Title: Harveste Addams and the Order of the Phoenix
Crossover: Harry Potter and the Addams Family
Summary: There are three roads a growing witch or wizard can take. The first two are well-trodden. But this year, the world better get ready, because when the dark moon rises, the third path comes alive.
Warning: Addams Family Sadism and Cross-dressing, Slash and Het
Geh…my brain is dying… But three hundred fifty reviews! So awesome! This story is dedicated to Pia Douwes, an amazing singer that I would pick over Celine Dion any day because unless you've heard her sing Mijn Leven Is Van Mij, you ain't heard nothing yet. And, of course, to the eternally good-looking Máté Kamarás, who looks just as delectable in a velvet dress as Harveste does.
Edit: This is what you get for not being able to submit first drafts. Thanks, pazed. Everybody, please feel free to suggest corrections.
Just the mere mention of it is enough to make the most successful men and women groan.
It bring back memories of pimples and chin fuzz, awkward limbs and even more awkward emotions, unwillingness to change in the locker room and utter failure at Gym.
It marks the many changes a child's body undergoes: physical, emotional, psychological. The body produces chemicals and hormones that course through an unsuspecting constitution over a period of several years. The voice deepens, the hips thicken, skin starts to riot and there is oil seepage. From everywhere.
To those who have had an active school life, these changes might have gone unnoticed. Oh certainly, new clothes have been bought to accommodate growing frames, certain desires have started to shift more unexpectedly than quicksand, and for women, there is suddenly a need for a corset or a suitable variation thereof that does not weld your lungs to your spine and cause asphyxiation.
Adolescence is synonymous for Coming of Age, for maturity, for the realization of self and the discernment of your life's path. It is a time to make choices, to stand in the midst of your wants and needs and be buffeted by peer pressure, parental authority and personal bloody-mindedness. It's a time for good and bad, for darkness and light.
For wizards, it's a little more literal.
For the Addams…
The pale golden beach stretched like a warm, inviting smile.
Virgin rainforest covered the rest of the tiny Caribbean island, making it look like a rare jewel amongst the sea's white-crested waves. The few villagers that lived in the area were peaceable and had never known the tragedies of war, the exploitation of tourism or the ravages of pollution. It was an untouched paradise, veritably perfect in every way.
Or at least it had been, before an oil drilling unit in the area had exploded. The earth had rumbled and shook beneath the frightened villagers, and they had seen the burgeoning mushroom of black smoke even though it had been far out at sea. Then men in strange shiny boats had arrived at the island, their unfamiliar language gruff and harsh. In two days, the area had been deserted.
Now, the waves that lapped at the beach were no longer clear or clean. The sand was streaked with thick, slimy bands of black that seeped between the fine grains. Washed up and scattered across the shoreline were the tarred carcasses of seagulls and various sizes of fish. The oil had even managed to find its way into the waterbed, turning the verdant trees into sickly leafless spindles. It seemed that even the sun had turned its back on the once-beautiful island. There were no birds, no people, no fish nor fowl. The only sound was the buzzing of the flies that feasted on the decaying animal corpses.
And the tinny metallic sound of unfolding deck chairs.
"This place is a nightmare. I'm sure Cousin Lumpy would adore a second honeymoon here."
There was a promise of acid rain in the breeze. Uncle Fester had waded out into the foul water and was gesturing wildly with a pack of dynamite. Wednesday, her face impassive, was standing at the water's edge, the water seeming to curve around the trailing ends of her skirt. Her hands were folded over her chest as she tilted her head towards their Uncle, but he could still see her fingers spasmodically tightening over the trigger of a rather large flamethrower. Further on, Grandmama's hunchbacked form hobbled sideways over the beach, dragging a cast-iron cauldron in the sand. Dinner tonight was going to be interesting.
Harry looked down at the sound of a tiny burp. Pubert sat on the sand, his chubby little face grimy with black marks and his jaw industriously working away. A feathery wingtip poked from the side of his mouth.
He leaned over and gave his brother a handkerchief. Pubert considered it for a moment before stuffing into his mouth as well. Harry chuckled fondly before glancing over at the other side of his chair. "Cup of tea, Pugsley?"
