Wednesday Addams and the Secrets of Being a Witch

One of the things Wednesday was thankful for was Thing, the handservant, and one of the Addams family mysteries. 

Thing T. Thing. 

Wednesday admired how useful the Hand's efficiency to scuttle around and assist her with various tasks.

The severed hand of Great-Aunt Desdemona was skittering across her desk, delivering yet another tome on necromancy. 

The tome itself is nothing more than a collection of hypothetical thesis ideas, none of which prove to be either practical or plausible for genuine magical rituals. 

A pity, really. 

Still, it does offer a certain entertainment value—if only to mock the utterly absurd notions dreamed up by these so-called wizard authors. Most of them likely fancied themselves as aspiring dark lords, which only adds to the hilarity.

Wednesday traced her fingers along the book's cracked leather spine. "Thank you, Thing," she murmured, her voice as flat and lifeless as the graveyard beyond her window.

Twas another day gone of mundane homeschooling in the Addams mansion. 

While Wednesday appreciated the depth of magical knowledge her family had imparted, a part of her yearned for something... different. 

Not cheerier, certainly not brighter, but perhaps more expansive.

She gazed out at the mist-shrouded grounds, watching as Uncle Fester's latest explosive experiment sent a shower of debris raining down on the poison ivy patch. A smirk tugged at her lips, but it was tinged with a hint of restlessness.

*BANG*

Gomez, her father, bursts into the room, breaking her wandering thoughts, his pinstriped robes swirling dramatically as he brandished his wand like a conductor's baton. "Hogwarts!" he exclaimed, eyes gleaming with manic delight. "The perfect crucible for our Wednesday to forge lifelong enemies!"

Her parents were more than eager to give their approval for Wednesday to attend Hogwarts, the very place where they had both spent their own formative years. 

They often reminisced about how they met and fell in love there, describing it as a life-changing experience. They had always hoped she would follow in their footsteps, but back then, Wednesday preferred the solitude of her homeschooling, and they respected that choice. 

Both were Slytherins, just like every Addams before them.

She arched an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement. "Is that the primary goal of education these days, Father? And here I thought it was about learning magic."

"Cara mia," he declared, sweeping Wednesday into an impromptu waltz around the room, "Magic is but a means to an end. The true art lies in cultivating exquisite rivalries, nurturing vendettas that will last generations!"

As they twirled past the stuffed chimera, she caught sight of Pugsley lurking in the doorway. His eyes followed their dance, a flicker of something--pain? envy?--quickly masked by a forced grin.

"Maybe I'll blow up the Potions classroom," he quipped, his voice straining for nonchalance. "That'd be just as impressive as any spell, right?"

Wednesday extricated herself from her father's embrace, studying Pugsley. Behind his bravado, she saw the weight of being magicless in their magical family. It was a burden she couldn't fully comprehend, but one that twisted her heart in unfamiliar ways.

"Pugsley," she said, her tone deadpan but gentler than usual, "your explosions have always been more entertaining than most spellwork I've witnessed. Perhaps you could tutor some of my future classmates in the finer points of mayhem?"

His eyes lit up, a genuine smile replacing the forced one. "You think they'd want to learn?"

"If they don't," she replied, allowing a hint of sisterly affection to creep into her voice, "then they're not worth knowing, are they?"

*tap tap*

A sharp tapping at the window drew their attention. There, perched on the sill with eyes like gleaming onyx, sat an owl of uncommon size. Its feathers were an iridescent black that seemed to absorb the very light around it.

"How delightfully ominous," she murmured, crossing to the window.

The bird extended its leg, revealing a letter of parchment, sealed by a crimson wax holding the Hogwarts crest. As she uncovered it, the owl's beak grazed her finger, drawing a pinprick of blood.

"A blood price for knowledge," she mused. "How appropriate."

Wednesday unveiled the parchment, the letter was written in emerald ink that seemed to shimmer and move of its own accord:

…

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms. Addams,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

...

… 

"Well?" Father's voice drifted from behind me, rich with anticipation.

