AN: Now, if you're familiar with this type of crossover, you might be familiar with the Harveste Addams series by kyaru-chan. I admit that this story is heavily influenced by it. In fact, parts of it are almost directly the same; this is because this is basically a fanfic of that fanfic. Please, don't try to get this story taken down: Not only have I openly claimed that the story was not mine as well as who the original author is, I believe I have changed things up and added onto it enough that the difference is blatantly apparent. I have contacted kyaru-chan but she has yet to reply; I promise that if she doesn't want this up, I will remove it immediately.

There will be hints from the Addams Family movies. I've never seen the cartoons or comics, so the two movies starring Christina Ricci will serve as canon as well as the information I find on the wikia page. Please note that I will be messing with canon time-line as well as the time-line kyaru-chan established.

A little boy was crouched over a convulsing body, his clothes ragged and stained, his scraggly mop of hair in the same state of disrepair. His gleaming eyes, looking huge and savage in his thin face, surveyed the soon-to-be dead man in front of him with approval, a vicious grin stretching across his face with unnatural wideness.

He'd done it. It had been long overdue, but he'd finally done it.

The knife in his hand gleamed under the stark white light of the living room chandelier. Blood, redder than rubies and twice as precious, stained the sharp edge, a few drops sparkling before they hit the floor. That delicious red was also ringing his mouth, dripping off his chin as if he had just sunken his teeth into a juicy fruit.

There was a whimper from the reluctant corpse, promptly silenced thereafter with a decisive slash.

His rage — roaring and chaotic — simmered just under the surface. He could still feel its banked fire, but in a curiously detached manner, like seeing a sliver of something from under his cupboard door. It was still accessible though, still a hair-trigger away. All he had to do was want it.

How he wanted it.

To anyone watching from the window, it would have seemed so strange: a small boy, no more than five, straightening from where he had been crouched over like a predator over his fallen prey. His black hair tumbled over his face and about his shoulders, unkempt and unruly, but his eyes shone like emerald fire from behind the thick fringe.

In the corner, trying to fit into a shadow, hid a thin, long-necked woman, her arms barely reaching around a beach-ball of a boy who was nursing a broken arm, her mouth pressed his shoulder, holding back wails of terror. The woman — tears and snot running down her face — now sported a few wounds, none of them immediately fatal, but that was easily remedied. The two were inexplicably stuck in place from when she had tried to smuggle them away, only to find it was as if they were tied up and chained to the floor.

The stench of mortality was in the air, almost but not quite overpowered by the smell of fear and urine. The body of Vernon Dursley lay on the floor, looking for all the world like a beached whale, now too bloated to stop itself from bursting open and displaying the glistening entrails. His piggy eyes were glazed over in death.

The insane grin still pasted to his face, Harry felt the urge to laugh welling up in him, but he restrained himself. He teetered unsteadily towards his struggling captives. His job wasn't done just yet.

His cousin had been chasing him earlier. He was running as fast as he could, but Dudley, overweight as he was, had the tenacity of a bulldog and knew the neighborhood better. And that was Harry's undoing. He tripped over an uneven crack, and in a flash, Dudley was on him, punching his face and stomach with his fat little fists.

"Stupid, dumb, little freak!" he yelled. "Who told you to talk back to my friends? I'll show you your place!"

Those words . . .

In a short life filled with neglect and pain, piled high with abusive words and subhuman treatment, those few words had been the last straw. Fury draping over him, his sight blurred in a blood-red haze. He reached out, pulled, and struck.

There was an ominous CRACK.

Dudley scooted off Harry, his mouth already stretched grotesquely in a wail, his face paler than a ghost's. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and he instinctively held it close to his body as he ran towards the house, screaming for his mother.

Harry followed, quicker than a dart, his mind suddenly aflame with possibilities. He choked back a hysterical giggle. His cousin ran straight for the living room, but that didn't matter. The kitchen was the only thing that mattered now. The kitchen filled with wonderfully sharp knives.

Oh, the possibilities.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH! WHAT'VE YOU DONE TO MY BOY?"

Harry's devilishly insane grin had been the last thing his uncle ever saw.

And now here Harry was, with three dead bodies and nowhere to put them.

Harry sat back on his heels, tapping his lips idly with the tip of the knife. He let the grin fade off from his face when he realized he couldn't exactly shove them in the bin in the front for the rubbish truck to gather the next morning. Nor could he eat them to rid himself of the evidence even though his belly rumbled and the idea had vaguely fluttered through his mind. Sure, he had taken a proper, fleshy bite out of Vernon while he was caught up in the haze of blood-lust, but the old berk had tasted as horrid as his personality and Harry was sure the other two meat sacks would be no better.

Typical Dursleys, being an inescapable bother even in death.

At least he had drawn the curtains, and locked the door as well. That should give him some time. Whatever anyone tried to say about him, he was young, not stupid.

Voices from the front of the house distracted him from his thoughts.

"Is this the place, querida?"

"Maman did say No. 4 Privet Drive."

The doorknob rattled, gathering Harry's attention. His head whipped around, venomous eyes narrowed. More bodies for the pile then.

"It's locked, Gomez, dear. Do you mind?"

"Of course not! Anything for you, caramia."

There were faint smooching sounds, then the snick of the lock. The hinges squeaked, and then there were footsteps.

"I do wonder what Maman was talking about earlier. You know how she gets when she's been at the crystal ba— Oh, my."

"My mother she may be but — Wha — ? Ooooh!" The tall, lanky man caught the knife as it was flung at him. His smile didn't waver as he gave the bloodied weapon a once-over. "Nicely thrown, young man!"

"Who are you?" Harry rasped, his hand already clenching around another knife. He had brought in the whole set from the kitchen to make sure he had everything he needed, and now there were intruders in his home. No matter, what were two more bodies?

Maybe they would taste better than Vernon, an unbalanced voice in the back of his mind said as his stomach gave another gurgle.

He didn't expect the woman — beautifully pale with dark, shadowed eyes and a smiling crimson mouth, to crouch down next to him — the hem of her black dress inches away from the pooling blood. Her hand, strangely cold, closed over his, removing the knife. He let her, curiosity taking over as he looked up into her eyes.

Her voice was like a satin shroud pulled over a cold corpse. "Such a clever little darling. Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I killed them." He said, lifting his chin a little, presenting the grisly sight of his blood-smeared mouth. There was no need to be ashamed of what he'd done; those wretched bastards had deserved it. Not that these two would understand.

"Good man, good man." The man chuckled, one finger smoothing over his thin mustache as he inspected the still-warm bodies with the air of a wine connoisseur. "A stand up job, if I do say so myself. Your first time?"

Harry's furiously buzzing mind churned to a halt at the unexpected question. After staring blankly at the man for three heartbeats Harry nodded, bemusement making itself known in the form of a ghost a smile climbing onto his face.

"Well done!"

Glacial fingertips, brushed aside his filthy curtain of hair and smoothed over his brow, across his scar then over his cheek, smearing the blood specks there. He felt a twinge of pain. He still had a black eye from a few days ago when Vernon had realized there was no milk in the icebox.