"Yes, please." Pugsley, buried up to his neck in the cold, greasy sand, beamed when the china was set down in front of his face with a faint tinkle.
Harry finished setting up the umbrella and settled down with a pleasant sigh. "No sunny skies, a nice, stale breeze, the smell of dead fish… this is a vacation."
"Mmm." His entombed brother bit the rim of the cup and tilted it upwards. He ended up splashing the scalding brown liquid all over his face.
"Seconds?" Harry offered politely.
"You know," Pugsley said as the tea was poured. "Your sixteenth birthday is coming up. Have any plans?"
Harry blinked with surprise and sat back, still holding the teapot. It wriggled irritably and he put it down next to the sugar tin. "It completely slipped my mind. I've been so busy, what with Tom and school and everything…"
"I'll help you plan it if you like."
Harry raised an eyebrow. He could practically see the whirling dervish of thoughts behind his brother's deranged grin. "Certainly not. You had your fun when you turned sixteen. We had to help Lurch re-flood the basement and Aristotle's fourth arm has never grown back properly."
"Octopodes aren't so resilient when they've hit the big Three-Oh-Oh." Pugsley shrugged, reminded of the disappointment of that day. "All that magnesium, gone to waste. It would have been awesome if it had worked though."
"Nevertheless, thank you for the offer but no. Blood magic will out." Harry smiled. "Besides, mindless destruction is more Father's familiales de spécialité particulière. I suspect that Wednesday and I lean more towards Mother's side."
The maddeningly haunting lilt of the violin drifted towards them on the breeze, as if to punctuate his point. It was their Mother, Harry knew, playing the Mayerling Waltz. It was quite fitting, considering the circumstances.
Harry rolled his eyes. Of course. "The Mayerling Waltz, the one where Rudolf succumbs to Death."
"The son of Elisabeth of Bavaria. You remember, we went to watch the musical in Vienna?" When Pugsley continued to frown, he tried again. "You blew up that tour bus? Eleven dead, two hundred people hospitalized? They declared a national state of emergency?"
"Honestly, Pugs, you could listen to some classical music once in a while."
"What, and get culture?"
There was another splash and Harry topped up the cup again. The sugar tin had run away.
"I'm not fooled, you know, Harveste Addams. I can hear your brain ticking away."
"That's your brain, Pugsley."
He looked upon the Dragon as it lay broken and dying, and he felt the Power call to him as never before.
Though a demon's blood ran through his veins, he was human still: a Cambion, caught between worlds and between magic. He was an outcast merely for the crime of his mixed blood, and therefore a wandering magician yet untrained and ignorant of the ways of the world.
His young heart quailed in fear when he saw the Beast he had unknowingly sentenced to death by his Voice.
He understood now the desire of the Gods, what he was Meant to become. But the price was more than he could bear, and so he turned his back on that beguiling Power, pledging himself to humanity, to Light, to a life of mediocrity among Mortals. In doing so, he sealed himself within himself, and became a mere shell of what he could have been.
"Blaise, darling! Lunch!"
Blaise blinked, his concentration broken. The story was interesting, even more so after the fifth or sixth read. He could almost see the shape of it now, almost try to guess at what Harveste was telling them. The bastard, he was sneaky as ever.
The book was slim, covered in supple black leather, with the word Myrddin embossed in silver on the lower left corner. He had half-expected a gift from an Addams to be poisoned or booby-trapped in some way, and his first time reading it, he had just stopped himself from licking a finger to turn a page. There had been no need for any poison at all though. The words written on the fragile vellum had been enough to set off an explosion in his mind, and as he walked down the staircase into the dining hall, his thoughts ticked away like the measures of a pendulum.
At the station, before they had parted ways at Platform 9 and ¾, Harry had pressed packages into their hands. His eerie green eyes had been as serious as any Professor's, firmly instructing them to read what he had given them, exchange over the summer, and take notes.
Draco, not surprisingly, had answered with, "You're giving us fucking homework? During our summer break?"
Harveste's kiss on his cheek had shut him up. It had shut the whole Platform up.
