A Potter In The House Of Addams
A Harry Potter/Addams Family Blending
Prologue: The Miracle Boy
Our story began in a nondescript lane at the edge Salem, Massuchuesets. An urbane, droll expanse of blacktop and New England townhouses that easily reflected a Norman Rockwell painting, the ebb and flow of our narrative began. The conformity of the homes spoke of suburban uniformity, affluence, and sprawl, with but one considerable exception…
The end of the lane is dominated by sizable property. Bordered by a high brick wall, ingress and egress afforded by a heavy, wrought iron gate, lays the Addams Family Mansion. Part family home, part curio shop, and part museum, it is an oddity of rickety, Gothic construction. The adults of the neighborhood avoid the place at all costs. The neighborhood children consider the Addams place a test of courage, one of which many fail.
On the evening of 31st , October, the neighborhood was visited by a curious wayfarer: a gray tabby cat. Cats aren't all that rare here, but this has markings about the eyes like a pair of spectacles. As the Halloween festivities play, this curious feline stalked the perimeter of the Addams property. It conspicuously avoids the wrought iron gate. It eschews the garbage cans teeming with uneaten leftovers. It all but vanished when people are near, most especially when children attempted to confront it.
The cat maintained its vigil as evening gave way to night. Around a quarter to midnight, the tabby halted its patrol to the left of the iron gate; it peered down the lane as if in waiting. Five minutes later, as the last of the trick-or-treat stragglers finally admitted defeat and returned home, a lone figure appeared at the beginning of the lane. A minute after it appeared, the street lights began to go dark all down the lane. Were it not for the security lights still burning on front porches, one could almost assume a blackout was on hand.
It was under this cover that the figure began to move. Simultaneously, the tabby leapt into the air, to land as a severe-looking woman, bespectacled (the markings around the cats eyes were the square shape of this woman's glasses), black hair tied into a tight bun, dressed in tartans, wrapped in an emerald cloak. She waited for the figure strolling up the lane. When at last the figure met the woman, it was revealed that the figure was an aged man, though tall and lean, sporting a beard long enough to tuck into his belt; he was dressed in baby blue robes, a long, purple cloak, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Light blue eyes peered out from half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long, though crooked. One might assume he had a past as a prize fighter, for his looked to have been broken at least twice. The pair, now known, strode towards the gate; they watched it snapped and snarled, growling like a feral beast.
"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall," the old man said.
"How did you know it was me?" she asked.
"My dear, Minerva, I've never seen any feline sit so stiffly."
"You'd be stiff if you'd been patrolling the perimeter all day," Professor McGonagall groused.
"All day, you say? When you could have been celebrating?" The old man asked, "I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here."
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily, "Oh, yes, they're celebrating alright. You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no- even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was in their news. I've overheard the neighbors round here talking. Flocks of owls… shooting stars… Well, they're not completely vapid. They were bound to notice something at this rate. Comets over Kent- I'll bet a year's wages that was Dedalus Diggle. That man never did possess much sense."
"You can't blame them, Minerva," the old man gently replied, "we had little to be jubilant about these past eleven years."
"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably, "but that's no excuse to start losing our heads! People are downright careless, out and about in the streets, in plain sight of Muggles, swapping rumours and not even bothering to disguise themselves properly!"
She threw a sharp, sidelong glance at the old man, hoping he was going to inform her of something but he seemed intent on studying the growling gate; she went on with her rant.
"A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared at long last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"
"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore, "and we have much to be thankful for, but I would rather not make any assumptions. How do the Muggles put it? 'Assumption is the mother of all foul ups?' No, I dare not make any assumptions at this point. Would you care for a lemon drop?"
"A what?"
"A lemon drop," Dumbledore answered, "they're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."
"No thank you," Professor McGonagall said coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for lemon drops, "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-"
"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this 'You-Know-Who' nonsense- for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his preferred name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore who was unsticking two of his preferred sweets, seemed not to notice, "It all gets confusing if we keep using euphemisms around the man's title. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Tom Riddle's taken nom de guerre."
"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half admiring, "but you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of."
"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly, "Tom had powers I will never have."
"Only because you're too- well- noble to use them," Professor McGonagall confessed.
"I am lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pompfrey told me she liked my new ear muffs."
Professor McGonagall shot Dumbledore another sharp look and said, "the owls are nothing next to all the rumors that are flying about. You know what everyone is saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally happened?"
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the true reason she had been waiting on a cold October night for most of a day; neither a cat nor a woman could fix Dumbledore with a fierce, piercing stare as Minerva did now. It was plain that whatever "everyone" was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore confirmed it for her.
"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night, in Godric's Hollow, Voldemort turned up. Went to the Potter's home. The rumor is Lily and James are- are- that they're- dead."
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped, then choked back a sob.
"Lily… James… I just- I just can't believe it… I don't want to believe it… Oh, Albus…!"