"They hit you, darling?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Will you wait here for a moment?" At his nod, she smiled. There was a hint of fang. "Gomez, my love, we need to talk."

Harry blinked as the two adults, still very much alive, moved into the kitchen. How strange. They didn't seem frightened or disgusted by what he had done. He looked down at his cousin's bloated face, face still frozen with terror, and prodded the pudgy nose with his knife. He wasn't disgusted either. The weight of the blade had seemed so right in his hand, its smooth glide into flesh sending satisfaction through his core. It had been exhilarating, the first time he had ever felt the emotion in his life.

"He's got the Addams spark, doesn't he?"

"Quite, darling. I'm wondering, would you ever consider —"

Their words washed over him but he couldn't concentrate on them now. He had work to do. Now, where did he put those plastic bags?

"He would make such a lovely playmate for Pugsley and Wednesday."

"I don't know, Tish."

"Please, Bubele."

"Ah, Tish, you know what that does to me."

Over the sounds of more smooching, Harry worked quickly and deftly, the steel flashing between his hands. He had jointed chickens before, forced by the Dursleys when they were in the mood for something other than roast beef. This was no different though the parts were bigger and much heavier.

Shoulder, then elbow, then wrist. Harry cocked his head thoughtfully before starting on the fingers. The more weight was distributed, the easier it would be to dispose of. Though perhaps the hatchet would have been better. If only the garden shed wasn't locked already.

A pair of strong-looking hands appeared beside him, each hefting a wickedly curved machete. The tall man smiled merrily at him, at odds with the fact that he was starting to saw away at the obese flesh. "You go on with Tish, young man, and leave me to this. I haven't done a proper dismemberment in months!"

Harry gave the man an assessing look before surrendering his burden. Decisively, he commented, "You're strange."

There was soft laughter behind him, reminding him of moonlight and church bells. "How right you are, little viper."

Harry smiled uncertainly at the term of endearment, not used to people speaking kindly to him. The laugh dwindled away into a pleased look. She took his hand and led him into the corridor. "Where is your room?"

"I don't have one. I live in there." He pointed to the door of the cupboard under the stairs. Small though he was, he could almost brush the top of the doorjamb with his head.

It was as if the room had darkened, the gloom oozing out from under every surface like thick tar. The lights flickered, dimming slightly. Harry looked up at the woman, who was suddenly standing as still as a tombstone.

"I see."

And then it was gone, and the lights warmed everything with their pale yellow glow.

"You will make a fine addition to our family, little viper. Pugsley and Wednesday will be delight to have another person to wreak havoc with. Can you say 'Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc'?"

"Sick gore-gy a moose, a lows, subject-tah-toes noonk." He repeated slowly. "I think I said it wrong. What does it mean?"

"It's our family motto. It means, 'We gladly feast on those who would subdue us'. It seems you've already taken those words to heart." She smiled down at him, her teeth glinting like the edge of a saber.

After a moment, Harry smiled back.

"Dad, who's that?"

Harry, still wondering about the towering giant of a man who had opened the door, now blinked at the large blonde boy standing at the foot of a grand staircase. He looked maybe seven or eight judging by size, and his build was thick with muscle, unlike Dudley who was — had been — covered with blubber. It would likely take a powerful hit to take him down.

And Harry probably could take him down, the smaller boy decided, since the boy would be taken off-guard if Harry attacked suddenly enough. Morticia had cleaned him up, taking care not to miss any blood caked around his face, so Harry currently looked at his most benign, all underweight and soft. A quick slash to the jugulars and they wouldn't have time to stop him.

The boy gave Harry a mildly interested look, sucking on a lollipop. He didn't seem threatening, but all the same, Harry shifted into a defensive stance, a movement that Morticia noticed.

"Now, now, boys. Let's not have any fighting before dinner. Pugsley, this is your new brother. He's just killed his family."

"Really?" Pugsley asked, looking more interested, "I'm so jealous!"

"Mother, when can I kill someone?" asked a girlish voice coming from another entrance way. A slip of a girl, looking about Harry's age, walked up to newly returned group, a china doll that vaguely resembled her dragging on the floor from within her grip. An assessing look appeared on her stoic face as she took Harry in.

A bat-like screech sounded throughout the house, setting Harry's nerves on edge. Now that the dark euphoria he had been enraptured in had faded, he felt increasingly jumpy. A carving knife appeared in his hand as if out of nowhere.

"That's him, is it?" someone screeched. "Come now, let's have a look at you!"

A frizzy-haired woman hobbled towards him from one of the big double doors. She was more wrinkled than anything, the very epitome of old age, her face as pale as death. Harry caught a glimpse of bubbling cauldrons and roiling steam before he was caught around the neck in a hug that smelled strangely like lavender and locker room socks.

"Welcome, my pet!"

"Maman, don't choke him. At least, not yet."

The old woman cackled but set him free all the same. "What's his name, then?"

"Why, I don't know. My venomous little viper," Morticia crooned. "You never told us your name."

Harry shifted unsteadily on his feet and looked down. "Yesterday, Aunt Petunia said that my name's Harry so I wouldn't look stupid at school when they called for attendance."

"She said Harry's your name? You're not sure?" Pugsley asked doubtfully.

"Does it matter?" Gomez said cheerfully, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder. "What is in a name? Mindless destruction by any other name would be just as divine. I say the young man decides on his own name. Only fitting since he's an Addams now."

Harry looked at all the smiling faces. He was so lost. This was all so strange, so sudden, so soon.

But . . . they hadn't flinched. They had accepted him and what he'd done. It was almost like . . . they were completely fine with it.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat. They were all looking at him right now. There was no scorn or disdain aimed at him. It was a new feeling, being the center of attention without anyone trying to hurt him. He liked these people, he realized belatedly. No matter that they were strange, with eyes that glimmered like fresh blood under fluorescent light and skin colder than the inside of an ice box.

The man with the pencil mustache had yet to stop smiling, even when he had finished shoving the jointed bodies into garbage bags and had cleaned up afterward. Nothing like Uncle Vernon, who had never mopped or dusted anything a day in his life. He had even shown Harry how to set an old-fashioned alarm clock, though it had shown entirely the wrong time, and explained what a fuse cap was.

The lady in the black dress had been nice too, the complete opposite of Aunt Petunia. She had treated him kindly even when scolding him for using such under-prepared knives when just a bit more sharpening would have sliced all the more readily. And she had said that she wanted him to be her son. Aunt Petunia would have sooner kissed a toad then say such a thing.

If he stayed here, he would have a family of his own. That alone was enough of a reason to stay. On top of that, they seem to relish blood and gore as much as he was now finding himself to enjoy. It felt almost . . . indecent that there were more people that were just as bloodthirsty as him.

"I'll be Harry for now," Harry finally said, drawing the words out carefully. "Maybe I'll be something else tomorrow."