Blaise had been thinking about that quite often, in fact. Since the three of them had built up a sort of immunity over the years to their friend's homicidal quirks, Harveste had turned to the one thing that could throw them off-balance. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that the placidly smiling brunette was using kisses to mollify, pacify or otherwise mystify them so he could get away with whatever he was doing. The question was why he was using such an unconventional method. Blaise was sure that, even in America, friends did not kiss their friends on the mouth, unless there was Something Going On. It evoked confusing, uncomfortable feelings he didn't really want to consider at this point in time.
He entered the dining hall and pecked his mother's hand when she smiled at him. Then his eyeballs caught up with his brain and he barely masked his sigh as he sat down. Robert Smithson was eating lunch with them today.
Mister Smithson was a good-looking man somewhere around his early forties, sporting a weak chin and a full head of his own hair. He was recently widowed, his wife having died at least two years prior, a business man with no children and estranged from the rest of his family. And he was rich. Blaise hadn't spoken two words to him in the few weeks that his mother had started dating him, but he knew her type by now. What was the use of going out with a man who couldn't pay alimony?
What he didn't know was when Mister Smithson was going to… well, what was the polite word for it? There was none, he was certain, but Harveste would refer to it as 'be useful'.
Blaise chewed on a candied carrot thoughtfully as he stared into space.
Syrena Zabini was a Black Widow. It was an open secret in the pureblood circles, and he had never had the courage to ask her exactly why she had chosen such an illicit path. All he knew about it was that his father had never even lived to see him born, and since his demise, at least seven other men had come and Gone. They all lasted approximately six months, just enough time to special order a wreath, regardless of whether they were wizard, half-blood or Muggle. His mother had never bothered with the race distinction that the other pureblooded families held on to so fervently. Blood was blood, regardless of magical ability, and he had grown up knowing that, so he wasn't surprised that this latest quarry was a Muggle too. Muggles, for all their perceived faults, were surprisingly less easy to trace.
Other children would have been in need of therapy by the time the third husband had choked on his soup, and he supposed he was traumatized but in a different way. He had never really had the urge to learn about that side of magic, and other than the odd digging job every once in a while, he had never actually participated. Meeting Harveste had opened his eyes to his mother's world, and after four years of realizing just how powerful his friend really was, it would be a lie to say he wasn't just a little bit interested. The story of Myrddin had just cemented that conviction. Perhaps, after lunch, he would ask his mother a few questions.
Purely for research, of course.
"The state of your intestines is shameful." Wednesday was saying. "And look, the chicken's still moving around."
"It's called dexterity." Pugsley said smugly.
Harry looked at his baby brother over a pail of warm, squelchy meat. They were feeding the carpets, or at least Harry was. Pubert was banging his mace-shaped rattle on the ground, a suspicious red ring around his mouth.
"What do you think they're arguing about, hmm?" He asked idly, dangling a fat-marbled strip over the polar bear's mouth. It snapped the meat up with a hoarse snarl.
Pubert gurgled at him. He was six already but small for his age and he still hadn't spoken a word. He could write though. Harry looked at the bloody scribble on the floor, pursed his lips and wrote the proper spelling of 'Damnation' in big block letters.
"This is how you sacrifice a black cockerel to the undead forces of Hel."
"No, that's how you make stew." Wednesday said patronizingly. "This is how you sacrifice a black cockerel to the undead forces of Hel. And you're supposed to catch the blood in the bowl."
"You're just jealous coz I get to go to New Orleans. Without an armed guard."
"As if the loa would come to someone who's got their spleen upside-down."
There was a thunk, followed by a squawk and the patter of claws over the floorboards.
"Now where am I going to get another two year old black cockerel at this time of night?"
"It doesn't have to be a bird." Harry could just see his sister shrugging. "I could just sacrifice an eighteen-year-old red-haired idiot."
She was blinded by love, her heart torn asunder in betrayal and her soul blazing with the fires of vengeance. Her desire to keep him from the world and other passions not her own became so it great that it overpowered her, and the Silver Lady wove the spell that would be her own undoing.