She turned, her face a mask of practiced indifference. "It appears I've been accepted to join the ranks of the magically inclined at Hogwarts."

It wasn't as though she hadn't been accepted before. The letter had arrived promptly on her 11th birthday, just as it did for every other young witch or wizard. But back then, she had declined the invitation. The idea of attending a boarding school filled with other immature children held little appeal. 

Why waste her time on mundane lessons when she could immerse herself in the far more fascinating study of her family's legacy through homeschooling? 

But now... a slow smirk curled across her lips. Now, they had managed to pique her interest.

Father clapped his hands in delight. "Marvelous! I can already envision the delightful chaos you'll sow among those unsuspecting souls."

"Indeed," she replied, her gaze drifting back to the letter. "Though I can't help but wonder if Hogwarts is truly prepared for another Addams."

As she smoothed the parchment between her fingers, Wednesday's mind wandered to the corridors of Hogwarts, imagining them as labyrinthine as their family catacombs. 

What secrets might those ancient stones hold? What forbidden knowledge lurked in the shadows of its library?

As she contemplated the path that lay before her, a curious sensation settled in her chest. It wasn't quite excitement – such a garish emotion – but rather a dark anticipation, like the moment before a guillotine falls.

*

Her trunk was a gleaming obsidian monstrosity that would make most people recoil. Perfect. With methodical precision, she began to pack, each item a carefully chosen weapon in her arsenal against the mundane.

"Black robes, black shoes, black socks," she murmurs, folding each with crisp efficiency. "How dreadfully predictable."

Ah, best not forget to pack her cello. 

Midnight black and hauntingly elegant, it was a Muggle instrument gifted on her 9th birthday by her parents. 

Unusual, she knows. You'd think a pureblood family with a lineage as ancient and illustrious as the Addams—stretching back to the very roots of wizarding society—would recoil at the mere thought of embracing anything remotely Muggle. After all, isn't that the unwritten rule of pureblood nobility? Avoid anything that could tarnish the family's spotless magical reputation. But then again, the Addams have never been ones to follow society's rules. 

The Noble House of Addams has always danced to its own dark, mysterious tune. Eccentric, enigmatic, and entirely unconcerned with the opinions of others, they are nothing like the self-important families of the Sacred 28, who parade their purity as though it's some sort of prize. The Addams have never sought the limelight or the approval of wizarding high society. They prefer the shadows, the whispers, the rumors. 

Public recognition? It holds no allure for them. Let others scramble for prestige; they have far more interesting pursuits.

Of course, such secrecy has led to all manner of speculation. Some say they're masters of forbidden magic, practitioners of the darkest arts. Others would argue they're simply peculiar and grossly misunderstood. 

Personally, Wednesday finds it amusing how little they actually know. Ultimately, there's no documented proof of any Addams ever committing a crime—or at least, none that anyone could prove outright. And that's saying something. Good or bad. 

Their reputation is dark yet inscrutable neutral as it is equally fascinating. They are members of the Dark Family Alliance within the Wizengamot, yes. But unlike most, they rarely take sides. Mediation is more their style—or, more accurately, outright dismissal of the petty squabbles between the Light and Dark factions. 

It's all so tedious, really. Why waste energy on such trivialities when there are far more macabre and delightful mysteries to explore?

But she digress. Pugsley is a Squib—an unfortunate fact that would have most pureblood families wringing their hands in shame or, worse, disowning the poor soul outright. 

Not so with the Addams. Her parents and Uncle Fester are nothing if not open-minded. Pugsley's lack of magic has never been a mark against him. If anything, it makes him even more interesting. He's inventive, creative, and endlessly curious, whether he's building odd contraptions or testing bizarre concoctions. In their family, he's not an outcast—he's a bridge between worlds, offering perspectives that no one else could. 

Perhaps that's why they've never shied away from Muggle inventions or culture. Her cello is just one example of many. To others, it might seem strange, but to Wednesday, it's perfectly natural. At the end of the day, the Addams have never been strangers to the unconventional. In fact, it's kind of their specialty.