Harry could still remember the first time he'd seen magic at work. It had been so simple, yet he felt so overwhelmed by it. He had seen Morticia lighting candles on his first Halloween at 0001 Cemetery Lane, caressing the wicks gently before they burst into flame of their own volition. He had shivered when he saw it, felt the tingling something in the air as she continued on her sensuous way. She had seen his hungry look, beckoned him over, and shown him how.

The Addams Family was known throughout occult America for their use of obscure Dark magic. It was part of the education that Pugsley, Wednesday, and he were receiving, along with physical combat, brewing, sword-play, and ballroom dancing. The Power was easily accessible in their home due to it being practised there for generations by countless numbers of late family members. It was nigh impossible to get that level of accessibility anywhere else. It was one of the reasons the Family was so indestructible.

All they needed was the constant flow of blood and pain to keep strong, something they eagerly provided every moonless night.

The children craved the heady, drugging feeling of the raw magic, Harry more than the others. It felt like home, like the warmest hug he'd ever received; it was just so right. He needed it so much that it was unsettling. Why was he so drawn to something he really had no reason to crave? Would the family magicks respond to an outsider?

He had confided in his mother that first year, baring his fears like offal on a table. He knew he wasn't a true member of the Family, so he had thought the magic would reject him, wouldn't answer him when he called.

"My deadly little demon," She had whispered into his dark hair, just as dark as her own. "You are part of our family. I should know, I did the ritual myself."

"A ritual?"

"Yes, darling. You are ours in every way, just as if I had given birth to you myself. You are an Addams, and there is no one in the world that can change that now."

"But how?"

"I'll tell you when you're older." Lips, colder than a grave-robber's heart, brushed over his forehead. "Just remember, there is nothing blood cannot achieve. Remember that, darling, and nothing will be beyond your reach."

Harry took those words to heart, revelling in the cuts and scrapes he earned while battling with his siblings, and took to experimenting with the different types of blood he came across, taking a particular liking to iguana and the mauve smoke it caused to rise from his afternoon tea. He also rather enjoyed the way the aforementioned tea caused a previously nosy neighbour to become doubly nosy by growing a second nose out of the lobe of her left ear.

Harry later decided, under Grandmama's vehement praise of a transmogrification well done, that he rather liked potions.

He was six years old, ten months after the Addams had found him.

He was paler now, bleached further by his current favourite pastime of exploring the underground catacombs of the late Uncle Fungus' dungeons during the nights, barely ever seeing the light of day. His hair was longer, a verifiable tangled rat's-nest at the moment, the bangs now completely obscuring his eyes and brushing around the tip of his nose. Pugsley had quipped that he was starting to look like a cross between Cousin It and a zombie.

Grandmama had taken it upon herself to feed him into near Pugsley proportions, stuffing him with the most hideously fattening, artery-clogging garbage she could lay her hands on. Somehow, no matter how much he ate, he never seemed to gain enough weight. It was probably high metabolism combined with his habit of irritating the wildlife near their house and letting them chase him around the grounds. Still, he had filled out, and he could no longer trace his ribs under his shirt.

Today his name was Hergian, war maker, and he was in his parent's room, feeling curious.

Hergian flashed his teeth at the mirror, tucking part of the thick bangs behind one ear to get a better look. The lipstick he was trying out was smeared on his lips in an indecent stain. He glanced over his mother's vanity again and picked up dark purple eyeshadow. Dipping his finger in, he rubbed the powdery substance all around his eyes, take especial care to get under his eyes as well. The results resembled long, sleepless nights after getting punched in both eyes.

A hand tapped his shoulder.

"Hello, Thing. What do you think?"

The dismembered hand flashed him a thumbs up, then tugged something into a neat pile on the desk. It was a green satin ribbon.

"It's lovely. Thank you."

As he ran his fingers through the tangles and gathered his hair up to tie it, he noticed movement in the mirror.

The senbon, an Eastern acupuncture needle,fell to the ground with a faint tinkle, blocked by an expertly wielded dagger. Gomez laughed lightheartedly as he strolled into the room. "Well done! Almost got me there. Your mother's taught you well."

"Thank you, Father." His hands paused, watching the man in the mirror as his father gave him a considering look. "Is everything alright?"

"That's quite the unconventional look you have there, my boy."

The green eyes dimmed in disappointment. Oh, no. He snagged a tissue and started to dab. "I'm sorry, Father. I was just experimenting. I know it's not what boys do; It won't happen again."

"Why ever not?"

Hergian had a second in which to look confused before he was picked up and swung around.

"My ghastly little ghoul! You're an Addams! We live for the unconventional!"

"So . . . so, you don't mind?"

"Mind? Dear boy. Come along, Thing. Morticia, we're going shopping!"

The moan of the ancient organ echoed through the house, dust falling from ancient beams and rattling spiders from their webs. It was an eerie yet pleasing melody, much like hearing a ghost wailing a nursery rhyme.

"Can you believe," Gomez said with pride as he looked at the small figure dwarfed by the huge brass pipes. "That he hadn't touched an instrument in all his life, and now after three months . . ."

Today, his name was Harbinger, herald of what's yet to come, and he was consumed in his music.

Harbinger's fingers floated effortlessly over yellowed ivory and silky ebony. His thin wrists and delicate fingers belied the strength needed to coax out such strong notes. He was wearing his hair tied back today, a hint of satin green among the dark locks. A storm-grey dress hugged his slim seven year old body, paired with sensible leather boots that tapped along to the beat.

Not five feet from where he sat, Pugsley had a murderous-looking Wednesday manacled to the wall, and was throwing daggers at her in tempo with Harbinger's song. Every now and then, the dark-haired boy would slow down or speed up, challenging his brother to keep pace. Pugsley had yet to fall behind.

"He composed it himself." Morticia's lips curved into a sultry smile as she leaned against her husband. Her eyes indulgently took in her shackled and gagged daughter. "Such talent in our beautiful, little serpent."

"He takes after you, caramia."

"Oh, Gomez. The torture rack tonight?"

The sound followed them, the maddening tempo building ever higher.

Poisonous green eyes narrowed in a warning manner as the ditzy brunette in front of him prattled on about how "House" was supposed to be played.

Today, his name was Herakles, glory of Hera, and he was not at all pleased.

Herakles was perched in a low-hanging tree, set in between the lunch benches, just off the playground. It was the first-grade lunch and recess period, and the ghostly pale boy had immediately set his sights on Pugsley, who was napping in the aforementioned tree while he cut all his afternoon classes. Herakles would have brought Wednesday along but she was in time-out for the whole period for stabbing the boy that sat next to her in class in the thigh 'accidentally.'

He scrambled up the tree like a squirrel and had wheedled his elder brother into playing baby while Herakles played mother. He was already force-feeding his darling child a bottle of paint-thinner when a precious little flower —the one that always glared at him when he answered questions in class that she couldn't — stomped over from where she had been eavesdropping and started prattling on about how Herakles couldn't be the mother since he was a boy.

