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Chapter Text

“I’m so sorry about Ajax,” Enid blurted, her eyes darting left and right, as though Wednesday might sprout fangs at any moment. The apology spilled out in a nervous stream, though Wednesday could not have cared less about Ajax, or the swirling schoolyard rumors in her wake. If anything, she welcomed them. Fear was a more useful reputation than kindness. Clearly, Enid Sinclair hadn’t received the memo.

“He was just worried, and he knows I like gossip, and he was trying to be nice, but he shouldn’t have been so rude-he’s usually nice, and cute, but, like, totally oblivious, believe me I would know, and-”

Wednesday’s stare froze her mid-babble. A single arched eyebrow sealed Enid’s mouth tighter than any gag. The girl’s shoulders drew up, tense and trembling, like a rabbit expecting the jaws to close. Good. Wednesday much preferred company that was at least appropriately terrified.

“Are you going to continue the tour?”

“Oh, right! The tour. Where was I?” Enid clapped her hands together as if to restart her brain. “So, I told you about the big cliques, but Nevermore has all sorts of rare outcasts too.”

She scanned the quad until her eyes lit on a tall boy painting a mural on the wall. His long hair was neatly tied back, his strokes careful and practiced. Even at a distance, Wednesday had to admit his technique was strong, though the riot of color made her feel vaguely nauseous.

Beside him lounged another boy, shorter, hair a disordered nest of black, laughing at some private joke. His blazer was abandoned on the ground, his shirt sleeves shoved to the elbow. What caught Wednesday’s attention wasn’t his attitude but the scars - pale, jagged lines that scored his forearms, visible even from here.

“That’s Xavier Thorpe, our resident tortured artist,” Enid explained with breathless enthusiasm. “Still broody after the whole Bianca breakup.” She delivered the gossip as if it were the crown jewel of information, though Wednesday’s gaze had already drifted past him.

“And the other one?”

Enid waggled her eyebrows. “Ohhh, going for dark and mysterious? I totally get it. His name’s Harry Potter and he’s kind of a loner. Barely talks to anyone. Xavier’s maybe his closest friend, but they both tend to keep to themselves. He’s nice, though. Really nice. Once he actually stood up for me when someone was making fun of my claws.” Her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “The most interesting part? Nobody knows what kind of outcast he is.”

Wednesday filed the information away without twitching an eyelid. Enid’s gleeful implication of romantic interest rolled off her like water off a raven’s wing.

“And the scars?” Wednesday asked flatly. “Those are far more intriguing than his dating potential.”

Enid’s smile faltered. “Nobody knows. But it’s not exactly unusual here. Not everyone’s life before Nevermore was… easy. We, uh, don’t pry.”

Unsatisfying, but not illogical. Outcasts carried their wounds like second skins - some physical, others buried deeper. Wednesday’s instincts whispered that there was more to Harry than Enid’s shallow accounts, a hidden marrow worth cracking open. She would reach the bottom of it. She always did.

By the time the day bled itself dry, Wednesday was certain Nevermore would be intolerable. Fortunately, she had already drafted a dozen escape plans in her head. Freedom was only a matter of timing.

‘Things are looking up,’ she caught herself thinking, then shuddered in disgust at the optimism. Perhaps this place was already corrupting her.

Oh, she had no idea.

O-O-O

For all the venom Wednesday carried for Nevermore, she could concede one thing: the classes were less mind-numbing than the ones inflicted on normies. At least here she wasn’t trapped in endless equations and essays about the virtues of conformity. Instead, she studied the anatomy of outcasts, traced the bloodied threads of their history, and analyzed the most efficient ways to survive an encounter with creatures whose diets included human marrow.

Today’s lesson was far more intimate.

The fencing hall smelled of sweat, chalk, and anticipation. A hundred little clinks of steel on steel echoed across the polished floor. Wednesday stood among them, wrapped in black from mask to boots, a solitary shadow in a sea of white. Her eyes tracked the matches in progress, and disappointment followed. Only one student had any grace.

Bianca Barclay.

Wednesday watched her disarm her opponent with ruthless precision, sending him sprawling and helmetless onto the mat.

“She tripped me, Coach! Not fair!” Rowan whined, but the instructor dismissed it with a wave.

“The strike was clean.”

Bianca smirked. “Don’t be such a sore loser, Rowan. If you put half as much effort into practice as you do into whining, you might actually improve. But I doubt it.”

She removed her mask with a practiced flourish, revealing the same imperious glare Enid had labeled “queen bee” yesterday. Clearly, Bianca’s reign extended beyond gossip.

Before Wednesday could step forward, Harry Potter intervened. Xavier lingered loyally at his back.

“No need to be that harsh, Bianca,” Harry said calmly. “Not everyone is aiming for championships.” He offered Rowan a steadying hand, helping him up with quiet dignity.

Bianca’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe a little ambition would suit some people well. Up for a challenge, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes, thoroughly uninterested.

Wednesday was not.

“I am,” she said, stepping forward, voice like the scrape of a blade being drawn.

Both heads turned. Bianca’s lips curled. “Ah. You must be the little psychopath they dragged in.”

“And you must be the big self-proclaimed queen bee,” Wednesday replied. “The thing about bees, remove the stinger, and the body collapses. Pathetic, really.”

A ripple of gasps swept the hall. Wednesday caught the flicker, barely a crack in Bianca’s flawless mask, and savored it. Victory already tasted sweet.

The coach barked. Sabers raised. The crowd pressed closer, scenting blood.

The first exchanges were cautious, probing. Wednesday moved like a coiled snake, patient, testing Bianca’s guard. On the third pass, she slipped her blade past Bianca’s defense with ruthless efficiency, exploiting an opening Bianca clearly thought her unable to abuse, the tip thudding against her opponent’s chest. Point.

A ripple of approval whispered through the students. Bianca’s jaw tightened.

The second bout began with more ferocity. Bianca surged forward, her strikes snapping like thunder, strength and speed pounding through Wednesday’s guard. Each clash rang up Wednesday’s arm, numbing muscle and bone. Her blade turned slower, just enough. When Bianca’s saber slipped past her parry and tapped her side, the crowd cheered. Even.

“Beginner’s luck,” Bianca said coolly, mask lowering again. “Don’t expect it to happen twice.”

Wednesday’s breath was steady. Her gaze burned. “Then let’s end this properly. A military challenge. No masks. No tips. First blood decides.”

A hush fell. Someone inhaled sharply. Even the coach hesitated before nodding.

Bianca’s smile was a dare. “Fine. Let’s see if your blood runs as black as your wardrobe.”

Masks were discarded. Naked steel gleamed under the lights.

This time there was no testing. Bianca came on like a storm, blows hammering down with merciless rhythm. Wednesday absorbed them, feet sliding, arm straining, the air buzzing with each strike. The crowd’s gasps rose with every clash.

Her plan to unnerve, to provoke overreach, faltered. Bianca was too disciplined, her rage a controlled fire, not a wild beast. Wednesday pivoted to a gamble: she lunged into reckless offense, a sudden storm of attacks meant to overwhelm. For a heartbeat she saw surprise flicker in Bianca’s eyes, but the other girl recovered instantly, stepping forward into the risk, not away.

Steel sang. Wednesday’s parry came a fraction too late.

Pain bloomed hot across her forehead. A line of blood traced down, sharp against pale skin.

The crowd erupted.

Bianca lowered her blade, savoring her victory. “That face of yours finally has a splash of color,” she said sweetly. “It needed it.”

Wednesday stood tall, blood trickling into her eyebrow, her glare as cold as the blade still in her hand. Losing was humiliation. But humiliation was a great fuel.

She would carve this memory into bone and sharpen it. Bianca Barclay would pay.

O-O-O

Being dragged to the infirmary over a scratch was proof enough of Nevermore’s collective incompetence. A nick on the forehead did not warrant medical attention. It warranted a mirror and perhaps a needle and thread, nothing more. That her time was being wasted here was insult enough.

“Thanks for… you know, stepping up for me.”

Rowan’s voice cracked through her irritation. Wednesday turned her gaze on him, her expression so flat it could have been carved from marble. He faltered, fidgeting with his sleeves before fumbling onward.

“Um… Rowan. The guy Bianca beat. Again. My mother had said that if I came here, I’d find people like me. But I guess even here, I’m still just… an outcast among outcasts.” He gave a half-hearted laugh, which died immediately in the silence. His eyes flicked to the bandage the nurse had just secured. “Sorry about the cut, by the way. Didn’t mean for you to get nicked.”

Wednesday’s lips barely moved. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

It was all the conversation he was going to get. She slid off the cot, her boots striking the floor like a final verdict, and swept out of the suffocating little room.

The courtyard air was at least an improvement, though it carried the shrill noise of students wasting their time with chatter. Wednesday cut through, black attire and bandaged brow marking her as an intruder among intruders.

Then- a sound.

A groaning crack, heavy stone shifting where stone should not move. She looked up.

The gargoyle above tore free from its perch, tumbling down in a rush of shadow and dust.

Wednesday calculated in an instant: the angle, the speed, the inevitability. She would not be fast enough. Her body refused to betray panic; instead, she stared coolly at the descending mass. Death, at least, had the courtesy to approach her honestly this time.

But it did not arrive.

A hard shove from behind sent her sprawling out of the impact’s path. Stone shattered against the cobbles where she had stood, shards leaping like fangs. Dust billowed up around her as silence swept the courtyard.

O-O-O

When Wednesday opened her eyes, the first thing she registered was the ceiling of the infirmary. Again. Being dragged back here mere minutes after leaving felt like a new personal low - even for her.

“Welcome back.”

She turned her head to see Xavier seated at her bedside, offering a small smile. Against the far wall leaned Harry, arms crossed, looking as if he’d wandered in by accident and stayed out of boredom. Neither seemed particularly shaken. Clearly, they’d been together when the gargoyle fell - and one of them had ruined a perfectly good near-death experience by shoving her aside.

She pushed herself up, but Xavier’s hand hovered as a warning. “Take it easy. The nurse says no concussion, but you still took a nasty hit.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You tackled me. Why?”

Xavier shrugged, as though saving lives were a mild inconvenience. “Instinct, I guess. It would’ve been stranger not to.”

“I do not appreciate being cast as a damsel in distress,” she said coolly. “The spread of outdated chivalry does not endear you to me nor earn a debt.”

Xavier only smiled, impish, the kind of grin that made people forgive things they shouldn’t.

Harry snorted from the wall. “Most people would just say ‘thank you.’ But sure - that’s one creative way to do it.”

Wednesday’s gaze slid to him, cold as a morgue slab. “I didn’t need to be rescued.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “So he should’ve just let the stone gargoyle crush you? Got it.”

“I was fully capable of saving myself,” she said flatly, ignoring the faint voice in her head whispering she might not have been.
Xavier stepped in before the exchange could sharpen into an argument. “Nice to see you haven’t changed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “We’ve met before?”

He nodded. “A funeral. Years ago. We were playing hide and seek.”