Wednesday's hand hovers over a vial of Angel's Trumpet Draught. Its purple sheen catches the candlelight, reminding her of the intoxicating scent of decay. She smiled, a rare occurrence.

"Potions," she hummed. "One never knows when one might need to brew a little chaos."

As she placed the vial of poison carefully among her belongings, a soft knock interrupts her reverie. Morticia glides in, her presence both comforting and unsettling.

"Wednesday, darling," she purrs, "have you packed your favorite arsenic?"

"Naturally. Though I doubt Hogwarts will appreciate its culinary applications."

Mother's laugh is like shattered glass. "Oh, my little viper. Always thinking ahead."

She turned back to her trunk, methodically arranging a collection of books. "One must be prepared for all eventualities, Mother. Even... boredom."

"Speaking of preparation," Mother says, producing a small, ornate box, "a little gift from the family vault."

Wednesday opened it, revealing a silver locket adorned with a twisted "W". 

"For protection," Mother whispers, "and a reminder of who you are."

She clasped it around Wednesday's neck, feeling its weight settle against her skin. "As if I could ever forget."

She turned back to the trunk, surveying its contents with a critical eye. A stack of leather-bound journals catches her attention, their pages filled with her old musings on the delicate art of necromancy.

"I wonder," she considered aloud, "how the average Hogwarts student would react to a detailed treatise on reanimating the dead. Perhaps they'd find it... enlightening."

Mother chuckles softly. "Darling, you'll give them nightmares."

"One can only hope," she replies, her lips curling into a faint smirk.

As Wednesday placed a jar of pickled bat wings next to her cauldron, a thought occurred to her. "Mother, where did I put that acceptance letter? I need to review the... accommodations."

She produces the parchment from thin air, handing it to her daughter with a flourish. Wednesday unfolds it, scanning the ornate script.

"Ah, yes, how considerate of them to acknowledge my 'allergy to color.' Though I doubt they truly understand the depth of my aversion to frivolity."

As she smooths the letter back into place, she catches a postscript at the bottom, previously overlooked. She leaned in, dark eyes narrowing as she read the addendum aloud:

"Unconventional familiars, such as disembodied limbs or sentient shadows, are strictly forbidden on Hogwarts grounds."

A sharp laugh escapes her lips, echoing in the cavernous room. "Interesting… How did they know?" She pondered, tracing the words with a pale finger. 

"They think a mere rule can constrain the unconventional."

Wednesday turns to Thing scuttling across her writing desk, leaving inky footprints in its wake. She smirked as she addressed it directly.

"Hear that, Thing? They find you unconventional. I suppose that makes two of us."

Thing pauses, digits twitching in what she interprets as indignation. She continues, voice low and drawl, tinged with amusement.

"But fear not. You and I have never been bound by the constraints of convention. Why start now?"

As if in agreement, Thing performs a theatrical backflip, landing with a flourish atop her trunk. Wednesday nods approvingly, mind already spinning with possibilities.

"In a world of mundane familiars, why settle for a cat when one can have another hand?" She thinks, more to herself than to her dismembered companion.

*

The night before she boards Hogwarts express, the witching hour descends upon the Addams estate, its gnarled towers silhouetted against a full moon. 

Sitting at her desk, a solitary candle casting long shadows across parchment as her quill scratches out the dark musings of her mind.

"A cursed castle," she whispers, the words flowing from her pen like black ichor. "Its foundations steeped in secrets, its very stones conspiring against those who dare to call it home."

She paused, considering the parallels to her impending educational prison. Hogwarts – a name that is utterly unimpressive and, frankly, uninspiring.

The sheer absurdity of naming a school after something as unassuming as hogs and warts. It lacks menace, elegance, or even the faintest hint of dread—qualities she might expect from an institution meant to teach the arcane arts. 

"Really?" she said aloud. "Hogwarts. Nothing about that name inspires fear, respect, or even mild concern. It sounds like a petting zoo for disfigured farm animals. Hardly the moniker of a place meant to cultivate greatness—or mischief, for that matter."