"Everybody knows only girls can be mommies!" she said condescendingly. "I guess you're not so smart after all. Didn't your momma teach you nuthin'?"

She went on and on until she finally got to exactly why she had come over in the first place. By this time Pugsley had already dismissed her and went back to napping.

"Since you don't know nuthin' about how playin' House works, I guess I have to be mommy for you," she declared, as if she was doing him a favor. "You can be daddy instead."

Herakles gave her a blank look, eyes as dead as a freshly risen zombie.

"You say only girls can be mothers?"

"That's right! Only girls!"

"Fine. Then I'm a girl too."

The mousey-haired bitch puffed out her cheeks in irritation and Pugsley cracked an eye open in curiosity.

"You can't do that! Boys can't just become girls!"

"Can too."

"Can NOT!"

"Boy animals can turn into girl animals. My father showed me how one of his girl frogs turned into a boy one. All the insides and guts change as well. If they can change, why can't I?"

"No, they can't! You're just lying! And even if they could, people can't do that. We're people, not animals!"

By this time, Herakles was quite fed up with the irritating chit and had every intention of proving her wrong. He slipped from his branch and stamped his foot in an uncharacteristic show of childishness, urging his body to bend to his will. Or rather — as it now was — her will.

The dark haired child untucked the white uniform shirt and tugged down the front of the navy blue shorts, making the know-it-all girl gasp and stare with incomprehension.

"See?"

"B-b-but! You can't do that!" She shrieked, falling back on her bum.

Pugsley took a second to fully comprehend what he was seeing before almost falling from his branch with laughter. "That's so cool! Does mom know you can do that?"

Hafthorr, thunder of the seas, watched from his perch on a headstone as Mother's cousin, odious Aunt Pretensia Frump, stormed out of the mansion and toward an ostentatious automobile parked out front. He admitted relief to himself, as she was a most trying relative. Marrying men and draining them dry of all their worldly possessions was something he could accept — being somewhat of a respected family tradition on his mother's side — but being such a disgustingly self-entitled leech was more than any of them could abide.

As the boy strolled in a leisurely manner in her general direction, he picked up what sounded like a disagreement between the infuriating woman and a cigar box.

"Shut up, will you? I don't need any more trouble, especially from you!"

The box rattled and shook, almost bouncing on top of the stack out luggage it was set on.

"Enough of that!" the woman gave the box a smart smack on the lid.

The box rattled and shook only louder in response.

"You want out then?" she snarled, picking up the box. Her glare landed on Hafthorr, now leaning against one of the garden gargoyles off the side of the front. "You! Delusional boy without a proper name that thinks he's a girl! Here!"

She tossed the cigar box across yard, before throwing the rest of here baggage in the trunk of her car. Without waiting for Hafthorr's reaction, she drove off without a backward glance.

Hafthorr sneered at the retreating vehicle as he knelt by the no longer rattling box and opened the lid. There, spread flat and looking as dazed as a limb could look, was a dainty looking hand. Lady Fingers, Aunt Pretensia's former lady-in-waiting, cautiously stood on her fingers and seemed to look at Hafthorr beseechingly.

"You don't have to look so distressed," Hafthorr soothed, picking up the glove covered hand and giving it a fond pet. "I'll hardly toss you aside like that silly simpleton did. I was just thinking the other day that I could use a handmaiden. And I'm sure that Thing will be delighted you're staying."

Harith, the lion that digs into the earth, curled up on Grandmama's lap, taking in the sight of their long-long uncle, Uncle Fester. He certainly looked like the portrait that they placed in the alter when performing the yearly séance, all bald and hunched with a face of a serial killer newly escaped from prison. As to be expected of a man that survived the horrors of the Bermuda Triangle.

Father was over-joyed of course, the family had long accepted the Uncle Fester was deader than an exorcised ghost. That he showed up again was a miracle, they could almost call it a blessing if they had put any faith in the Lighter gods.

Harith wasn't sure how he felt about that doctor woman though, that Dr. 'call me Gretchen' Pinder-Schloss person. He resolved to watch her during the 'family therapy' sessions she was suggesting to reintegrate Uncle Fester back into the family.

'Reintegration.' That right there was the reason that Harith looked at her with askance. She said that she knew of the Addams through a family friend, but any friend of the family would know that there was no backing out once you were part of the family; once an Addams, always an Addams. You were either one of them or you never were, there was no trying to fit back into place.

Harith shot a sly glance to his mother, catching her eye. They held gazes for a few brief seconds before Morticia tilted her head in acknowledgement and returned her attention to the conversation at hand. He glanced at Pugsley and Wednesday as well, wondering if they caught it. He was not disappointed.

Harith's lip curled into a smirk and he wriggled further into Grandmama's side. It looked like they would be keeping an eye on their newly returned uncle and his mysterious benefactor.

Seven months after Uncle Fester's return, it was revealed that he was indeed Gomez' long lost brother. It was also revealed that 'Gretchen' had taken advantage of his amnesic state to brainwash him into thinking she was his mother, and that she was trying to rob the Addams of their wealth by using Uncle Fester as an inside man.

A good attempt, all things considered. A shame she didn't live long enough to receive their compliments.

Harrow, to rake over, sniffed cautiously at an oddly glowing potion bottle, noting the way its colour shifted from yellow to orange and back again. He gave Pugsley an assessing look. Pugsley made an encouraging motion in response.

"This looks nothing like Great-great Aunt Calpurnia's hair-into-snakes potion that it's supposed to be."

"So I got a bit creative with it when I realized I put the linseed oil in at the wrong time," Pugsley shrugged. "It's still bound to do something fun."

"You mean catastrophic, knowing your how your mistakes go."

Wednesday was kneeling on a back-less chair, leaning forward on the potion table to get a better look at what was in her brother's hand. She sent Harrow an unimpressed stare. "Just drink it already."

"Pugsley made it. What if it makes me melt from the inside out?"

"Hey!"

"Then you melt and you enjoy it. We'll just pour you on tomorrow's breakfast."

"What if it gives me an uncontrollable urge to sing Disney music?"

"Then we'll just sew your mouth shut and chop your head off."

"We could mount it on the wall if you want," Pugsley added. "We can do that even if you don't start singing."

Harrow sighed, having run out of reasons not to drink Pugsley most likely explosive concoction. He tilted his head back and put the bottle to his lips. "If I die, neither of you are allowed to have my flail."

He swallowed.

The world seemed to tilt and swirl. Harrow leaned heavily on the table before suddenly leaning the other way and falling out of his chair. A gurgling groan escaped his strained lips as he felt his skin bubble and his limbs stretch and recoil. He felt as if he were simultaneously being pulled apart and being smashed.

He faintly heard a screech, not sure if Grandmama had discovered them or he was making the noise himself.

"Awesome," Pugsley breathed, staring.

The stretching pain faded to an ache and Harrow pulled himself up into a sitting position. Everything was throbbing. He half-expected there to be extra limbs to justify have much he was aching.

He opened his eyes and looked for the damage.

He had extra limbs.

