see in England and bring back with us. And as for this," he gestured towards the corpses, "this is art. This is what my family prides itself on, and what we build our strength on. The blood of our enemies."

The boy seemed to consider, and then said, "I will go with you." He did think it was all very strange, but his newfound instincts, part of his senses, screamed inside him in approval, and those instincts hadn't let him down yet.

"Wonderful! Oh Gomez, Mon Chèr! The house will be so lively with another kid in the house! Imagine" Morticia spoke up, having let her husband do the convincing, trusting his skills. Still, perhaps she would later mention to the new family addition that he might be Wednesday's husband, should everything go right.

"Querida! That's French!" Gomez started wildly kissing Morticia's arm in front of the bewildered soon to be Hadrian Addams.

"Well, that settles it. You're now officially part of the family. I can't wait to introduce you to Uncle Fester, grandmamma, and everyone else!" Pugsley's words were the last words the boy heard right before he felt a tugging sensation and his world went black.

It would be a very long time before the Wizarding World would discover what happened to their savior. It would be even longer before Hadrian Addams would finally be forced to return to Britain so as to participate in the Triwizard tournament. And the Wizarding World would not be ready for the outcome.