The memory stirred - faint at first, then sharp. Wednesday’s lips curved ever so slightly.

“I remember. I heard screams from inside the coffin. For a moment, I believed the corpse was clawing its way back to life. It was the happiest I’d ever been at a funeral.” Her tone flattened, disappointment threading through the words. “Then I realized it was only you. The disappintment was immesurable.”

Xavier chuckled. “Yeah, but you still hit that big red button to save me. So I guess now we’re even.”

As she looked at them, she got the feeling this won’t be the last time she has something to do with those two particular individuals.

Chapter Text

Escaping Dr. Kinbott’s office was insultingly easy. The woman’s chirpy probing into “emotional openness” about her personal life was nothing short of torture, though Wednesday suspected the therapist thought herself clever for packaging agony in pastel sweaters and smiles.

Her parents’ betrayal still soured in her mind. Sending Thing to spy on her, as though she hadn’t noticed within minutes of her first day. Their mistake was underestimating her, as always. Still, she had to admit he’d proved useful. For an accomplice, the disembodied hand sure was efficient. And during her escape from Kinbott’s clutches, his dexterous help had been flawless.

Step one of her plan was complete. Now, as step two was leaving Jericho behind forever.

She scanned the streets carefully, keeping an eye out for Weems’s hawk-like surveillance. Then, a collision rocked her body, almost sending her sprawling on the ground.

The moment the stranger’s shoulder brushed hers, the world shifted. Her vision darkened, dragged into violent clarity. She saw the man screaming, glass shattering, a car crumpling around him in a grotesque ballet of twisted steel. His death would come before the day’s end.

When she blinked back into herself, she was back at the street, saring in confusion as the man stood before her, a grumpy, middle-aged man, the very image of suburban misery. Divorce and custody battles clung to him like smoke.

“Watch where you’re going, freak,” he spat. “Can’t believe they let you into town.”

Wednesday regarded him with a slow blink, his insult beneath her notice. She turned away without reply. Why waste words on someone with hours left to live? If she told him about the vision, he’d only mistake her for a witch cursing him to grusome death. As though she needed to wait for fate’s convenience to kill anyone.

She moved on. The local café stood ahead, a quaint den of mediocrity, but exactly what she needed.

Inside, the smell of scorched beans greeted her. Behind the counter, a brown-haired boy wrestled with an espresso machine, its whirring coughs and hisses proof of its mechanical misery. He jabbed at the thing in frustration, clearly failing.

Perfect.

She stepped into view through the curl of steam.

“Holy crap!” The boy nearly jumped out of his skin. “Do you make it a habit to scare people like that?”

Wednesday’s face didn’t move. “More of a hobby.” Few things soothed her like the discomfort of strangers.

He looked her over, noting her black uniform. “Nevermore, huh? Didn’t know they wore things like that.”

She ignored him. If she had her way she would not be a student there for much longer. “I need a quad over ice. It’s an emergency.”

He gestured helplessly at the wheezing machine. “I’d love to, but, spoiler alert, it’s broken. Again. Damn thing goes down every week.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed at the clumsy display. She already saw the problem, but let him fumble longer. The more incompetent he appeared, the larger the favor she could demand when she fixed it.

She plucked the manual from his hands, scanning the lines.

“You can read Italian?” he asked, wide-eyed.

She favored him with a stare sharp enough to pierce glass. “It’s the native language of Machiavelli. Naturally, I learned it.” She rattled off the tools she needed without waiting for his reaction. “I’ll fix your machine. In return, you’ll give me my coffee and call me a taxi.”

He chuckled nervously. “No taxis in Jericho. Try an Uber?”

“I don’t own a phone. I refuse to participate in humanity’s slow enslavement to technology.”

“Then you’re out of luck. Where are you trying to go, anyway?”

“Unimportant. What about trains?”

“The nearest station’s in Burlington. Thirty minutes away, give or take.”

The machine sputtered back to life under her hands, the problem almost offensively simple. Still, she lingered over the repair for several extra minutes, making the boy believe she’d performed something miraculous.

“Wow. Thanks. Never met a Nevermore kid who wasn’t afraid to get their hands dirty,” he said, genuinely impressed. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”

She could have cared less. Exchanging pleasantries ranked near the bottom of her list of tolerable activities - somewhere between small talk and synchronized swimming. Still, building rapport served a purpose.

“I don’t recall ever throwing it. But if you must know, I’m Wednesday.”

His smile tilted. “How about this, Wednesday? As thanks, I’ll drive you to the train station. You’ll just have to wait until my shift ends.”

“I need to leave immediately. How about I pay you?” She slid a twenty across the counter.

He chuckled. “No deal.”

“Forty, then.”

“Thing about me,” Tyler said with a grin, “I can’t be bought. Not even by a Nevermore girl with a death stare.”

For once, Wednesday’s expression twitched with the faintest glimmer of approval. A minimum-wage barista unwilling to be purchased. An anomaly she could typically appreciate. Still, his refusal grated, every delay in her escape another irritation.

She sighed. “Fine. I’ll wait. But I still want my quad.”

Tyler saluted the machine she had resurrected. “Coming right up.”

Coffee in hand, Wednesday made for a booth, ready to tolerate the wait in silence. But then something caught her eye. Or rather, someone.

Harry Potter.

He had claimed an entire booth to himself, every inch of the table smothered in books, loose papers, and clippings. His dark hair fell into his face as he scribbled furiously, lips moving faintly as if reciting things to himself. The boy looked utterly consumed, as though the rest of the café and the world outside had ceased to exist.

Wednesday drifted closer, curiosity outweighing her annoyance. These weren’t ordinary textbooks. The bindings were cracked with age, the pages yellowed and marked with sigils and runes she didn’t recognize. That fact alone was noteworthy; Wednesday prided herself on her fluency in obscure tongues. Her gaze settled on a scatter of newspaper clippings “Bear Attacks Continue Near Jericho Woods”  circled, underlined, annotated in red.

“Pray tell,” she said, her voice cutting through the steam and chatter, “what do bear attacks have to do with this little collection of arcana?”

Most people would have jumped, startled to discover her standing there. Harry did not. His eyes slid from his notebook to her face, flat and unreadable, then back to the page. Only when she leaned closer did he snap the book shut, her glimpse of his notes confirming two things: his handwriting was atrocious, and he didn’t want her reading it.

“Just research,” he said simply.

Wednesday arched a brow. “Just research,” she repeated. She didn’t believe him for a second. Even at Nevermore, his collection was strange. The enigma she’d sensed on her first day only thickened.

Before she could press, the café’s bell chimed.

Three boys swaggered in, dressed absurdly  in pilgrim costumes. They spotted her instantly.

“Well, well. What’s a Nevermore freak doing out here?” their leader sneered.

Beside her, Harry exhaled slowly through his nose, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. Clearly, his study session was over.

Wednesday tilted her head. “Why are you dressed like religious fanatics from three centuries ago?”

“We work at Pilgrim World,” one of the sidekicks said with remarkable seriousness.

“Fascinating,” Wednesday said. “Devoting a theme park to mass genocide. Truly the pinnacle of American entertainment.”

The leader bristled. “Watch your mouth, freak. My dad owns Pilgrim World.” His chest puffed with pride. “Who are you calling stupid?”

The insult hung in the air a beat too long. Tyler rushed over from behind the counter, raising his hands. “Hey, guys, calm down-”

He was shoved aside. “Stay out of it, Galpin.”

Wednesday dodged the first punch with surgical ease. The swing was so clumsy she almost pitied him. Almost. She caught his wrist, twisted, and sent him sprawling onto the marble floor. Gasps echoed in the café.

The second boy lunged, but Harry’s hand shot out, catching his arm mid-swing. In one smooth movement, Harry wrenched it behind his back. The boy yelped, pinned and helpless, Harry’s face impassive.

The third barely had time to blink before Wednesday’s boot cracked into his calf, dropping him to his knees.

Silence fell, broken only by the whimpers of the defeated.

Harry released his captive, dusted off his hands, and turned back to his notes as though nothing of interest had happened. “Well, that was something. Nice moves, Addams.”

Tyler’s jaw had practically hit the floor. “Where did you learn those kung fu moves?”

Wednesday brushed him off. “My uncle. He picked up a few tricks after being kidnapped by Tibetan monks.”

The café door opened again. Sheriff Galpin stepped in, eyes narrowing at the scene. Apparantly, Tyler wasn’t just your average barista, running off to explain what had happened to his father that just happened to be the sheriff.

“You’re telling me this little thing did all that?” His gaze lingered on Wednesday, skeptical. “You sure you didn’t help her, Tyler?”

“C’mon, Sheriff,” Harry said, leaning back lazily in his seat. “When has one of us ever not been in a mess? You must be getting old if this surprises you.”

The sheriff’s jaw tightened. “Careful, Potter, unless you want a trip to the station. Not uninvited this time.”

The tension between them was obvious, sour history crackling in the air. Wednesday tucked the observation away for later. Perhaps Harry’s interest in the “bear attacks” and his run-ins with the sheriff were connected.

Before she could ponder further, the air shifted.

“Now, that won’t be necessary,” came Principal Weems’s voice, calm but cold. She glided into the café, apology already in hand. “Forgive her, Sheriff Galpin. My new student hasn’t yet acclimated. I’ll see to her discipline.”

Wednesday bit back a retort, her fingers itching for a blade.

Outside, Weems’s composure cracked. “Honestly, Wednesday! Escaping Dr. Kinbott’s office only to cause a brawl in town. Can’t you follow the rules for once?”

Harry’s smirk cut in before Wednesday could answer. “It wasn’t her fault. Those idiots came straight for her. Must’ve wanted an easy target.” His eyes flicked to her, glinting with amusement. “They were… disappointed.”

Weems sighed. “Oh, Harry, dear. I told you to stay out of trouble as well. Sheriff Galpin already has you under scrutiny for asking too many questions. Must you antagonize him?”

Harry’s reply was pure sarcasm. “Me? Breaking rules? Perish the thought.”

In the car, trees whipping by the windows, Wednesday watched him, calculating. His brow furrowed, thoughts far from the present. She took her chance.

“How did you learn to read those books?”

Harry met her gaze briefly, silent, the answer locked tight.

Weems, oblivious, filled the space. “Harry is an exceptional young man. When I first met him, I was amazed by his talent.” She smiled fondly.

Harry groaned and hid his face behind his hand. When he finally looked back at Wednesday, he gave her a half-answer. “I wasn’t originally planning on going to Nevermore. Weems recruited me. I figured… why not? It’s not so bad.” He hesitated, then added, “I don’t know why you’re so desperate to run, Wednesday. But if you give Nevermore a chance, it might surprise you.”

Her lip curled. “As if.”

She turned to the window, silent. Later, she realized he had aimed for that exact reaction. And she hated him a little more for it.

O-O-O

The bow drew across the strings, the cello’s voice low and mournful, pouring into the night air like smoke. Wednesday’s fingers moved with precision, but the usual solace she found in the music eluded her. Her mind refused to still. Thoughts gnawed at her. Nevermore and its secrets, Harry Potter’s layers of mystery, the creeping sense that the school itself was more puzzle than sanctuary.