She turned away from the sun and stretched her hands forth to the shadows between the stars. She spake the Words in the Voice that Myrddin had given her, and a new Power answered her. She named it Dark and she became the Dark, and from her conflicting emotions, she begat three of her own skin and blood: Ninianne of love, Vivianne of betrayal and Morgaine of vengeance. With her last breath, she sent them forth to be her lover's destruction, and she expired.
And yet… she lived on.
Monica Granger pushed open the door of her daughter's bedroom. It wedged up against a barbell.
"Sorry, mum. Got caught up." The weight was removed, and Hermione straightened, a book in her hand. "Time for lunch?"
They were almost the same height now. It was like she was looking at a younger copy of herself, except that her daughter had inherited her father's chocolate-brown eyes. Monica teared up inexplicably and she smiled to mask them. "Not for another few minutes, dear. I was just wondering whether you'd like your friends to come over sometime next week? I'd like to meet them."
Hermione kept herself from starting, her hold tightening on the book as it threatened to slip from her fingers, but not before Monica saw the word Nimue written on the green leather cover. "You want my friends to come here? To the house?"
"Why, yes. I would like to get to know them. You don't really talk about them, but I've seen the owls. And that vulture."
"That's Harry's. They don't really use owls."
"Ha-ri?" Her mother pronounced with a tinge of doubt. "Is he the one that lives in America? His name sounds a little... different."
"It's complicated, mum." Hermione said with a tiny smile. "Er… you really want them to visit?"
"Of course, dear."
People didn't think of dentists as doctors. It was as if they couldn't see past the lack of a stethoscope to the real healing that proper oral hygiene could be responsible for. The mouth was the gateway to the whole body, and maintenance of that front was very important. Monica prided herself on the fact that her daughter had grown up knowing how to floss and brush her teeth correctly. There were too few of them in the world. Hermione had taken after her, quiet and studious and, as an unfortunate by-product, quite friendless in her younger days. She remembered the elementary years as an alternate flood of tears and uncertain indifference. Ever since Hogwarts though, that had changed, and as a mother, she was both elated and apprehensive because that meant only one thing.
Monica wasn't a gossip by any means but even she had heard some of the stories on the grapevine. Young Eloise Youd, who lived a few doors down, had gotten mixed up in undesirable company and had been grounded for at least a year for being drunk and disorderly at a party. Evan Bellinski, at Number Twenty-three, had turned into some sort of black and white ghoul and was listening to music that was akin to an eighteen-wheeler running over electric guitars. Carter Prince, the son of the local shopkeeper, and his girlfriend of two weeks had been arrested for possession of marijuana. It was all very bad business, and Monica couldn't help but be worried. Adolescence in this day and age was obviously not as wholesome as it used to be. Her only child spent most of her year away from her family and there was no telling what kind of shenanigans magical teenagers got up to. So she had come up with a plan.
Monica blinked away her thoughts and smiled at her daughter. "Yes, darling?"
"Are we paid up on insurance?"
Silky red rose heads littered the greenhouse floor like pools of freshly spilled blood. They crunched faintly underfoot as Harry continued trimming the persistently thriving bushes. They were a very hardy breed from Calcutta. Perhaps he would ask Pugsley to stir up a new batch of pesticide. They hadn't tested anything on Lurch in a long time.
Harry looked over his shoulder and stepped to one side to make room for his mother. She crept across the floor like a large, beautiful spider, her hips swaying in the tight black funeral dress she so favored. Wednesday and he had wondered for years whose graves they had come from.
"You've been so quiet these past few days. Cat got your tongue?"
"Oh, Mother." Harry smiled wistfully. "Kitty hasn't been herself lately. Perhaps she needs a mate? I do miss the way she lies in wait and tries to rip my throat out."
"Your father's still banned from Africa for at least ten more years, darling." Morticia's eyes gleamed at the memory. "But I shall keep it in mind. Speaking of mates … your friends would have usually visited us by this time. Has something happened?"
"Nothing at all, Mother." Harry gave up trying to use the scissors on a particularly tough stem and pulled his fan from a sleeve. There was a thin pained wail. "I just gave them something to think about."