Tentacles, tails, fins, hooves, paws, and every other sort of limb. His skin bubbled through scales, fur, skin, and feathers, all of various sizes and colours. He could feel his face and head morphing through features and shapes he could only imagine.

"A pretty mess you've made!" Grandmama rebuked. So it was her after all. "I've never seen such a mess!"

"Well, he's not dead," Wednesday said. She watched him with distant interest.

"Hey, Harry, can you give yourself blue fur again? I've never seen fur that color before."

Wednesday sneered. "He's hardly going to be able to contr— "

Harrow stopped shifting and grew blue fur.

"So you can control it then!" Grandmama exclaimed. "Clever boy. You just practice staying in one form then and I think we can write this off as a useful skill."

"He could already shift a bit before," Pugsley reminded, watching avidly as Harrow morphed down through monstrous versions of himself before he returned to relative normal.

"He wasn't exactly sprouting three tails, though, was he?"

"I don't think that that pronoun will be accurate when describing me anymore," Harrow mused out loud, noting how every part of him — her? — them had been shifting only a few moments before; there were a few moments when Harrow had been both boy and girl at the same time. Before, they had to actively force their body to become female, now it came as naturally as breathing. "Congratulations, Pugsley, you've managed to create a third gender."

The grounds of the Addams estate were dark, the lightlessness of the new moon night as black as Wednesday's glare. Wind whistled around the headstones of the family graveyard, and night-creatures awoke in a symphony of nocturne. Under the hoots of owls and the moaning of the wind, the sound of pounding footfall could be heard.

A mass of midnight fur flew through the trees, sometimes on the ground, sometimes leaping from tree to tree, sometimes gliding through air. Scales rasped, horns routed, spiked tails whipped about. Animals shrieked as they were ruthlessly torn from life by rows of serrated teeth and curved claws, herbivores and carnivores alike.

Plant-life was ripped unmercifully from the ground, branches gouged and splattered with blood as the beast of nightmares feasted.

Raising its nose to the wind, the beast breathed in scent of terror and death. A low rumble resonated from it's chest as it purred in satisfaction, and luminescent, slitted eyes lidded in pleasure.

Pulling back blooded lips to reveal fangs, Harveste howled their exhilaration into the moonless night.

"Wednesday, pass the liquid nitrogen."

"Pugsley has it."

"Pugsley, pass the liquid nitrogen."

"Things has it."

"Thing, if you please? The spiders as well. Where is Lady Fingers, anyway?"

Both canister and jar were then held at the ready.

"Is the chicken blood ready?"

"Two buckets ready to go," Wednesday confirmed. "They just have to step on that rug."

Three huddled forms were perched at the balcony over-looking the entrance hall. It was Halloween night and their parents were away at a party they had been invited to by their father's current account manager. They had not been invited since it was being hosted by boring, normal people, but they concluded that they could make their own fun. Like putting out all the lights and scaring the fools that thought their home was an abandoned house and broke in, looking for thrills.

Grandmama told them that if they were going to do more than just scare the intruders, they would have to clean up by themselves and make sure the pieces were jointed properly.

The front door creaked ominously. Moonlight spilled out onto the shadowed entrance hall and two silhouettes pushed against each other, whispering words of reproach.

"Jesus, Terrence, wake the dead, why don' cha?" rebuked a feminine voice.

A masculine voice made a sound of derision. "Isn't that the point of this? Find Leah's ghost and get it to tell us where the treasure is?"

"It's hardly my ghost," another young woman whined. "Everyone knows the story of Old Margaret and her stolen jewels."

"I thought we were looking for the three kids that were hacked up by the maid?"

"Old Margaret was the maid."

"Then what about the kids?" the first woman chimed in.

"Their ghosts were the things that killed her, Jess!"

The voices got louder, moving farther into the hall. The door was left wide open, providing additional lighting beyond the flashlights they each had.

"Alright, alright," The young man said, dismissively. "Let's get on with it. Search the dump so Leah finally shuts up about it and then get out. And on the off chance we find anything ghosty, we'll shake 'em up for the jewels."

"You don't have to get so snotty about it."

"Let's just get this over with. Ghosts aren't real anyways." As he spoke, he step on a ragged rug.

The door slammed shut with a resounding crash. The sound of it bolting itself filled the shocked silence. Two of the flashlights flickered out. An axe was thrown from the darkness, embedding itself in the locked door.

Someone breathed, "Oh, god."

A waterfall of blood poured from the unseen ceiling and a swarm of spiders crawled up their protesting legs, their screams echoing through the decrepit house. The only working flashlight slipped from blood-slicked fingers, falling at an angle that directed the light at the ceiling, illuminating the room slightly more.

Three small, child-sized figures descended from the stairs, a fog curling down after them, startling forth more screams. One was clearly a boy, a double-sided battle axe resting on his shoulder. Another was a younger girl, a dismembered hand hanging limply from one hand, a chopping knife held in the other. The third was possibly another girl, wild hair going every which way around their face like a sheep-dog; that one stood just behind the first girl, looking the least dangerous of the bunch, no weapons on them.

Then the lips pulled back, exposing shark-like teeth —far too large to fit in that mouth — in a horrible parody of a grin. The face began to bubble and blur before their eyes.

"So nice of you to come and play with us."

"Where have I left it?" Hippolyte, stampeding horses, sighed, glancing over their room with frustration.

Lady Fingers scuttled out from her perch in Hipplyte's mane of hair and took a flying leap, landing on a trunk half hidden under the bedside table. She scratched the surface with her fingernails before snapping a few times and beckoning Hippolyte to come closer with a curled finger.

"Have you found it then?" Hippolyte asked in relief, dropping to their knees in front of the trunk and brushing off some dust from the top. "You truly are invaluable, darling."

Lady Fingers twisted about and twined her fingers around each other, squirming in pleased bashfulness at the gratitude she was still getting used to. Freeing herself from her mortification, the glove-clad hand spidered her way back up Hippolyte's arm and snuggled back into the thick hair.

Hippolyte fondly patted the area Lady Fingers had burrowed herself into and returned their attention to the now opened trunk before them. Making a sound of triumph, they pulled out a crystal ball the size of a grown adult's head and cradled it in one arm. Stroking over the surface, a cat-got-the-canary grin spread across their face when the cloudy mist cleared, distinctly showing Pugsley crouched within one of Grandmama's cauldrons, a morning-star flail in his hands as he peered over the rim of the cauldron.

"I've got you now," Hippolyte murmured, setting the crystal ball to float just behind them, at around hip level, as they took up a spiked baton from the wall and rushed from the room, heading for the kitchen.

"Goodness, dear! If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were What's younger sister!"

Harrington, town of the ruler, was all teeth. "I do admit, Cousin What's hair has inspired me. It's only too bad I can't pull off that shade of, ah, golden brown."

Cousin It's wife, the cheery Aunt Margaret, gave them a fond look. "No need to be polite about it! It's blonde as can be and there's no need to beat around the bush about it."