The last note lingered, vibrating against the stone balcony, when a voice broke the silence.

“How did you even get that oversized violin up here?”

Enid leaned against the doorway, her head tilted in genuine wonder. The sheer naivety almost amused Wednesday. Three determined hands had accomplished the task, but apparently, ingenuity was rarer here than lycanthropy.

“It’s called a cello, Enid,” Wednesday corrected, voice flat as slate. Why is culture treated like an affliction in this asylum they call a school? “And I had an extra hand.”

As if on cue, Thing raised himself from the chair, giving a jaunty little wave.

“Woah!” Enid gasped, eyes wide. “Where’s the rest of him?” Naturally, her first instinct wasn’t awe at an animated hand but curiosity about the scandal behind it. Gossip seemed to be her preferred method of oxygen intake.

“It’s an Addams family secret,” Wednesday said, her voice taking on the faintest note of pride. “His name is Thing. He serves me well.”

Before Enid could pry further, a long howl cut across the night- not distant, but near enough to make the windows rattle. The sound should have been triumphant, primal. Instead, it seemed to weigh Enid down. Her usual brightness dimmed, shadows settling in her expression.

“Why aren’t you wolfing out?” Wednesday asked, eyes narrowing.

“I can’t.” Enid’s voice faltered. She extended her claws, then retracted them, repeating the motion like a nervous tic. “I’m a late bloomer. My mom sent me to specialists, shamans, and everything else, but…” Her claws slid away again. “Still no wolf. There’s a chance I might never, well, you know.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “And what happens then?”

Enid swallowed. “I guess… I become a lone wolf.” The words carried none of her usual bounce. Misery sat heavy on her face, and for once, the girl’s glittering exterior cracked.

“Sounds perfect.” Wednesday allowed the faintest curve of her lips. The thought of solitude, writing her novel in uninterrupted silence, free of intrusion, sounded like a dream dressed in velvet.

Enid’s eyes widened in horror. “Are you kidding? My life would be over. I’d be cast out of my pack, my family would throw me away like garbage, I’d never find a mate and I’d probably die alone in some ditch.”

Wednesday blinked, unimpressed. “I still fail to see the problem.”

Enid gave a choked laugh, half sob. “Wow. You really suck at this.” She swiped at her eyes, tears spilling anyway.

“I don’t understand why you’re crying,” Wednesday admitted. And she didn’t. It seemed an unproductive waste of bodily fluid.

“Because I’m upset, Wednesday!” Enid’s voice cracked, raw now. “People cry when they’re upset. But maybe you don’t get that. Maybe you’re above everything. Even crying.”

For a moment, silence. Then Wednesday’s voice softened, not in tone but in weight.

“I had a pet scorpion once. Nero. One week after Halloween, we were ambushed while on a walk. A group of boys pinned me down and forced me to watch as they ran him over again and again with their bikes.” Her eyes didn’t flicker as she spoke, but the words carried an edge that could cut glass. “I collected his remains myself. I dug the hole. I buried him. I cried my little black heart until I couldn’t breathe.” She paused. “But the tears didn’t bring him back. They changed nothing. So I swore I would never waste them again.”

Enid sniffled. The tears slowed, her breathing evening out. Something in Wednesday’s morbid confession - the rawness cloaked in steel - seemed to anchor her.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Enid’s mouth curved into a shaky grin. “You’re still weird as hell, though.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Wednesday said, her gaze flicking with distaste to the explosion of neon colors cluttering Enid’s half of the room. Then, after a pause, she added: “How would you feel about getting your single back?”

Enid’s eyes widened in surprise.

Plans began to take shape soon after, Thing drumming impatiently as he typed on Enid’s laptop. With his help, and a conveniently willing barista in Jericho, the escape would be set during the upcoming Harvest Festival. Wednesday’s way out of Nevermore had just moved one step closer.

O-O-O

The Harvest Festival was in full swing by the time Harry and Xavier arrived. The town square had been transformed - lanterns hung from every post, their warm light battling the crisp autumn dark. The air was thick with the mingled scents of caramel apples, roasted corn, fried dough, and cheap beer that someone had inevitably smuggled in. Families clustered around pumpkin displays, children darted between hay bales, and the steady hum of chatter and laughter rose under the band’s folksy music drifting from the main stage.

Harry had planned to enjoy it all. Play a few games, eat his fill, mock Xavier’s hopeless aim at every stall, and, if Weems wasn’t breathing down his neck, sneak a pint or two to finish the night. Simple. Easy.

The first sign that the evening would not go as intended came at the ring-toss stall.

There, with her severe black silhouette standing out against the garish backdrop of carnival prizes, was Wednesday Addams. She stood with a calm intensity, tossing rings one by one, each landing with precise perfection. Plush animals piled up beside her like trophies of war.

“Of all people,” Harry muttered.

Xavier, however, brightened instantly. “Come on, let’s say hi.”

Harry groaned inwardly. He loved his friend like a brother, but of all the crushes to pursue, Wednesday Addams was… ambitious. Still, loyalty was loyalty, so he followed, already rehearsing the insults he’d need to throw to rescue Xavier when the girl inevitably gutted him with words.

“Woah,” Xavier said as he watched her land another shot. “A few more and you’ll take home a whole pack.” He gestured toward the line of panda plushies grinning stupidly from the shelf.

Wednesday turned her gaze on him, flat as a gravestone. “For your information, a group of pandas is called an embarrassment. Much like your attempt to speak to me.”

Harry winced in sympathy but couldn’t help appreciating the precision of the insult. He usually held the crown for most creative burns, but Wednesday might give him a run for his money.

“Not that it matters,” she added, tossing another ring without looking, “as pandas are solitary creatures who prefer not to keep company. Like me.”

The not-so-subtle hint hit Xavier square in the chest. His shoulders slumped.

Harry decided to intervene, if only to soften the blow. “Nice try, Wednesday, but you’ll never convince anyone you’re as adorable as a panda. Though…” His grin sharpened as her eyes flicked to him in annoyance. “The black and white motif does suit you. Was the panda thing your inspiration all along?”

The look she shot him could have stripped paint from the stalls. Even Xavier stared at him like he’d just poked a cobra. Harry just bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Winding her up was dangerously fun.

“You attempt at humor was neither clever nor appreciated,” she said icily. “Leave me. I’m waiting for someone.”

Harry raised his brows but let it go. She wasn’t biting, and that was almost disappointing.

“Oh yeah?” Xavier blurted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “Who’s the lucky guy? Or girl?”

Harry nearly groaned aloud. Subtle, mate. Real subtle.

“Why do you care?” Wednesday’s eyes cut him down in a heartbeat. Before Xavier could recover, another voice entered the fray.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Tyler.

Xavier froze, his posture stiffening into stone. Harry didn’t blame him; Tyler and his friends had ruined the memorial last year, and some wounds didn’t heal. But Xavier’s hostility was so blatant it practically radiated.

“You’re not,” Xavier muttered, then turned sharply on his heel and stalked away.

Harry gave Tyler a small nod, then went after his friend. Loyalty first. Always.

“Look, man,” Harry said, catching up to Xavier as they slipped back into the crowd. The laughter and music wrapped around them again, too loud, too bright. “You’re right to be pissed. But Tyler’s not the same guy. He’s mellowed.”

Xavier scoffed, bitterness curling in his voice. “So I’m just supposed to believe he turned over a new leaf? And I get to watch him cozy up to Wednesday while I stand on the sidelines?”

Harry shrugged. He wasn’t about to argue feelings Xavier had every right to. He wasn’t about to play counselor either. All he could do was keep pace beside him, steady and constant.

“Come on,” he said finally. “I didn’t come all this way not to bankrupt these carnies. Let’s win some games.”

The next stretch of the night passed in a blur of flashing lights, clattering prizes, and the smell of fried sugar. Harry jeered at Xavier’s miserable attempts, Xavier muttered curses but smiled in spite of himself, and Harry - ever the gracious friend - even threw a game or two just to let him taste victory.

It wasn’t the night Harry had planned. But looking at Xavier’s faint grin in the lantern light, he decided it was good enough.

Or it would have been.

Until they saw Wednesday and Tyler vanish into the tree line, chasing Rowan as he darting ahead like prey.

Harry met Xavier’s eyes. That was all it took. They ran.

The festival’s glow fell away behind them, swallowed by the looming dark of the woods. Branches clawed at the sky, blocking out the moon, the ground slick with rotting leaves that crackled and slid underfoot. The sound of the festival dulled to nothing, replaced by the thud of boots on earth and the ragged rhythm of Harry’s breathing.

Xavier was quick, but Harry was quicker. He didn’t hesitate - he let the magic surge. Muscles tightened, bones thrummed with unnatural energy. Every step became longer, faster, sharper. The technique burned like fire in his veins, exhausting even as it empowered, but conserving energy wasn’t an option. Not when Rowan was running headlong into whatever nightmare lurked in these woods - and Wednesday was following.

Branches whipped past. The night air stank of damp earth and pine sap. Harry pushed harder, ignoring the ache crawling up his calves, the hammering in his chest.

Not now. Don’t fail now.

O-O-O

The world narrowed to pressure at her throat - an invisible vice crushing her windpipe, dragging her off her feet. Her vision blurred, colors bleeding into darkness.

How did it come to this?

Her mind reeled, flashing through the chaos of the evening. Tyler’s files pressed into her hand - her father’s name branded as a murder suspect. The chase through Jericho’s Harvest Festival, three idiots from the café now armed with bats instead of insults this time, their jeers echoing in her ears. The collision with Rowan, his wide eyes, the sudden snap of another vision - the purple book, the cryptic symbols, Rowan’s own body crumpled and bloodied among the trees.

All of it had led her here. To this moment.

Rowan stood in the clearing, his face feverish with conviction as she dangled helplessly, air rasping from her lungs.

“My mother was a powerful Seer,” he said, his voice high, trembling. “She saw the future twenty-five years ago, when she was a student here at Nevermore.”

Something fluttered before her eyes, held aloft by the same unseen force choking her. Not a photograph. A page, yellowed, torn from a book, the edges ragged. Inked upon it was a drawing.

Her.

The lines were crude, but the resemblance undeniable: Wednesday Addams, standing amid flames, Nevermore’s spires collapsing around her.

Rowan’s gaze burned. “That girl is you. You’ll destroy the school. My mother foresaw it, and it’s my destiny to stop you. To save everyone. I have to kill you!”

Her throat tightened further, the world tilting. Spots crowded her vision. Of course, she thought with grim clarity, the quiet ones always unravel in the most spectacular fashion.

Her body convulsed, lungs screaming. Darkness closed in-

And then, light.

A burst of emerald light exploded across her sight, searing and violent. The invisible grip on her throat snapped as Rowan was flinged backward straight into a tree. She collapsed to the ground, coughing, air rasping back into her chest like knives.

Through the blur, she saw him.