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know, Minerva, I know," he said heavily.
A tremble grew in Professor McGonagall's voice as she carried on, "That's not all. There are some that say he tried to kill the Potter's son, Harry. But he failed, they say. He couldn't kill that little boy. No one knows why or how, but they're saying that he couldn't kill Harry Potter. It's rumoured that Voldemort's power broke somehow- and that's why he's gone."
Dumbledore nodded glumly, "of that, I can assure you, is true."
"It's- it's true?!" faltered Professor McGonagall, "after all he's done… all the people he's murdered… he couldn't kill a little boy? It's just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the name of Hecate did Harry survive?"
"One can only guess," Dumbledore mused, "we may never really know."
Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he retrieved the golden pocket watch from his pocket, all the while keeping his bundled parcel secure, and examined it. The watch was very odd as it had twelve hands and yet no numbers; instead, miniature planetary bodies moved around the edge, while the bezel seemed to mark the phases of the moon. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket, saying, "they should be out soon."
"Is this wise, Albus?" the woman asked, "Sending the boy here?"
The man called Albus answered, "In order to keep him safe, yes."
She sighed, "Surely, he would do better in Britain. Any number of Wizarding families would gladly take him in! To be so far from home..."
"I understand, Minerva," Albus stated, "but he must be kept away. As much as I would like to foist him upon his aunt and uncle, their disdain for all things magical leaves the impression that Harry would find no peace there. They would be the worst kind of guardians for The Boy Who Lived. With the Addams, here, he will be protected, welcomed, and loved."
Further conversation is halted as the gate creaks open. From out of the manse emerges another older woman, leading a young couple.
It was difficult to discern if the gown the younger woman wore was a night gown or evening wear. Her lank, black hair and pale face with a mirth full smile were much easier to define.
The younger man wore wore a pin striped suit, wings tipped shoes, oil slicked hair parted at the center, a pencil moustache, and a knowing, playful smile,
"Dumbledore, old man, it has been a while!"
Dumbledore nodded, shaking an outstretched hand with one of his own, careful not to disturb the parcel in the other.
"It truly has," Dumbledore replied, "I fear the last we really spoke was that dreadful business with Grindelwald."
"Only for another to assume his place," the younger woman stated, "Is it true, then, that Voldemort has met his end?"
Dumbledore nods one more, "Yes, Morticia, he was undone by the One we seek to put into your care."
"May we see him?" Gomez asks.
Dumbledore hands over the couple the swaddled parcel he carried. The couple gaze upon the infant with fawning adoration. They part his wild hair, brushing upon the scar given to the infant by his last visitor.
The other witch in the party asks, "you think that Riddle boy went and did himself in?"
"As much as the rest of the Wizarding world would love to believe so Madame Frump, I am afraid I cannot trust such an auspicious turn of events to prove final," Albus admitted, "evil such as his bears deep seated roots."
"I figured as such," Madame Frump groused, "the boy is going to have a time of it..." then to Albus smiling, "I'll teach him what I know."
Minerva glares down at Madame Frump, ordering sternly, "No death curses, Esemrelda!"
The old hag waves Minerva off, "Death curses, what a waste of good magic! It's easier and quicker using bow, steel, shot, or dynamite..."
"Grandmama, not now," Morticia says, then to her visitors, "He shall be treated as one of our own. Wednesday can even think of him as her twin brother."
Gomez nods, "Absolutely! He shall be an Addams!"
"How is your daughter doing, Mrs. Addams?" Minerva asks.
"Oh, quite well, thank you for asking, Professor McGonagall," Morticia replies, "she's eating solid food now and walking on her own. Lurch is watching over her now; Wednesday can be quite precocious."
"The little darling has even figured how to work the guillotine," Gomez sighs wistfully, "they grow up so fast..."
Morticia then asked, "What is his name?"
Dumbledore replied, "Harold James Potter."
"Addams," Esemrelda added.
Minerva asked, "Excuse me?"
"If you're hiding The Miracle Boy here," Madame Frump reasoned, "then his name is necessary. Them Death Eaters are smart as a dead frog, but it wouldn't take much skull sweat to divine his whereabouts if he's an Addams in all but name."
"I am ill at ease with the suggestion," Dumbledore replied, "but the more layers of protection about Harry, the better."
"Agreed," Gomez stated, "Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, can I interest you both in a nightcap?"
"A most tempting offer, my good man," Albus said, "but I'm afraid I just decline. I suspect there will be an early meeting with the Wizengamot in the morning I must attend. I would prefer to be there sober."
"I, too, must decline," Minerva stated, "a Deputy Headmistress' duties are never done."
"Then we shall bid you both an adieu," Morticia said.
Nodding their heads, both witch and wizard turn on the spot to blink out of existence. The only artifact of their presence was the faint pop of their apparition. Meanwhile, the Addams retreated to their home, one party member greater than they were yesterday.