It's laughably tame, bordering on childish. A school of magic should command attention and exude mystique, not sound like the punchline of a bad joke. But then again, she might relish the irony of such a ridiculous name concealing what is supposedly a prestigious institution. 

"Much like this tower of secrets," she continues writing, "where the walls themselves conspire to trap its inhabitants in eternal mediocrity."

A chill breeze rustles the curtains, and she smiles. Even the night air seems to approve of her literary endeavors.

Her quill hovers over the parchment, words flowing like a poisoned stream. "Adolescence is the cruelest curse of all, a plague that strips the soul of dignity and replaces it with acne and desperation." 

A soft shuffling outside her door breaks Wednesday's concentration. 

Pugsley, no doubt, attempting stealth with all the grace of a troll in a china shop. She doesn't bother to turn around.

"Either come in or go away, Pugsley. Your lurking is disrupting my creative process."

The door creaks open, and she can practically feel the waves of uncertainty radiating from her brother. It's... unsettling. Pugsley is many things – annoying, dim-witted, soft, occasionally useful as a test subject – but rarely vulnerable. 

"Wednesday..." he begins, his voice uncharacteristically small. "I was just... wondering if you needed help packing. You know, for Hogwarts."

She turns, raising an eyebrow. "Since when have you ever voluntarily offered to assist with menial tasks?"

Pugsley shifts from foot to foot, looking everywhere but at Wednesday. "I just thought... maybe..."

Ah. There it is. The fear of being left behind, laid bare in his fumbling words. It's disgustingly normal. And yet…

She sighs, setting down her quill. "Spit it out, Pugsley. Your stammering is even more painful than your usual prattle."

He finally meets her gaze, his round face a portrait of conflicted emotions. "I'm going to miss you," he blurts out. "Who's going to test my inventions? Or help me catch venomous spiders? Or... or just be there?"

A strange tightness grips her chest. Sentiment. How revolting. And yet, Wednesday can't quite bring herself to crush this moment of vulnerability. Perhaps it's the looming specter of Hogwarts, or the late hour, but she finds herself softening – just a fraction.

"Loneliness is a gift, Pugsley," she says, voice low and steady. "It allows you to hear the symphony of your own madness. Embrace it."

His brow furrows, processing her words. 

She continues, "Besides, think of all the new contraptions you can build without me here to critique your shoddy craftsmanship. Perhaps you'll finally perfect that shrinking potion that doesn't leave the subject partially melted."

A small smile tugs at Pugsley's lips. "You really think so?"

Wednesday rolled her eyes. "I think you're capable of causing an impressive amount of mayhem without my supervision. Don't disappoint me."

Pugsley's grin widens, some of his usual mischievous spark returning. As he turns to leave, she's struck by a rare moment of... fondness? No, that can't be right. Indigestion, perhaps.

She reached for a piece of parchment on the desk, quill poised over the pristine surface. "I'll write to you," she says, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. "But don't expect maudlin drivel about how much I miss home."

Pugsley's eyes lit up, but Wednesday quickly extinguished that hope. "There's a catch, of course. You'll have to decipher my messages."

"Decipher?" he echoes, his brow furrowing.

She allows a thin smile to grace her lips. "Consider it a test of your wit, or lack thereof. I refuse to let your mind atrophy in my absence."

Her quill scratches across the parchment, leaving a trail of seemingly nonsensical symbols. To the untrained eye, it might resemble the frantic scribblings of a madman. Good, it's fitting.

"But... how will I know what it means?" Pugsley asks, peering at the parchment with a mix of confusion and intrigue.

Wednesday resisted the urge to sigh. "That's the point, isn't it? Use that lump of gray matter between your ears. Start with basic substitution ciphers. If you can't crack those, well..." she trails off, letting the implications hang in the air like a hangman's noose.

As she continues writing, she thinks silently on the delicious irony. Here she was, in a world of magic, and yet she's relying on the mundane art of cryptography to communicate with her brother. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, she's sure.

"What if I can't figure it out?" Pugsley's voice wavers, uncertainty creeping in.

Wednesday fixes him with a steely gaze. "Then you don't deserve to know what I've written, do you?"