Harry. His eyes glowed with the same green brilliance that had saved her, emeralds blazing in the dark. He stepped forward, every line of him coiled with fury, positioning himself between her and Rowan.

Wednesday staggered to her knees, fury warring with weakness. Rowan struggled upright as well, his face pale but still fanatical.

A howl split the night.

It was no wolf. It was deeper, older, carrying with it the promise of violence. Trees shivered, shadows buckled - and then it was there.

The beast. Massive, fur bristling, its eyes bulging with unnatural hunger.

Rowan barely had time to scream. The creature lunged, claws flashing, and tore him apart. Blood sprayed across the leaves, painting the clearing in red. His cries echoed, then died into silence.

Wednesday’s heart pounded. Her body, still weak from Rowan’s assault, refused to move. She could only stare, transfixed, as the monster turned. Its gaze found her. Bulging, feverish eyes locked with hers.

And again, Harry stepped in front of her.

Flames erupted from his hands, searing the night, hissing as they struck the creature’s hide. The monster recoiled, snarling, before retreating into the trees, vanishing with the crack of snapping branches.

Silence crashed back into the clearing.

The adrenaline drained from her all at once. The world tilted. Darkness crept in again. The last thing she felt before it claimed her was the sensation of two strong arms catching her with a gentleness utterly at odds with the ferocious fire that was sent soaring from them just moments ago.

O-O-O

Wednesday awoke to the sterile stillness of the infirmary. The lanterns had burned low, casting long, spidery shadows across the rafters. For a moment, she lay still, listening to the faint crackle of the fire in the grate, her chest aching with every breath.

When she finally turned her head, Harry was there. He sat in the hard-backed chair beside her bed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp, as though he had been waiting for hours.

“You’re awake,” he said quietly. His voice carried no relief, no softness - just the blunt observation of fact.

She pushed herself up on her elbows, the bandages around her throat tugging. “Rowan tried to kill me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his expression didn’t change. “When I got there, he had you in the air. You were choking. I hit him, made him drop you. Then the monster came.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not it. Your eyes…” she paused, replaying the memory, “…were glowing. Green. And there was fire.”

For the first time, something flickered in his gaze - irritation, maybe even a hint of warning. “You were half-conscious. Seeing things. I don’t have glowing eyes, and I for sure don’t shoot fire.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “I got there, I knocked him off you, and then the monster showed up. End of story.”

Wednesday studied him in silence, her mind ticking like a metronome. He was hiding something. She could practically taste it. But his denial was absolute, stone laid over stone.

“You expect me to believe that?” she asked.

“I expect you to believe what makes sense,” Harry replied evenly. “Rowan attacked you. I stopped him. Then the monster tore him apart. That’s all.”

The words hung between them. Her instinct screamed at her to press, to dissect, to rip the truth from him like organs from a cadaver. But before she could, Harry tilted his head.

“Principal Weems refuses to acknowledge Rowan’s death or that something happened in the woods.” Harry leaned back in his chair, sighing. “She’s covered it up perfectly. No body. No report. No questions asked.”

Wednesday’s glare sharpened. “Then how will she explain his disappearance?”

Harry tilted his head toward the window. “Like this.”

She turned. Outside, in the courtyard, Rowan was loading a suitcase into the back of a car. His movements were stiff, mechanical, his expression flat as he shut the trunk.

Her pulse quickened.

They left the infirmary together, crossing the courtyard until they intercepted him. Rowan barely glanced at them.

“Leaving?” Harry asked.

“Expelled,” Rowan muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. His voice was flat, stripped of the hysteria she had seen the night before. “You shouldn’t be here. Neither of you. Just… forget it.”

“You tried to kill me,” Wednesday said, her voice low, hard as stone. “You strangled me with invisible hands. You showed me a drawing. A prophecy.”

Rowan’s expression twisted, but not into guilt. Into something close to contempt. “You’re insane. Both of you. Nothing happened in those woods. You’re imagining things.”

He reached for the car door.

Harry caught him by the shoulder. His grip was firm, his gaze unwavering.

“Thanks,” Harry said quietly. “For being a good friend. For helping me out.”

Rowan froze. His eyes flicked up to Harry’s, and for a heartbeat too long, he just stared. Then he gave a single, mechanical nod, slipped free of Harry’s grasp, and climbed into the car.

The door slammed. The engine roared. The vehicle rolled down the road, swallowed by the mist.

Wednesday stood rigid, watching until it vanished. “You seemed close,” she said finally, her voice edged with suspicion.

Harry’s lips curved into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “We weren’t. Not even close.” He looked down the road where the car had gone, his voice flat but certain. “Whoever that was, it wasn’t Rowan.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Wednesday found herself once again in Dr. Kinbott’s office - the pastel-colored purgatory she loathed more than most forms of torture. The walls were painted in soft shades that seemed designed to suffocate the soul, every shelf stacked with self-help books and inspirational trinkets. A diffuser hissed lavender-scented vapor into the air, as if floral smoke could pacify her.

She sat stiff-backed in the chair, straight, dressed in black that turned the room’s brightness funereal.

Beside her lounged Harry, posture far more relaxed but his expression carefully neutral, as though he had worn the mask before.

Dr. Kinbott sat across from them, clipboard in hand, legs crossed with casual precision. “So,” she began in that falsely warm voice, “let’s talk about last night. The incident in the woods.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the part where Rowan tried to strangle me to death under the guise of destiny, or the part where a monster tore him limb from limb?”

The therapist’s smile flickered but held. “I’d like to hear how you both felt about the experience.”

Harry snorted faintly. “Felt? Rowan went nuts, tried to kill her. I hit him, he dropped her, then a beast showed up. Not a lot of time to process feelings in between.” His voice was flat, factual - exactly the story he had given Wednesday in the infirmary, scrubbed of glowing eyes and fire.

Dr. Kinbott nodded slowly, as if considering how to reframe it. “And you, Wednesday? How did it make you feel?”

Wednesday tilted her head, tone bone-dry. “Mildly annoyed that I nearly died before finishing my novel.”

Harry coughed, disguising a laugh.

The therapist scribbled something onto her pad, though her lips tightened. “It’s normal to deflect with humor, or detachment. But the truth is, both of you went through something traumatic. Trauma can change us if we don’t acknowledge it.”

“I acknowledge Rowan is dead,” Wednesday replied. “I acknowledge a monster exists. What I don’t acknowledge is denial.”

The silence after her words was thick enough to cut. Dr. Kinbott shifted her attention to Harry, studying him with a clinical eye.

“You’ve been through quite a lot yourself, haven’t you?” she asked gently.

Harry stiffened almost imperceptibly, his easy mask cracking just enough for Wednesday to notice. His voice, however, remained light. “Haven’t we all? Comes with the territory of being an outcast, doesn’t it?”

Kinbott’s eyes lingered on him. “If you don’t mind, Wednesday, I’d like a few minutes alone with Harry before we finish today’s session.”

Wednesday’s lips thinned. She rose without a word, Thing tapping along at her heel as she stepped out into the hall.

The corridor was quieter, the faint hum of the building settling around her. And waiting by the door, leaning against the wall with a paper cup of coffee, was Tyler.

He straightened when he saw her, awkward but sincere. “Hey. Rough session?”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed. “Therapy is a pastime for people too weak to handle their own misery.”

Tyler gave a small smile. “Yeah, I used to think that too. I was pushed into it when things got… rough. And honestly? It helped. Sometimes it’s just… easier to talk when you know the other person has to listen.”

She frowned, studying him. He didn’t sound rehearsed, or patronizing. Just honest.

“You believe me,” she said suddenly.

Tyler’s brow furrowed. “About what happened in the woods? Yeah. I believe you.”

The words landed heavier than she expected. So many around her were eager to brush it away, to deny what she saw with her own eyes. For him to simply believe… it stirred something she wasn’t accustomed to. Not gratitude, exactly. But something adjacent.

Before she could respond, the office door burst open.

Harry stormed out, his face set, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His usual calm sarcasm was gone, replaced with a sharp-edged silence that spoke louder than words.

“Let’s go,” he said shortly, not looking back at the therapist’s office.

Wednesday cast one last glance at Tyler, who gave her a small nod of reassurance. Then she followed Harry down the hall, Thing skittering to keep pace.

Whatever had been said in that office, Harry wasn’t sharing. Not yet.

But Wednesday was nothing if not patient. Secrets had a way of surfacing. And when they did, she would be ready.

O-O-O

Archery club always amused Harry.

The range sat at the far edge of Nevermore’s grounds, the trees leaning close like eavesdroppers. Targets stood in tidy rows, bright circles of red and black painted across their faces, while arrows stuck out at awkward angles from most of them. The air was cool, scented with churned earth and waxed bowstrings.

Harry, of course, had no interest in shooting. He lounged lazily on the low fence, letting one boot hang, watching Xavier take shot after shot. His friend was good - steady, focused - but Harry couldn’t quite see the point in turning it into a club. After all, twitching his finger could make a dozen arrows find the bull’s-eye without effort. The novelty of bows wore off fast when you had other options.

Still, it was an easy extracurricular to cross off. More importantly, it gave him a front row seat to mock Xavier’s nerves.

“You’re jittery,” Harry said casually as Xavier nocked another arrow. “And not because of your form. You’re waiting for her.”

Xavier didn’t answer, but the way his shoulders tensed was answer enough.

Harry smirked. “You’ve got it bad.”

Right on cue, the crunch of boots on gravel carried across the range. Wednesday Addams appeared, her black silhouette cutting against the warm gold of the autumn leaves. She didn’t so much walk toward them as glide, her gaze already unimpressed before she reached the line.

Harry stretched, settling back, content to let his friend try his best at interacting with Wednesday.

Xavier loosed his arrow. It landed just shy of the bull’s-eye - decent, respectable. Wednesday arched one eyebrow, unimpressed.

“That’s all?” she asked, stepping past him. She lifted a bow without waiting for permission, nocked an arrow, and drew. The string sang. The arrow thudded dead center. Before even a second had passed, another arrow joined the bullseye, and another soon after.

Harry hid his grin as Xavier flushed.

Wednesday turned toward him, eyes sharp. “You were Rowan’s roommate. Tell me what you know.”

The amusement evaporated. Xavier lowered his bow, hesitating. Finally, he said, “Rowan’s always been… quiet. A loner. Kept to himself. But these past few weeks?” He shook his head. “Erratic. Strange. He’d mutter at night, wake up sweating, scribbling things in notebooks he never let anyone see. I figured it was stress, but…” His gaze flicked to her. “What happened out there, Wednesday?”

She tilted her head. “He tried to kill me. Then the monster came. You know the rest.”

Xavier exhaled, shoulders tightening. “And Tyler was there too, wasn’t he?” The question came too quickly, edged with something sharper than curiosity.

Wednesday’s expression hardened. “What does Tyler have to do with anything?”

“Everything,” Xavier said quietly. “Just… be careful with him. Tyler and his friends are a bunch of jerks.”

The air between them grew taut. Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, voice cold as stone. “I’ll decide who to be careful with.”