A woody vine began to wind around their ankles. Morticia gave it an admonishing tap and it slunk away sullenly. "Would it have anything to do with your turning sixteen next year? You remember what I told you about your magical maturity, darling."
"I've kept it in mind. Aside from that, I suppose it'll be just like any other birthday party, with the chains, the screaming and pleading, a girl baked in a cake... Don't worry so, Mother. I do have a shovel."
The tall, gaunt woman smiled wistfully at another memory. "I met your Father on my sixteenth birthday, you know."
"It was so romantic. An open grave, a new corpse and lightly falling snow covering the blood he threw up on my shoes." She sighed. "I can only hope it will be as memorable for you, darling."
Draco tilted his head to one side as he scribbled something in his notes, then paused to scan the yellowing parchment again. He shifted on the duvet, one leg already numb beneath him, and a book dug into his hip.
Lucius raised an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic chaos. It seemed that his son had moved half the Malfoy Library into his room. There was no surface that did not support at least a three-foot pile, and those that weren't scattered on the floor were on the bed.
He stood there for a moment before realizing that Draco was much too engrossed in what he was doing. Lucius cleared his throat pointedly. "May I ask what you are doing?"
"Wha- Father?" The young blond made to stand up and winced at the annoying prickle of pins-and-needles. "You're home early."
"The Minister has decided to bless us hard-working Ministry officials with a long weekend." Lucius' upper lip curled as he thought about the quavering, insecure man and his audacious bowler hat. A peeling title caught his eyes, which widened with surprise. "You're researching gods, Draco?"
"Oh. Yes." Draco looked flustered and he rubbed his neck as he tried to explain. "Well, I was just… They're all a bit confusing, but I'm sure that when Hermione and Blaise have their turn, they'll make their own lists. The history is very interesting, but it's so hard to make a choice. I suppose I could ask Harveste, but then that would be like cheating, wouldn't it?"
The older Malfoy blinked. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"This." Draco riffled among the leather bindings and gilded covers before unearthing a thick roll of parchment. "The pre-requisites of the Low Call."
Lucius' face turned impassive at the sight of the neat, spidery words written across the front. Behind the marble façade though, his emotions began to churn into an uneasy froth. "The Low Call to Blood Magic."
The younger blond nodded absently, then caught the look on his father's face.
"I have a full twelve months to decide before reaching my maturity." He said somewhat warily. Despite the fact that he knew the man would never raise a hand to him, Lucius Malfoy still had a way of radiating a compellingly chilly aura. "Besides… oh honestly, Father, you can't have not expected this to happen. You did tell me to consider all options and blood magic is an option."
"I did. But I assume it was Addams who gave you that." The tone of his voice was stony.
The room was pleasantly warm, but Lucius couldn't suppress a shudder at the memory of that night in the graveyard. He vividly recalled the inhuman sheen in the green eyes that had bored into him with all the relentlessness of an augur. The pure animalistic magic that had rampaged through the evening sky had torn at his composure and awakened feelings he thought he had rid himself of. No, Harveste Addams was not the Dark Lord.
He was far worse.
"Just promise me you won't choose until you're certain, Draco. Once you've started down that path, there is no way back."
"Yes, Father." Draco said again, quietly. He waited until Lucius had swept away before going back to the books. Something poked at his side again and, frowning slightly, he pulled it free.
It was a senbon, silver fire coursing over its surface as he tilted it under the lamplight. Draco smiled to himself and tucked it back under his pillow. It was no choice at all, really.
"Femur and patella, Tibia and fibula, Calcaneus, talus and navicular.
We have medial, intermediate and lateral cuneiform, cuboid and metatarsal bones.
And in your toes, let's not forget those
Proximal phalanges and intermediate phalanges
And distal phalanges-"
"The jointing song, Harry?"
Wednesday stood in the nursery doorway, a ghostly figure enshrouded in her webbed nightgown. It was so realistic that a fingernail-sized spider scuttled over the interlaced weave and disappeared over her shoulder. Harry put a finger over his lips and gestured towards the crib, which was vibrating from the force of the deep, ghastly growls and echoing snores that sounded like they came from the devil himself.