Cousin It and his family had come for Wednesday's birthday party. While the two dashing mounds of hair charmed the other guests, Aunt Margaret had pulled Harrington aside to talk over birthday cake.

"It and I had hoped our little boy would get my shade of brown," she continued, waving her fork a bit, "but it just wasn't so. What has considered changing it but I just don't think it's that big of a deal. He's still an Addams either way."

"Just so. Mother and Father hardly fed Pugsley to Kitty Cat for his strawberry blonde hair. At least, I don't think they did."

Aunt Margaret just laughed. "All this talk about hair reminds me! Tish mentioned before that you can change your physical properties at will. A shapeshifter then?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I suppose you'll never need hair cuts or skin care, then. That must be convenient."

"I still have something like a base form. That's why I'm growing my hair out instead of just making it the length I want. It seems impatient other wise."

"Do you use those teeth to intimidate the other children at school? They look pretty sharp."

"Oh, no, Auntie." Here the aforementioned teeth were flashed. "They grew in like this. These are all me."

"You look positively ravishing today, darling."

"Thank you, Mother. Good morning, Father."

"Only so far, my little goblin! It might suddenly take a turn for the worst!"

"Oh, Father, don't tease."

Nine year old Hargrave, grey thicket, sat down, at home in the gloom of the kitchen. Grandmama Addams bustled by, putting a plate of breakfast in front of them. It burped.

"Mother, when can I have a dress like Harry's?"

Their slightly younger sister slid onto the seat next to them, her hair still in the severe twin braids from yesterday. Tugging on one of those braids was a cat she had found the day before, already driven half mad under Wednesday's tender mercies.

"It's called a cheongsam." Hargrave's smile was reptilian, scuttling across their face like a legless lizard on a hot rock. "Mother can't do much for you in this case since I made it myself. I'll make you one if you like."

"I want cat's eye buttons, though, not skulls."

"Maybe Grandmama has some lying around, hmm?"

"Top left jar." Their grandmother grunted, waving a gnarled hand at the dusty racks. "Mind you, they're a bit fresh."

"Nothing a little liquid nitrogen can't fix." They smiled again, skewering a scuttling bug with their fork and flicking it into the cauldron. It was always on nowadays. They couldn't imagine what their granny put in it, but after the bug had gloop'd in, the seething brew turned a bright yellow.

"Thank goodness! I've been trying to do that for ages. You've got quite the talent, child."

"I learned from the best." Hargrave said demurely, tilting their head in a nod of gratitude. Then they blinked and moved their head back in place, just in time. The metal dart whispered past their cheek.

"Dammit, missed again."

"Better luck next time." Their swift smile flashed at their brother. "Happy birthday, Pugsley. Good morning, Uncle Fester."

Pugsley Addams ran his hand through his short bristled hair. He had toyed with the idea of getting it shaved, but he knew he couldn't pull it off with his Uncle's pizzazz. Fester was just meant to be bald. Their father had done well by scalping him when they were younger.

"Eleven years old today!" Gomez' ever-pleased voice boomed. "What shall we do to celebrate?"

"Explosions!" Uncle Fester said immediately.

"A feast!" Their grandmother cackled, her misty eyes burning with unholy light. "I'll get the eunuch."

"We could kill someone, drain their blood, and offer it to Kali for blessings." Wednesday offered.

"Been there, done that."

"We could kill a lot of someones."

"A party." Hargrave hid a smile behind a few of their fingers as the entire family all turned to look at them. "We haven't had the whole family together since Uncle Fester came back. We could even dig the graves, wake the old ones up."

"Splendid idea! An old-fashioned Addams family reunion! Lurch!"

"You. Whined. ? ."

"Invitations! We have to — what's that?"

Hargrave flung their hand up in the air, just a few seconds faster than their siblings'. The skewered bird thumped onto the table, a sewing needlethrough its still-beating heart. There was a letter attached to its twitching leg. "Pericles Feioso Addams," they read. "New penpal, Pugsley?"

Their mother seemed to focus, her blurred features becoming sharper under the stark light that seemed to follow her eyes, obscuring the rest of her face. "That's a Corvus Brachyrhynchos." She said breathily. "An American Crow. Oh Pugsley darling, it's your first wizarding school letter!"

"That'd be Salem then, eh?" Their father nudged Pugsley in the ribs and winked. "I got kicked out in my first term. Good times."

Harnepher, anger of the bull, hummed as they surveyed the bubbling concoction in their cauldron. It was the colour of gone-off eggplant, had the texture of blistering skin, and smelled strongly of cough syrup. It was the first potion they had made in the new cauldron Grandmama allowed them to get, saying they were finally good enough at the craft to warrant their own brewing equipment. They had dragged it up into their room as soon as they got it home and hadn't let anyone else touch it since.

They stirred decisively, three times clockwise and twice widdershins, repeating the pattern several times. The potion hissed like a serpent being skinned alive. They made a sound of delight and tossed in a handful of mustard seeds.

"Eye of newt and toe of frog," they sang under their breath. A cup of what looked like fur was added. "Wool of bat and tongue of dog . . ."

They took a wooden ladle and dosed the concoction with a honey-thick liquid the colour of apple juice. The potion sputtered, tossing up a miniature mushroom cloud, disintegrating the bowl of the ladle.

Harnepher eyed their compromised ladle. They then tossed remaining handle into the cauldron as well, smiling in satisfaction when another mushroom cloud poofed out.

They went to the shelf where they kept ingredients they had collected from the grounds.

"Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf. Witch's mummy: maw and gulf."

A packaged wrapped in bandages was tossed over their shoulder into the cauldron. The potion melted into a murky blue, giving off grey fumes.

Harnepher pulled on the gas-mask they kept for special occasions and trotted back to the fire, arms filled with jars. A fin was tossed in, then a pencil. A white powder was added, as was four shredded leaves. A rabbit's foot; an oddly shaped ear; a pinch of worm fat; last semester's report-card; sap squeezed from a dying tree; liquids of uncertain origins. Everything previously in their arms was mixed in, even a moth that had landed at a bad time.

"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

Harnepher watched avidly as their potion changed from the consistency of cement to watered-down glue. The fumes previously being given off were sucked back into the potion, changing the colour from an odd blue to yellow.

They pulled off the gas-mask and tossed it onto their bed. With a new ladle, they filled a flask with their completed potion.

Trotting out from their room again, Harnepher called out, "Wednesday! I've got a new drink for you to try!"

Harumaph, destruction, stood with the rest of the Addams at the bus station where they would pick up Pugsley for the summer. It was the first time any of them had been away from home for an extended period of time, and it was quite odd for the remaining two children to be without their third playmate.

The bus from the Salem Institute pulled in with little circumstance. It would have been an unremarkable event if it hadn't been for the children pouring out of the bus immediately, traumatized looks on their faces. Pugsley came trotting out last, seemingly unbothered by whatever it was that had his schoolmates worked up into a tizzy. The door was pulled shut behind him and the bus was booking it back out onto the highway faster than blinking.