Harry let them toss a few mean comments to each other before he swung off the fence to prevent the argument from boiling over. “Alright, enough. The arrows are for targets, not each other.” He stepped between them, his tone easy but firm. “Save it for another day.”

Wednesday’s glare lingered, but she stepped back.

Harry walked her away from the range, letting Xavier cool down. “You really know how to make friends,” he muttered.

“They should be more forthcoming,” she replied, unrepentant.

He huffed a laugh. “Or maybe they don’t like being interrogated in front of a bull’s-eye.”

She ignored him, her gaze distant. Then, unexpectedly.“I need to pick an extracurricular. Suggestions?”

Harry arched a brow. “You asking me for advice? That’s new.”

Her look shut him up instantly.

“Alright, fine,” he said. “You want something offbeat and not very annoying. Eugene Ottinger is your guy. He runs the beekeeping club, the Hummers.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Bees.”

“Yeah. Trust me, it’s just your speed. Most people ignore him, which means peace and quiet. And, bonus, no one argues with someone covered in bees.”

She didn’t answer, but her silence wasn’t a no. Harry took that as victory. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

O-O-O

The beekeeping plots lay behind the school, half-wild gardens where hives lined up like little wooden fortresses. The hum reached them before the sight did - low, steady, vibrating in the air. The scent of clover, smoke, and honey drifted lazily through the breeze.

Eugene was already there, goggled and gloved, fussing over a hive like a surgeon. He looked up when Harry called his name, his face lighting instantly.

“Harry! You came!” His voice carried a nervous kind of enthusiasm. He glanced at Wednesday, then at Thing skittering along beside her, and nearly dropped his smoker. “And you brought… uh… her. And… a hand?”

“Thing,” Wednesday said flatly.

“Cool! Very cool!” Eugene said quickly, adjusting his goggles. “Welcome to the apiary, where the real magic happens. Well, not magic magic. Bee magic.” His grin widened nervously. “They’re the most misunderstood creatures. Super loyal, insanely organized, and they can recognize human faces. Isn’t that amazing?”

Wednesday peered at the hives. The bees moved in elegant patterns, precise and tireless. “Acceptable.”

Harry chuckled. “That’s the highest praise you’re gonna get.”

Eugene didn’t seem to notice. He was already buzzing - pun unavoidable - about nectar flow, hive hierarchy, and the best way to calm bees without smoke. His hands moved constantly as he spoke, miming dances and patterns, his voice tripping over itself in excitement.

Wednesday listened, silent but attentive. For once, she didn’t interrupt.

Harry leaned against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching them. He’d helped Eugene more than once when bullies tried to target him, and though Eugene didn’t realize it, Harry had quietly made it clear that anyone who messed with the “bee kid” would regret it.

Now, watching him explain the elegance of worker drones with wide-eyed enthusiasm, Harry felt something like pride. Eugene was odd, yes. A loner. But a good kid to the bone. And if Wednesday wanted quiet and strange? Well, this was the perfect place.

Finally, Eugene looked at her expectantly. “So… what do you think? Wanna join?”

Wednesday studied him, then the bees, then the hives. Slowly, she nodded.

“This will do.”

Eugene’s grin nearly split his face. “Yes! Awesome! Welcome to the hive!”

Harry chuckled as Eugene bounced back to his work, already rambling about pollen counts. He glanced at Wednesday, who was still watching the bees with a small, rare flicker of interest.

“Knew you’d like it,” Harry said softly.

O-O-O

The path back from the beehives wound through Nevermore’s grounds, narrow and lined with creeping ivy that climbed the stone walls like skeletal fingers. The late afternoon light was sharp, slicing through the branches in fractured beams. Wednesday walked a half-step ahead, her hands clasped behind her back, black skirt swaying with each measured stride.

Harry, of course, didn’t know how to leave silence alone.

“You didn’t flinch once,” he said casually, jerking his thumb back toward the hives. “Most people start panicking the second Eugene hands them a smoker. You just stared at the bees like you were judging them for existing.”

“Observation is not judgment,” Wednesday replied evenly. “Though in their case, the two overlap.”

Harry chuckled under his breath. “See, that’s what passes for small talk with you. Half the student body would take that as an insult. Eugene probably thinks it’s a compliment.”

“Because it was,” she said, not breaking stride.

He shook his head, grinning. “Weirdest definition of ‘compliment’ I’ve ever heard.”

For a few steps, there was only the crunch of gravel underfoot. Then, on a whim, Wednesday drew the folded page from her bag. The paper was yellowed, edges ragged. She held it out like evidence.

“Rowan showed me this. Recognize the symbol?”

Harry glanced at it, his expression unchanged - though Wednesday noticed the faintest flicker in his eyes. He leaned in, as if studying it, then straightened and shrugged.

“Could mean a lot of things.”

Her eyes narrowed. “But you know which one.”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk. His voice dropped, conspiratorial. “Nightshade. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Nightshade?” she pressed. “A plant, a symbol, a code?”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, walking a little faster. “If you’re clever, you’ll figure it out. Consider it homework.”

Her gaze sharpened. “You’re hiding something.”

He tilted his head toward the looming building ahead. “Or maybe class is about to start.”

And just like that, he slipped away, pushing open the heavy oak doors of the Botany room.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with the smell of soil and cut stems. Potted plants crowded every shelf, vines twisting along the beams. Students shuffled in, voices low, the scrape of chairs filling the space.

Harry’s eyes flicked automatically to the empty seat beside Xavier. His friend’s bow leaned against the desk, forgotten, but the way Xavier kept sneaking glances toward the doorway told Harry everything.

Then Wednesday walked in.

Harry sighed inwardly. He caught Xavier’s look, then the girl just behind him, and made the decision without thought. Sliding past the row, he dropped into a lonely seat further down, leaving the spot open.

“Guess this one’s yours,” he muttered to Wednesday as she passed.

She slid into the chair beside Xavier without comment, but Harry saw the way his friend straightened, tension and anticipation mixing in his shoulders.

Settling in at his own desk, Harry propped his chin in his hand, half-listening as the professor began droning about carnivorous plants. His thoughts drifted back to the page in Wednesday’s hand, the symbol he knew she’d keep gnawing at like a bone.

Homework indeed, he thought, smirking faintly.

The low hum of conversation quieted as Ms. Thornhill clapped her hands together, her sunny voice carrying over the shuffle of boots and chairs.

“Alright, class! Let’s settle down.”

Xavier, seated near the front, shifted with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. Wednesday, beside him, sat straight-backed and still, her gaze fixed forward with surgical disinterest.

To break the silence, Xavier lifted his sketchbook. “Watch this,” he murmured, flipping to a page and pressing his hand against the drawing of a spider. Ink shimmered, the lines twitching - and then the sketch peeled itself off the paper, crawling into three-dimensional life across the desk.

The animated spider scuttled forward, its legs tapping against the wood.

“Xavier,” Ms. Thornhill said gently, though her smile was tight. “I doubt Miss Addams is going to be impressed by your tricks.” She turned toward Wednesday. “Welcome to the class, by the way.”

Xavier leaned closer, a hopeful grin tugging at his mouth. “Come on. You have to admit, that’s at least a little impressive.”

Wednesday regarded the twitching ink-spider without blinking. Then, with a single swift movement, she slammed her palm down, crushing it flat against the desk. Black smears bled into the wood.

Her voice was cool. “I don’t applaud cheap parlor tricks.”

Xavier winced, drawing his sketchbook back. Harry, watching from a few rows away, stifled a laugh. Classic Wednesday. Brutal efficiency, zero mercy.

Ms. Thornhill cleared her throat brightly, determined to redirect. She held up a photograph pinned to her clipboard. “Moving on. Today’s lesson is about a rare and beautiful flower. Now, does anyone know-”

Wednesday didn’t blink. “Dendrophylax lindenii. Ghost orchid.”

A pleased flicker crossed Thornhill’s face. “Wednesday, perhaps you can name its greatest qualities?”

“Resilience. Adaptability. It thrives in hostile conditions.”

Bianca’s hand cut the air. “Its presence can also shift an ecosystem-established plants start to reject it.”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t move. “Usually because the natives were allowed to run unchecked. Nothing a weed-whacker couldn’t correct.”

Bianca’s mouth curved. “You can certainly try.”

A low ripple went through the class. Thornhill, delighted with the duel, was about to move on when Harry’s voice drifted in from the middle row, casual, almost bored.

“Powdered ghost orchid has been used in certain old potions to ward off malevolent spirits. Not common knowledge, but effective enough in a pinch.”

The class turned to look at him. Even Bianca blinked, caught off guard.

Ms. Thornhill tilted her head, genuinely surprised. “That’s… actually correct. Your knowledge on obscure uses of plants as plentful as ever, Harry. Impressive, as always. Thank you for that little tibit.”

Harry shrugged as if it meant nothing, though he caught Wednesday’s sharp glance out of the corner of his eye. For a brief moment, her curiosity flared - because Wednesday Addams did not like mysteries she couldn’t dissect.

O-O-O

The library was a cathedral of dust and whispers, tall shelves rising like wooden sentinels, their spines stitched with centuries of secrets. Afternoon light poured through stained glass in fractured beams, painting the aisles in bruised colors. The air smelled of leather, old ink, and something faintly metallic - as if even the books bled a little.

Wednesday had claimed a corner table, the prophetic page spread before her. Its yellowed surface stared back at her, the strange inked symbol at its corner taunting her like an unfinished puzzle. Nightshade. That was all Harry had given her, tossed out like a crumb. Too vague. Too infuriating. Which, she suspected, was entirely his intention.

She flipped through book after book, cross-referencing runes, botanical emblems, and symbols of obscure cults, when a cheerful voice broke the silence.

“Well, well. A student actually using the library to study. What a novelty. Usually, I catch kids in here making out behind the stacks.”

Wednesday’s eyes slid up. Ms. Thornhill was approaching, arms cradling a stack of seed catalogues, her smile bright in the gloom.

“I walked in on two vampires fanging,” Wednesday replied, her tone flat. “The blood spray ruined a first edition of Wuthering Heights.”

Thornhill chuckled. “See? You notice the important things.”

Her gaze flicked to the books scattered across Wednesday’s table. “So, what’s got you hunting through Nevermore’s precious archives?”

Wednesday tapped the corner of the page. “I’m tracing a symbol. The only clue I have is a single word: Nightshade.”

Something flickered in Thornhill’s expression, gone as quickly as it came. She leaned lightly against the table, voice casual. “Hmm. Nightshade could mean many things - a family of plants, mostly poisonous. Fascinating and deadly. But it also has… history here. Whispers about an old society. Elite students, secret handshakes, all very cloak-and-dagger. Of course, that was disbanded long ago.”

Wednesday’s stare lingered on her, weighing each word. Thornhill’s smile was sunny as ever, but it didn’t quite hide the glint of something unsaid.

“Interesting,” Wednesday murmured, folding the page away.

A pause stretched, the silence alive with the low hum of the building. Thornhill studied her more closely now, her expression softening.