"I just got him to go to sleep." Harry whispered to her as she came to stand beside him. "He came into my room fifteen minutes ago and nearly stabbed me with a fillet knife."
"That's no good. Far too bendy."
"I know. He's long overdue for a hatchet."
Wednesday looked down at their youngest sibling, crammed into the cot like a pig into a jam jar, drooling in his sleep and happily sucking on a thumb. Her eyes narrowed in recognition and she started to reach for her pocket. "That's my bookmark."
There should have been no space for him to move in the too-small cot, but Pubert managed to wriggle and pull his blanket over himself just in time. A purplish potion splattered onto the moth-eaten fabric and started to smoke.
"Let him have it for tonight." Harry covered his mouth delicately as he yawned. "There'll be plenty of time to string him up tomorrow."
"Why put off till tomorrow what you can kill today?"
Lightning streaked through the stormy morning sky like the horns of a thwarted Minotaur. Heavy rain drummed constantly at the roof tiles and the wind stirred the nooses and rusty gibbets, which were currently unfilled. Morning golf was out of the question.
Cars were bumper to bumper in the street, honking pointlessly under the downpour.
"A Buick. Perfect."
Gomez hefted a bowling ball, sighted carefully and swung his arm back.
The crash was audible above the wind, and Harry smiled around his cup as the yelling began. He was drinking tea with his mother in the shady lee between the towers. There was no wind in the small space and rain seemed to divert around them to dump the worst on Lurch as the stoic butler held the scoreboard.
Harry looked over to where Wednesday was putting the finishing touches on a wooden coffin. In neat copperplate across the lid was one word: Pubert.
"You missed a bit."
As she tilted it to the side to dab on more varnish, footsteps began to thunder up the stairs. Harry had enough time to put down his cup and hold up a lemon before an eight-inch blade whirled over his shoulder. It bit deeply into the yellow rind.
"Mail's in." His brother said, hopping over Wednesday's sneakily extended leg. "Cross your fingers for anthrax."
Harry delicately ripped the first letter open and shook it out. A postcard fell onto his lap. "No such luck. Uncle Liverworth sends his love. They'll be back from Greece in a week. Look, they got a picture with the Hydra. They - What's this?"
There was a small package, about the size of a head, wrapped in brown paper and tied off with twine. It wasn't seeping viscous fluid, which was a bit strange. Harry picked it up and rattled it experimentally. No ticking and no strange smells. How bizarre.
Morticia looked around her new copy of Living in Vein. "Perhaps it's one of Uncle Fester's collectibles?"
"I don't think so. It's addressed to Wednesday."
There was a whistle in the air and with a rip, the package fell open, freeing a cascade of shiny, colorful foil-wrapped things, most of which plopped into a rain puddle.
"Candy? Who would send you candy?"
Wednesday finished coiling the length of wire and snatched at a slip of paper that had managed to escape. "'A token of our admiration'." She read out loud. The paper spontaneously combusted in her hand as she gripped it, and thunder crashed as if agreeing with her suddenly venomous tone. "It's those Weasleys."
"What are Weasleys?" Morticia inquired.
"You remember those two boys from Hogwarts, Mother, the twins with the red hair?"
"And they are interested in our Wednesday, are they?" Gomez rubbed his hands together gleefully. "That's wonderful! A matching set!"
A choking sound made them turn. Pugsley, his eyes larger than saucers, was clutching at his throat. His tongue was hugely bloated, spilling out of his mouth and lolling onto the floor like an obscene slug. At his feet was a shiny wrapper.
"Goth guyth ah bill-iant!" He somehow managed to gag, his lips already tinged with blue "Gan I af da etht?"
"Oh dear." Even Morticia looked slightly amused. "He's choking to death."
Harry looked at Wednesday. "Let's help him along."
As if on cue, a harsh screech came from downstairs.
"Who put Pubert in the cooking pot?"
Harry and Wednesday grinned at each other.
End of Part 1
Hope you guys don't mind that the short sweet vignettes are gone. I tried, but it just didn't fit somehow. From now on, the serious world of Harveste Addams begins!