"Whatever was that about?" Morticia asked after greetings were exchanged.

Pugsly shrugged, digging into his jacket pocket. "I don't really know. Halfway through the drive here, they all started freaking out. I haven't seen anyone that scared since Wednesday stuck a sword in our old accountant's gut."

He made a sound of satisfaction and tossed jars of fingernails to Harumaph and Wednesday.

"I got those on the way here," he said. "There's no apothecary near the school so I collected them myself."

Morticia Addams looked like a succubus queen, decided ten year old Hrimgarir, protected from hoarfrost, as they watched her and the rest of the female cousins with their tambourines. The beautiful sound of the Addams Family Mamushka was in the air. They were dancing it for Lumpy, their grotesquely handsome cousin who had just gotten engaged to Maleficent Penumbra.

"I wish I could be like her," Their sister whispered beside them. Her dark eyes were on their mother too. They were perched precariously on one of the railings of the west tower, high above the banquet hall with its glass ceiling encasing everyone below like insects in amber. Their legs swung in the cold November air.

Hrimgarir looked at their sister. At nine and a half years of age, she was starting to show the grace and poise so inherent in the Frump blood. Her long braided hair lay heavily on her back like a hangman's noose. She was wearing an old-fashioned gothic dress, one they had made a few weeks ago, the black spider-like lace like poison-raised veins against her pallid skin.

"One day, you'll be as devastating as she is."

Wednesday smirked at them, a curve of pink on her heart-shaped face. "Hey, Harry?"

"Mmm?"

They had worn leggings today, in honour of the occasion, and an emerald-green corset laced in a putrid yellow that stood out like lemons in a wound. The bustle of the skirt gave them curves they had yet to grow themselves. Privately, Wednesday thought that her sibling looked more like Morticia than she did, as graceful as lightning and as deadly as poison.

"What's it like to kill someone all by yourself?"

An edge that flashed in the light. Dark warmth spilling over hands. The thrill, the desire coursing up arms and into a vindicated heart. Freedom.

"It's like . . . breathing air for the first time." They murmured into the night sky, remembering that night almost five years past. "More delicious than cake with weevils. You can't describe it. I'll show you some time."

A metallic flick made them look around.

"Wednesday! When did you get a new pack? I've been craving a cigarette all day!"

Pugsley, Harlequin — malevolent spirit — and Wednesday stood over the crib of their newest sibling with an assortment of expressions on their faces. Pugsley was awed in a detached sort of way, obviously bemused as he teased baby Pubert's plump lips with the tip of an arrow, grudgingly impressed when the arrow caught fire. Harlequin was upfrontly delighted, rubbing the soft belly fondly, though their delight didn't hide the fact that they were salivating at the thought of sinking teeth into that tender flesh. Wednesday actually managed to look even more displeased than usual, glaring at the poop-factory with rancour.

The murmurs of appreciation and coos of adoration was cut off by Wednesday putting her two-cents in.

"I say we kill him." Her tone was unhesitating, dark as reptile's freshly plucked venom sack.

Harlequin scoffed, picking up the drooling demon and cradling him to their chest. "Why go for the swift kill when drawing out the torture would be so much sweeter? Isn't that what Mother always says?"

"It's tradition," Wednesday insisted when Pugsley agreed with the second eldest. "Addamses have been doing it for centuries; when there's more than one boy or girl, the youngest is to be killed off."

"But Dad's Uncle Fester's younger brother and he's still alive," Pugsley countered.

"Not for lack of trying," Wednesday replied, crossing her arms petulantly. "I saw we take our chance now while he can't fight back."

"Where's the fun in that?" Harlequin sighed, bouncing the gurgling beast on their hip. "It wouldn't be worth it without a challenge."

"Hey!" Pugsley cut in, a frown of confusion on his face. "We didn't kill Harry when Mom and Dad brought 'em home; what happened to tradition then?"

Wednesday lifted her chin and sniffed regally. "Harry is a hermaphrodite, it's when a child of a gender that the family already has that it's killed."

"Harry was a boy when they came!"

"They were a boy in body but a girl in spirit!" Wednesday contradicted, her voice raising at not immediately getting her way. "That still counts as another gender!"

"Says you!"

"In any case!" Harlequin spoke over the quarrelling pair. "I find myself fond of this little leech; we will not be killing him."

By this time, Wednesday was truly worked up, fingers curved into claws and face twisted into a snarl. "I want to kill him!"

Vicious canines were flashed and Harlequin's pupils turned into slits as they hissed at their contrary little sister. They shook their bangs to one side to reveal an eye and pinned the girl with a violent look. "There's no fun in killing him while he's useless; you will wait until he can put up a bit of a fight before gutting him or I'll rip off your arms with my teeth and make you suffer before reattaching them!"

Wednesday eventually conceded, glaring and grimacing all the while, and Harlequin smiled in answer.

"Now that that's all sorted, why don't we go see how high a baby will bounce when it's dropped from the roof?"

Haeriulfr, army of wolves, watched from the closet of baby Pubert's nursery while the current nanny, that Debbie woman, finished reading Pubert his bed-time story. Lady Fingers was burrowed in their hair, at the ready like a waiting trap-door spider.

"What a creepy, old house," the blonde monstrosity muttered to herself. She gave the room a disapproving once-over and sank down into a chair, rubbing away chills from her arms. She pulled a baby blanket around her shoulders, the one Haeriulfr had knit when Mother had informed them that she was pregnant.

Wednesday had told them about how she believed the new nanny was out to get them. She expounded that Debbie was suspiciously interested in Uncle Fester and was extremely condescending when she spoke to Wednesday.

"She's up to something, I know it," the hard-faced little girl had insisted.

And so the three of them now took to regularly following the nanny about the house, being unseen as to not raise suspicions.

"It's really no place for children," Debbie continued her thought. She looked over the room again, eyes slowing minutely when her gazed slide over where Wednesday stood in a corner, covered with a chameleon cloak. She frowned. "No place at all."

A blow-dart flew from out of nowhere and speared itself into the eye of the monologist who was expounding on the reasons why the Addams family had to die.

"Excellent shot!" Gomez cheered from where he and the rest of the family were chained to chairs. "Directly in the bull's eye! Your aim keeps getting better and better!"

"Thank you, Father," a demure voice replied.

Harthorne, the hawthorn tree, with baby Pubert on their hip, stepped out from shadow they had been lurking in and dragged the screaming woman to one of the electric chairs they had up there in the attic. When she was strapped down properly, they threw the switch forward, lighting up Debbie Addams brighter than an albino witch at a sixteenth century burning.

The former nanny jolted and thrashed, smoke rising from her burning flesh. Before their very eyes, the blonde monstrosity fried into ash.

Harthorne took in the greasy ashes that were their late aunt, the wretched woman Uncle Fester had married. She had been a back-stabbing, lying bitch that entrapped their gullible uncle in a false marriage through means of seduction and intimidation. She had torn apart their family so she could bleed their finances dry and murder Uncle Fester when she no longer needed him.