“You know,” she said, “I understand what it feels like. Being too odd for the normies, too normal for the outcasts. Never quite fitting anywhere.”

Wednesday tilted her head, intrigued despite herself.

“I may act as if I don’t care about their stares or judgment,” she said slowly, “but in truth, I relish it. Their fear, their unease - it’s an audience. And I enjoy the performance.”

Thornhill’s smile widened, not mocking but approving. “Good. Don’t ever lose that. It’s what makes you you. Never change it.”

For a moment, the warm greenhouse glow of Thornhill’s presence felt less suffocating, almost tolerable. But Wednesday filed away her words as carefully as the books around her. People who offered comfort often hid knives.

Still, Nightshade. Plants or secret society, both could be dangerous. And if the purple book from her vision was real, its roots would likely be found in Xavier Thorpe’s orbit. His father was Nevermore royalty, and Rowan had been his roommate.

All Wednesday needed was a way in.

Her lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. Harry Potter had opened this door with one teasing hint. He would open the next, whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter Text

The boys’ dormitory in Calliban Hall was quieter than usual. Most doors hung open, voices echoing down the hall, but Xavier’s room was still. Wednesday rapped her knuckles once before pushing it open.

Inside, she found only Harry. He was sprawled sideways in Xavier’s desk chair, long legs crossed at the ankle, leafing through a battered deck of playing cards. He looked up with that lazy half-smirk of his, not the least bit surprised to see her.

“Xavier’s out. Or were you visiting little old me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Wednesday replied, gliding past him. Her eyes immediately swept over the room - the scattered canvases, sketchbooks piled like towers, pencils rolling across the floor. She began moving through the clutter with surgical precision, every gesture deliberate, as though cataloging evidence at a crime scene.

Harry watched her with mild amusement. “Careful. That’s Xavier’s private shrine you’re dismantling. I’d hate for him to walk in and find you pawing through his secrets.”

“Then you’d better hope he doesn’t,” she said, flipping through a sketchbook.

Harry shrugged. “Rowan’s gone. I’ve been thinking… maybe I’ll move in here. Easier than having the place echo.”

“You would trade loneliness for the smell of paint and turpentine.”

He chuckled. “And for the company. Xavier’s not bad once you get past the brooding.” His eyes flicked toward her. “And he’s very fond of you. Not subtle about it.”

Wednesday ignored him, though her hand stilled on a page. It was her face, rendered in Xavier’s charcoal - stark, sharp, uncanny in its accuracy. She turned the page without comment, but the air shifted, heavier now.

“You really don’t notice?” Harry asked. His voice was quieter, probing.

“His feelings are irrelevant,” she said flatly. “I don’t inspire affection. I inspire dread.”

Harry hummed under his breath. “Maybe both.”

Her search finally yielded what she wanted. Wedged beneath a stack of sketches was a volume bound in deep violet leather. Its surface was embossed with the same symbol from the prophetic page, pulsing faintly in the light.

She touched it.

The vision struck like a hammer - Rowan, his face twisted with fury, shoving Xavier backward into a wall hard enough to crack plaster. A shout, a burst of power, the sound of bones striking wood-

Wednesday’s breath hitched. Then the vision was gone.

She blinked hard, finding herself back in the dormitory, the book heavy in her hands.

Harry’s voice cut in, sharper now. “What’s wrong?”

Before she could answer, voices echoed from the hallway. Xavier’s, raised in irritation. Bianca’s, smooth but edged.

Without thinking, Wednesday seized Harry’s wrist and pulled him toward the wardrobe. She slid inside, dragging him with her. The door shut just as the room’s door swung open.

They were squeezed shoulder to shoulder in the dark, Harry’s breath warm against her cheek. The space was too narrow; she could feel his chest rise and fall, the faint brush of his arm against hers. It was inconvenient. Distracting. And strangely… not completely unpleasant.

Bianca’s voice carried through the wood. “Still pining after her, Xavier? It’s pathetic. Everyone can see it. Even she can.”

Xavier’s reply was strained. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, come on. Puppy love for Wednesday Addams? You really think she’ll ever give you more than one of her cold little stares? Seriously what do you even see in her? Suddenly have a thing for pathetic little goth girls?”

Harry shifted, and Wednesday felt the movement all the way down her spine. She clenched her jaw, forcing her focus back to the voices outside.

Xavier snapped, “At least she hasn’t tried to manipulate me. Maybe with her I don’t have to worry if my thoughts and feelings are fully my own. Not like I did with you.”

The silence that followed was sharp as broken glass. Then Bianca’s laugh cut through. “Please. You enjoyed it at the time. Don’t rewrite history just because your little crush has claws.”

“Stop,” Xavier growled.

Bianca’s tone hardened. “Fine. But maybe I’ll make sure Ophelia Hall feels my sting at the Poe Cup tomorrow. See how your precious Addams handles losing.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed in the dark. Enid’s bright, foolish face flashed in her mind. She could stomach Bianca’s barbs, Xavier’s sulking, even Harry’s smug evasions. But Enid? She would not let her suffer for a rivalry that was hers to own.

Outside, the voices faded, the door clicking shut.

In the closet, silence pressed down. Harry shifted again, so close she could feel the heat of him, the strange smell that accompanied him- as unique combination of old paper and the wet ground after rain, along with something else, close to the ozone in the air that foretold a lightning srike. It was strangely fitting. His voice was low, amused even now.

“Cozy, isn’t it?”

Wednesday didn’t answer with one of her sharp comebacks, instead staying quiet and forcing her gaze into the floorboard. Even she had no idea why.

The corridor was dark and silent when Wednesday finally eased the door shut behind them, sure they escaped unseen. She turned sharply, the purple book clutched tight under her arm, but Harry caught her wrist.

“You really don’t see the problem, do you?” His voice was low, edged with irritation.

Wednesday arched an eyebrow. “You’ll have to narrow it down. I see many.”

“You barged into Xavier’s room. You rifled through his things. You used me as cover.” His grip tightened just slightly. “And then there was that little stunt in the closet.”

Her gaze flicked to his hand on her wrist until he let go. “You object to trespassing, spying, and invading privacy. All things you already knew I excel at. As for the closet…” She paused, her eyes cool but her voice quieter. “You survived.”

Harry huffed out a humorless laugh. “That’s not the point. You can’t just-”

“I can,” she cut him off. “And I will. Because unlike you, I don’t shy away from truths hidden in shadows.”

He fell into step beside her as she strode toward Ophelia Hall, unwilling to drop it. “You talk about shadows like they’re yours alone. Ever think maybe you’re not the only one keeping secrets?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence said enough.

Before the argument could sharpen further, a blur of pastel energy collided with them. Enid. Her eyes were wide, her hands fluttering as she nearly tripped over her words.

“Guys- oh my god, it’s a disaster!”

Harry steadied her by the shoulders. “Enid. Breathe. What happened?”

“Yoko,” Enid gasped. “She- she had this massive alergic reaction. Somehow ate garlic. I mean, how does that even happen? She’s a vampire! She avoids the stuff from coming in a five feet radius of her!”

Harry and Wednesday exchanged a glance. A silent answer: Bianca.

“She already made her move,” Harry muttered.

Enid’s voice cracked, on the verge of tears. “We’re sunk! We don’t even have enough for a crew now, and Bianca’s already been sharpening her claws for us. What are we gonna do?”

Harry’s tone was steady, grounded. “Then you find someone else. And until you do, I’ll help however I can.”

Enid blinked at him, then suddenly lunged forward, hugging him tight around the middle. It caught him off guard - he froze for a half-second before his arms instinctively circled her shoulders in return. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the heat of her pressed against him, the rapid thrum of her breathing slowing against his chest.

Something faint, almost imperceptible, sparked in that closeness - a warmth neither of them named, but both felt.

Enid pulled back quickly, cheeks pink, her hands fussing with her hair as if to erase the moment. “Sorry. That was… a lot.”

Harry grinned faintly, voice softer now. “Don’t worry about it.”

For just a moment, his eyes lingered on hers longer than necessary. Enid glanced away, the tips of her ears still flushed.

Wednesday observed silently, her face unreadable, though her gaze flicked between them with clinical precision, as if cataloguing the smallest shifts.

Then she spoke, voice cutting clean through the air. “I’ll join your team.”

Enid’s eyes widened. “Wait you’ll do that? For me?”

Wednesday’s lips curled faintly, sharp and cold. “The thought of putting Bianca in her place and seeing the look on her face as she faces the humiliation of losing to me is worth any suffering, even rowing with you.”

Enid gave her a small, knowing smile. “Sure. And because we’re friends.”

Wednesday didn’t answer. But she didn’t deny it either.

The three of them continued down the hall, shadows stretching long against the stone, the Poe Cup already looming over them like the promise of blood.

O-O-O

The day of the Poe Cup arrived, and the Nevermore courtyard was alive with noise. Banners in clashing colors snapped in the sharp wind, cheers rose from the gathered crowd, and four boats bobbed impatiently on the lake like predators waiting to be unleashed.

Harry, however, couldn’t summon much enthusiasm.

He stood with the Jesters, Xavier and Ajax already hyped and loosening their arms, and tried not to think about how ridiculous their striped tunics and bells looked. Xavier kept telling him the outfit was tradition, part of the spectacle. Harry just thought it made him feel like exactly what they were called: a clown.

He leaned on his oar, expression bored, until the Black Cats team stepped forward.

All in black, sleek ears perched on their heads, their faces painted with sharp whisker lines - Enid had clearly gone all in. She beamed proudly as the crowd buzzed with approval.

“Alright, I’ll admit it,” Harry said, smirking. “The cats look good.”

Enid’s grin lit up like the sun. “Told you they’d be perfect!”

Wednesday, standing at her side, turned her head with the slow precision of a guillotine blade. Her stare promised death.

He only grinned back at her, unbothered. “Don’t worry, Addams. You pull off black better than anyone. Even if you look like you’re about to murder the runway.”

Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly, which for her was practically a raised voice. “Murder is always in season.”

Enid snorted, stifling a laugh. Harry gave a mock little bow with his oar.

Soon enough, the horn blew. The race was on.

The Jesters threw themselves into rowing, Xavier barking rhythm, Ajax puffing like a steam engine, Harry keeping a steady pace. The water foamed as boats surged forward, the Black Cats close behind.

Harry’s shoulders burned, his muscles straining, but the Jesters edged ahead. Cheers rang out from the shore as they neared the small island checkpoint.

When the boats scraped sand, Harry stepped out, boots sinking into wet earth. He paused.

He knew Wednesday. She was a planner, a saboteur, the kind of competitor who believed fair play was a myth for fools. He half-expected her to spring from the reeds with some barbed contraption.

Sure enough, Thing popped up on the opposite shore, wiggling his fingers in a taunt.

“There!” Ajax shouted, sprinting after him. Xavier followed close behind.

Harry, however, stayed still. That little hand wasn’t the culprit - it was bait. He waited, scanning the shadows of the island.

And then he saw her.

Not Wednesday, but Enid. She crept along the edge of their boat, claws sliding out, ready to slash the hull.

Harry sighed and strode forward, his shadow falling over her.

“Really?” he asked, voice low with mock disappointment. “And here I thought cats hated water.”

Enid froze, caught in the act, before turning with a sheepish grin. “I was just… checking for leaks?”

Harry’s hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist before she could strike. “Bad kitty,” he said, smirking as she wriggled in his grip.

“Let go!” she whispered fiercely, tugging against his hold. “I have to do this for the team!”

“Oh, me too,” he teased, smirk tugging at his lips. “And I’ll have to let Wednesday know she’s a bad influence. She is probably going to be so proud of corrupting her innocent roommate.”

She groaned, defeated, and Harry finally let her go. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

Harry watched her go, shaking his head.

Xavier and Ajax returned a few minutes later with their flag, triumphant. “We’re way ahead,” Xavier panted, climbing in. “This is ours.”

They shoved off, the oars biting deep into the water. The Jesters had a comfortable lead - Bianca’s Sirens were only a blur in the distance. Victory seemed within reach.

Until the boat lurched.

The wood rocked violently, spray splashing up. Ajax cursed, nearly losing his grip. Xavier’s head snapped toward the water.

“What the hell was that?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. He pressed two fingers against the side of the boat, sending a subtle pulse of energy into the depths. The lake answered back in ripples, whispering the truth. Something sleek, fast, moving just under the surface.

He felt it brush the hull again. Then he caught it: the familiar aura of Bianca’ Siren friend. Kent. A Siren, dragging their boat under.

The wood splintered as water poured in.

“Sabotage,” Harry muttered. “Of course.”

The boat capsized. The lake swallowed them whole.

Harry surfaced easily, shaking the hair from his eyes as his teammates sputtered beside him. Xavier’s furious curses echoed across the water and Ajax flailed, grabbing for the overturned hull.

Harry floated calmly, teeth clenched against the sting of failure. If Kent hadn’t been shielded by the water, Harry would have made him regret every second of it.

Instead, he kicked lazily to stay afloat, watching their lead dissolve into nothing as Bianca’s team surged past. His fingers itched with power he couldn’t unleash in front of dozens of witnesses.

He let out a long sigh, water dripping down his face. “Clowns,” he muttered, glancing at Xavier and Ajax. “Figures.”

The Poe Cup was slipping away, and all Harry could do was swim in silence, his irritation pooling deeper than the lake beneath them.

O-O-O

The Poe Cup was over. The Black Cats had triumphed, exactly as Wednesday had planned. Enid’s excited howls still echoed across the lake, students crowding the shore to celebrate, but Wednesday stood at the prow of their boat like a sentinel carved in stone.

Her mind was not on the cheers, for once unable to enjoy the taste of victory and domination. It was still shackled to the vision she had when her foot touched the mossy stones of Crackstone’s crypt.

She saw a girl.

Not just a girl. A mirror warped by time. Wednesday’s own face, only framed by pale blonde hair, dressed in clothes centuries old. The stranger’s eyes locked with hers, carrying a grave intensity.

“You are the key,” the girl had whispered, her voice thin and ancient, though her lips never moved. “The key to what will come. Beware the boy with power unknown. The one even you cannot see through.”

Her blood chilled, though she refused to show it. The warning clung to her now, heavier than her dripping uniform.

The face of Harry flashed in her mind involuntarily.

As Principal Weems launched into her speech, her voice amplified across the courtyard, Wednesday’s thoughts tangled like vines. Applause swelled as the winners were crowned, flowers thrown, ribbons draped - none of it reached her. The cheers pressed against her ears like knives.

She slipped away.

Through the stone archways, into the cooler halls of Nevermore, where torches burned lower and the echoes were her only company. Her boots carried her without direction until she stopped beneath a looming statue of Edgar Allan Poe.

The raven perched on his shoulder glared down, stone feathers spread mid-flight. Poe’s hand held a book, its cover carved with a sigil she recognized instantly. The mark from the prophetic page. Nightshade.

Her eyes narrowed, tracing the grooves in the stone. Always in plain sight, if you knew where to look.

“You don’t strike me as the type to miss her own coronation.”

She turned.

Harry leaned against the base of a column, his uniform still damp from the race, clearly not having taken the time to dry after his impromptu swim in the lake. His tone was easy, but his gaze searched her with more care than his smirk suggested.

“Celebrations are for fools who mistake noise for meaning,” Wednesday replied.

He chuckled. “Then I suppose that makes me a fool for skipping out too.”

Her dark eyes bored into him. “Why?”

“Because Xavier’s already brooding about losing, Ajax is sulking, and everyone else is drunk on sugar and victory,” he said simply. “You can only pretend to cheer for so long.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the drip of water from his sleeve onto the flagstones.

Wednesday let her gaze linger on him, unreadable. “I’ve been thinking. About you.”

That drew a flicker of surprise, quickly hidden beneath his smirk. “Should I be flattered or terrified?”

“Neither,” she replied. “You’re… intriguing. Outcasts here are predictable in their eccentricities. Yet you stand apart, even from them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone stayed casual. “I didn’t realize I was under your microscope.”

“Everyone is,” Wednesday said. She stepped closer, voice low and deliberate. “You move differently. You hold things back. Secrets don’t sit on you like they do with others. You wear them like armor.”

Harry’s smile thinned, his gaze sharp now. “Maybe I just don’t enjoy being an open book.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are hiding something. Even now.”

He smirked. “And so are you.”

The tension was a cord stretched tight. Her heart betrayed her by quickening, though she forced her face into perfect calm.

She changed track. “The Nightshade Society. What do you know of it?”

Harry’s gaze flicked up, to the statue looming above them. “Funny thing about secrets. Sometimes they’re right under your nose.”

Before she could cut him with another question, a voice carried down the hall.

“There you are!”

Enid bounded forward, cheeks flushed from excitement. She skidded to a stop when she saw them standing together, her eyes flicking from Harry to Wednesday, then back again. A faint pink crept up her cheeks as the memory of his hand on her wrist during the race surfaced, unbidden.

“What are you two doing here?” she asked, too quickly.

Harry pushed off the column, his smirk back in place. “Plotting. Or maybe just hiding from the noise. Depends who you ask.”

Enid’s eyes darted again, something like suspicion glittering there.

Harry sighed. “I’ll leave you two to it. I’m already soaked and starving.” He gave Wednesday a last look, sharp and unreadable, before disappearing down the corridor.

Enid shifted uncomfortably, then tried for brightness. “So… you really joined for me, huh?”

Wednesday turned her gaze on her, unflinching. “No. I joined to put Bianca in her place. Any pleasure you derive from that is incidental.”

Enid smiled faintly, unconvinced. “Sure. But you did save me out there. And you stopped her from destroying Ophelia Hall, whether you admit it or not.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “Perhaps. I simply dislike losing to hypocrites.”

They walked together in silence for a few steps, the air between them lighter than it had been before. Enid’s smile softened. “Either way… I’m glad you were on my team.”

Wednesday said nothing. But her silence, for once, was not a rejection.

The warning still echoed in her mind - beware the boy with power unknown- but in this moment, with Enid at her side and Harry’s shadow still fresh in her thoughts, Wednesday couldn’t decide if it unsettled her… or intrigued her.

Chapter Text

Midnight wrapped Nevermore in silence. Only the whisper of wind through the trees and the soft groan of old wood broke the stillness as Wednesday moved through the empty corridors like a shadow unmoored. Her boots struck deliberate steps against the stone, echoing faintly, until she stopped beneath the looming statue of Edgar Allan Poe.

The poet’s stony eyes glared down, raven perched eternally on his shoulder, his carved book half-open in his hand. Wednesday’s gaze fell upon the weathered etchings across its stone pages - not merely decorative lines, but riddles scratched in script that curled like ivy.

She leaned close, her fingers tracing over the grooves. “Amateur theatrics,” she murmured. Poe had chosen well - riddles to mislead the dull and frustrate the lazy - but his hand was too obvious. The answers unfolded for her like petals from a black rose, and one by one, she pieced the sequence together in her head.

Straightening, Wednesday brought her fingers to her side and snapped. Once. Twice.

A hollow clunk resounded through the statue. The stone groaned as though exhaling, and the figure shifted on its base, twisting to reveal a passage yawning open in the floor - a stairwell spiraling downward into the dark.

Without hesitation, Wednesday descended. The air grew colder, the scent of dust and candle wax filling her nose. Each step echoed sharply, swallowed quickly by the silence below.

The staircase spilled her into a chamber half-buried in shadow. Candles sputtered in iron sconces, barely illuminating shelves that lined the walls. Books, scrolls, and artifacts lay scattered, some marked with the same sigil she had traced in her vision. A library hidden beneath stone and secrecy.

Her eyes glimmered. Nightshade.

She stepped forward, the soles of her boots whispering against the old floor. Her hand drifted toward one of the shelves-

-and then rough cloth yanked down over her head.

Hands grabbed for her arms, others for her shoulders. The sack smelled of mildew and dust, their grips were clumsy, uncoordinated. Wednesday twisted once, and she knew instantly: this was no professional snatch. Their formation was sloppy, their strength uneven. If she wanted, she could break free in moments.

But she stilled.

Curiosity burned hotter than instinct. Whoever these amateurs were, they had answers - and letting herself be dragged deeper into the unknown might be far more rewarding than dismantling them here and now.

So she allowed it. Let them think their plan was working. Her boots scraped lightly against the stone as they hauled her away, but her lips curved under the sack, faintly, like a blade hidden in silk.

When the sack was yanked from her head, and the first thing Wednesday saw was a semicircle of hooded figures, their faces hidden behind carved masks. They stood in the flickering candlelight of the underground chamber, motionless, arranged with all the pomp of a cult tableau.

All except one.

Harry leaned casually against a stone pillar, barefaced, annoyance carved into his expression. He looked at her like someone forced to sit through a bad play he had already predicted would flop.

The supposed “leader” of the group stepped forward, voice low and meant to be ominous. “Welcome, intruder, to the inner sanctum of the Nightshades. We, the keepers of-”

Wednesday cut across, her tone flat as iron. “Spare me. Bianca, take off the mask. Your perfume gives you away.”

A pause followed, then Bianca ripped her mask off with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

One by one, the others pulled their hoods and masks away. Xavier, Kent, Yoko, a handful of others. All familiar faces. All less intimidating without the theatrics.

“Told you she’d see through it,” Harry muttered, smirking faintly. “But no, you wanted the whole hooded cult thing.”

“This is your fault,” Bianca snapped at him. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.”

Harry spread his hands in mock offense. “I didn’t tell her anything. She’s just better at riddles than your entire committee of dramatics.”

“Enough,” Wednesday interrupted, her voice cold. She lifted her hands, letting the ropes binding her fall uselessly to the floor. “If I’d wanted to leave, I would have done so the moment you touched me. I stayed only to confirm what I already suspected.”