If only she hadn't bought a state-of-the-art modern house and had everything painted in pastels; everything else before that had been forgivable.

Later on, after the funeral, Wednesday and her new admirer, the Joel boy they had met at the summer camp Debbie had deceived their parents into sending them to, went to observe the new headstone in the vast Addams' graveyard. Unnoticed by the bespectacled boy, Thing trailed after them, creeping through the grass.

When the sounds of Joel's screams echoed through the grounds, Harthorne lifted the glass they had been drinking from and toasted their little sister's antics. "To mirth; to merriment; to manslaughter."

Heinrike, ruler of the house, threw themselves off the chair just as a dagger thudded into where their head had been. They rolled and ran, hearing the thudthudthud of blades biting deep into the carpet behind them. As a safety precaution, they grabbed a letter opener, using it to pin up their hair. No use in fighting with liabilities. They flung their hand out for a distraction, knowing better than to hope the throwing knife would work this time.

There.

The double-headed axe was heavy, but they grabbed it off the wall and swung it with the ease and precision of a warrior. It crashed against a shield, making a sizable dent.

"Good one!"

They caught the knife in one hand and, pushing off against the desk to get airborne, sent it right back. It thunk'd into the bookcase, skewering a first edition copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Their father retaliated with a rapier. A bulky axe would be no match for it, but a fire poker might just connect.

Crash!

"Ha-hah!"

Heinrike scooted backwards, their eyes aflame with excitement and adrenaline. There was a tear in their sleeve, sliced open by the flashing blade, and the first drops of blood started to ooze down their arm.

It tasted exquisite.

They smirked widely, darkly, before dashing forward, their razor-lined fan at the ready. They ducked under the quick defence and whirled around, the fan flared, its sharp edges shining like silver.

Gomez was the original duel master though. But that didn't mean Heinrike would stop trying. They used their speed to their advantage, moving in to strike before dancing out of the way of the following riposte. Gomez was the next to take a hit, the fan slicing shallowly over his cheek.

A laugh like a midnight bell cut through the haze of age-old dust and the clash of metal on metal.

"How enthusiastic. Harry, make sure you leave enough of your father to eat dinner with."

Their pupils were dilated with adrenaline, bottomless pools peeking out from behind a curtain of black hair. Their tongue thinned and forked at the end. "I'll try, Mother."

"Wednesday, I know you've got my blowpipe!"

They knew their sister resented the fact that they had received their school letters while she had to wait until next year, but to actually go so far as to hide their weapons . . .

"Wednesday!"

"Calm down, Harry." Pugsley said. The blond boy, now thirteen, had grown into the Addams bone structure. He wasn't as tall as Lurch, but he was getting there, already a bulky 5' 9". He wore his strawberry blonde hair slicked back now, like their father. "We could always hunt her down."

"I've half a mind to send Cerberus after her."

The timber wolf hybrid raised both its heads off the floor, ears perked at the sound of its name.

"Better not. You know the scrap he got into with Kitty-Cat."

"Loki's womb," The shapeshifter muttered, spitting a strand of hair out of their mouth. "She's being a real — "

"What have I told you about invoking gods in this house?" Morticia stood in the door war, arms crossed imposingly over her stomach. Little Pubert clung to her dress like a leech, a thumb in his mouth.

"Been at the graveyard again, my little demon?" Harry cooed, sweeping the toddler off the ground and pulling the appendage out of his greedily working maw. It looked livid enough to be fresh, grave dirt barely clinging to it. Pubert whined and they gave it back. "Forgive me, Mother. No invoking without proper sacrifice, I know."

"Good." She crept forward into their room, her dress creeping across the floor like slithering snakes.

One of their suitcases was open, half-filled with neatly folded peasant blouses and skirts, interspersed with rolled-up stockings and vials of poison. Along the edge were their knives — kunai, the seller had called them — still managing to look painfully lethal inside their plastic sleeves. They were made of tempered steel, sharper than their mother's tongue and imported from her contacts in Japan. The full set along with the sharpened Chinese style nail guards were their most treasured presents from their eleventh birthday, and they loved them. It wouldn't be complete without their blowpipe though, and their eyebrow twitched in irritation when they noticed a mousetrap hidden in one of their shoes.

"You know she's just being supportive in her own way. She's going to miss you so much."

"I know, Mother." They shook out the mousetrap. It snapped shut a few inches from their bare toes.

"I still don't get why you have to go all the way to Scotland." Pugsley said, picking up the trap and ignoring the needles that had been hammered to its underside. He threw it out the window. There was a crash and a distinctively un-Addams yelp. They smiled, Pubert taking the dismembered digit out of his toothless mouth to gurgle his pleasure.

"In case you've forgotten, I didn't receive a letter from Salem. One Addams is enough for them, I think."

"But it's Scotland."

"Where should I go instead? The other American schools are taking their cue from Salem. Maybe Beauxbaton, then? Too pastel for me." Harry asked, now arms-deep in their closet. Pubert sat with them on the floor, severed thumb now forgotten in exchange for a vial he had found. "Ah, there's my henbane. Put it next to the belladonna, will you, Pugs?"

"They're not all girls and even if they were, you can be a girl too." His brother caught the vial and batted away the inevitable senbon, but then widened his eyes at the smoke rising from his fingers.

Harry stuck out a tongue at him, a smile still on their face as they searched for other essentials. "My own recipe. Where is that damned bathrobe?"

"Wonderful use of Doxy wings, pet. Maman will be so proud."

Pugsley hmm'd noncommittally as he licked a fingertip. "Tangy."

"Glad you think so." Harry huffed in annoyance, then gave up and stepped into the closet. There was a scream, quickly cut off. Their voice was muffled but clear above the sounds of clashing metal. "I considered Durmstrang but I don't exactly speak Norwegian, no where near as well as Wednesday and Cousin What do. And we're still banned from Haiti and Indonesia."

"Ah, yes." Morticia sighed happily in remembrance. "There's nothing like the feel of the earth rending beneath your feet. Best honeymoon your father and I ever had. Good old Dementia, always keeps her word."

"Hogwarts is the only place left for me to go. Besides, they haven't had an Addams there in years, or so I've heard. It'll be nice to . . . reacquaint them with our family." An explosion rocked the house and Harry stepped out, primly dusting off their shoulders. Green slime covered one arm, and they dabbed at it with a tissue. "Cursed boogeymen again. I swear, they never learn."

"All the better to deal with, my dear." Their mother flashed them her fanged smile. "I just know you're going to slay them over there, my dear."

Venom pooled in their mouth and their already deadly teeth began to curve wickedly. "You can count on it, Mother. I've finally decided; my name shall be Hraesvelg, the corpse swallower. "

AN: And there it is. I'm not sure if I'll continue the story or not, it could really end right there and satisfy me. It won't follow the same plotline as the original, promise. I started on this because I thought of a deviation that leads in a different direction. If I do end up putting up more, it'll be a long time in coming since my main focus is currently my other stories.