Bianca’s jaw clenched.

“The statue of Poe was laughably simple,” Wednesday continued, gaze sweeping the room. “The riddles, the passageway, the mark on the book. Your secrets aren’t hidden. They’re neglected.”

There was a murmur among the group until Xavier stepped forward. “Rowan used to be one of us. We kicked him out last semester. He didn’t exactly… live up to the code.”

A girl at the back added quickly, “The Nightshades have always been Nevermore’s best and brightest. The Elite. We protect its legacy. Its power.”

“Yeah,” Kent chimed in eagerly. “We have roof parties, campouts, the occasional midnight skinny-dip.”

Yoko added with a grin, “And sans supervision, which means no rules.”

Xavier stepped forward, his voice carrying a note of persuasion. “We want you to join us, Wednesday. You’re a legacy after all. It only makes sense.”

Bianca scoffed, crossing her arms. “Absolutely not. The last thing we need is Little Miss Grim Reaper turning this into her personal funeral parlor.”

The tension sparked instantly, but Wednesday cut it short before it could ignite. “I’ll spare you the argument. I’m not interested.” Her voice was even, stripped of emotion, like she was brushing off an unremarkable offer.

She turned on her heel, braids swinging, boots echoing like a gavel against the stone floor.

Just before she disappeared through the doorway, her eyes caught Harry’s. He leaned against a pillar, smirk playing at his lips, and lifted a hand in a lazy wave - she was sure only he could manage to make a simple gesture feel sarcastic.

Wednesday’s gaze lingered a fraction of a second longer than she would have liked before she swept into the shadows, leaving the Nightshades behind in unsettled silence.

O-O-O

The courtyard at Nevermore buzzed with life that morning, filled with the reluctant shuffle of students being herded toward their Outreach Day assignments. Clipboards, maps, and thinly veiled threats about “representing the school” floated through the air courtesy of Weems and her staff.

Harry leaned against one of the stone pillars, apron still folded under his arm, watching Xavier pace. His friend’s long hair was tied back in frustration, his jaw tight enough to crack.

“I cannot believe this,” Xavier muttered. “Of all people, I get stuck working with Tyler. Again. As if last year wasn’t bad enough.”

Harry gave him a look, amused but sympathetic. “It’s Outreach Day, not prison time. You make coffee, he makes coffee, no one dies.”

Xavier’s head snapped toward him. “You don’t get it, Harry. It’s not just coffee. It’s Tyler. Every time I even look at him I remember-” He cut himself short, running a hand down his face. “Forget it.”

Harry smirked faintly. “Don’t worry. I pulled some strings. You’re not stuck with him alone.” He tapped the folded apron against his chest. “Congratulations, you get me instead.”

That broke through Xavier’s scowl just enough for a laugh. “You? Behind a counter?”

“I’ll make it work,” Harry said, tone dry. “Worst case scenario, customers get their coffee with a splash of sarcasm.”

The steady click of heels cut through the chatter. Principal Weems glided into the courtyard, clipboard in hand, her sharp eyes immediately landing on Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice softer than usual, almost warm. “A moment.”

Harry groaned under his breath. “That tone always means I’m about to be voluntold.”

Weems arched a brow. “You’ll thank me. The council is unveiling the new Crackstone monument this afternoon, and Nevermore will be represented with a performance. I want you at the piano.”

Harry tilted his head, giving her a wry look. “Because you couldn’t resist showing me off?”

Her lips curved. “Because you are exceptional, and because I know exactly what you’re capable of, Harry. It will remind Jericho that Nevermore still cultivates brilliance.”

He folded his arms. “And if I say no?”

“You won’t,” Weems said, calm and certain. “Besides, you won’t be alone.”

She glanced toward the edge of the courtyard, where Wednesday approached with her cello case strapped to her back. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, but her eyes flicked briefly toward Harry.

“Two of our most… gifted students. I expect nothing less than excellence,” Weems continued, her tone satisfied. “Piano and cello. Exactly the kind of refinement I want the town to see.”

Harry let out a long sigh. “First bad coffee, now a command performance. You’re relentless.”

Weems’ smile sharpened. “Relentless is what keeps this school running.”

She swept away to wrangle another group of students, leaving Harry staring after her with narrowed eyes before muttering, “Some days I forget if I was recruited or drafted.”

Xavier smirked. “Better you than me.”

Harry shook his head. “Yeah, remind me of that when I’m tripping over Chopin in front of the whole town.” He stuffed the apron under his arm again and trudged off toward his friend’s assignment.

O-O-O

The bus hissed to a stop in front of Jericho, its brakes sighing like it too resented Outreach Day. Students spilled out in pairs and groups, each shepherded toward their assigned volunteer posts. The air carried the mingled scents of roasted nuts from a nearby cart and the faint, acrid tang of old brick and damp autumn leaves.

Harry slung his bag over his shoulder, falling into step with Xavier. His friend walked with purpose, ignoring the clusters of gawking locals, his eyes locked ahead. Harry knew that look: Xavier was heading toward something that still gnawed at him.

Sure enough, Xavier stopped at a stretch of blank brick wall on the side of a building. He stood there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, jaw set.

“This used to be it,” Xavier muttered. “My mural. Spent weeks working on it. Every stroke, every detail. It was supposed to mean something.”

Harry leaned against the wall beside him, eyes scanning the empty bricks. “And now it’s… beige.” He gave a dry smile. “Jericho’s favorite color.”

Xavier’s lips twisted. “Tyler and his buddies trashed it last year. Paint bombs, graffiti, the whole thing ruined. They laughed about it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”

Wednesday’s voice cut in as she approached. “Is that why you dislike Tyler so much?”

Xavier looked at her, a bitter laugh escaping. “That’s a part of it, yeah. Hard to forgive when someone wrecks something you poured yourself into.”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on the blank wall, her tone flat but edged with something sharper. “It was a waste. You gave them art, and they answered with vandalism. That speaks more to their smallness than your work.”

Xavier blinked, caught off guard. “You… actually care?”

Wednesday’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smirk. “Care is not the word. But destruction without purpose irritates me.”

That softened him, though only slightly. He exhaled and muttered, “Still feels like nothing I do lasts.”

It seemed Wednesday had hit her daily limit on sentimentality as she simply ignored that, before pulling the worn prophetic page from her coat pocket and holding it out. Her finger tapped against the inked figure standing at the center. “Rowan’s book. The pilgrim. Who is he?”

Xavier leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “That’s Joseph Crackstone. Jericho’s founding father. You can’t walk two blocks in this town without seeing his face on something. Monuments, plaques, Pilgrim World… he’s their saint.”

Wednesday’s eyes sharpened. “Founding father. Martyr. Idol. Perfect.” She folded the page back into her pocket, her movements quick, precise.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode away, her boots clicking against the pavement with a kind of urgency neither Harry nor Xavier missed.

Harry raised a brow, watching her retreating figure. “And off she goes, chasing ghosts.”

Xavier frowned, his gaze lingering on her until she vanished into the crowd. “Where is she even going?”

Harry smirked faintly, jerking his chin in the direction she’d gone. “Pilgrim World. Where else?”

The two of them stood in silence for a moment longer before Harry nudged Xavier with his elbow. “Come on. We’ve got an apron with your name on it. The Weathervane awaits.”

Xavier groaned but let himself be steered down the street, Harry grinning as they headed for the café - their Outreach Day sentence about to begin.

The Weathervane smelled of roasted beans and scorched milk, the hum of the grinder filling the quiet gaps between orders. For Harry, Outreach Day had turned out to be about what he expected - dull, but tolerable.

Tyler was… chill, as Harry had already suspected. Watching him now just confirmed it. He moved easily behind the counter, showing them the ropes without any edge of superiority. Customers came and went, and Harry quickly learned how to bluff his way through steaming milk and tapping shots. Nothing he cared about, but it passed the time.

Xavier, though, was another story. His friend’s clipped answers and rigid posture made it clear he had no intention of thawing toward Tyler, no matter how easygoing the guy was now. Harry let it slide - he wasn’t about to referee their cold war.

It was shaping up to be a boring day of mediocre coffee until movement outside the café caught his eye.

Wednesday.

She stood in the square with Eugene at her side, the boy fumbling nervously with the hem of his pilgrim costume looking sickly. His hands trembled around, shoulders hunched like he expected something bad to happen.

Harry spotted the Pilgrim trio approaching before Eugene did. The same smirking locals in ridiculous costumes. They circled like sharks. The leader shoved Eugene hard, and the boy stumbled and, in his panic, gagging. A moment later, he threw up. All over his sweater. All over their shoes. All over everything.

The bullies recoiled in disgust. That was their mistake.

Wednesday moved like a blade in the dark. One tried to shove Eugene again - she grabbed his wrist and twisted, sending him sprawling to the stones. Another raised a fist and was rewarded with her boot in his ribs. The third managed to throw a punch before she caught it and cracked him across the shins.

By the time Harry shoved through the café door, it was already over. Three groaning teenagers on the ground, and Wednesday standing above them, unflinching.

Harry ignored them, crouching instead beside Eugene, who was pale and shaking. He grabbed the handful of napkins from his pocket and wiped at the worst of the mess. “Easy, Eugene. You’ll survive. And honestly-” he shot a look at the retched bullies “-that was the best aim I’ve seen all day.”

Eugene managed a weak laugh. Wednesday’s expression didn’t shift, but her eyes carried something harder.

“I’m glad you stood up for him,” Harry said, glancing her way.

She looked back, calm and blunt. “Eugene reminds me of my brother, helpless and in need of protection. Except the constant desire I have to wring my brother’s neck. Anyways. I need to know more about Crackstone and the Meeting House is the only thing in this forsaken place that may not be completely false.”

Harry rose, brushing his hands on his apron. “Then I’m coming with you.”

O-O-O

The Meeting House loomed at the far end of the square, its old timbers groaning against the autumn wind. The doors were chained. Wednesday tugged the handle once, but it stayed locked.

“Figures,” she muttered.

Harry stepped forward casually, pulling a pen from his pocket. He crouched and pretended to jimmy the lock, fingers twitching subtly. A shimmer of light danced beneath his knuckles, hidden from view. A click echoed, and the door swung free.

“There we go,” he said, sliding the pen back into his pocket. “Jericho craftsmanship. Top tier.”

Wednesday’s eyes lingered on him, suspicious but silent.

Inside, the Meeting House smelled of wax and mildew. Shadows clung to the rafters. Along the walls hung portraits of the town’s founders, their gazes stern and unyielding.

Wednesday stopped in front of one frame. The woman within stared back - blonde hair, pale face, eyes sharp with fury.

“That’s my ancestor. Goody Addams.”

Harry frowned. “How do you know?”

“Because I’m psychic,” she said plainly. “I get visions.”

Harry’s brow rose. “Visions.”

She didn’t flinch. “They show me what was, and sometimes what will be.”

He said nothing, though the thought pressed heavy in his chest: What if she sees too much? What if she sees me? He pushed it down, as always.

Wednesday’s gaze darted to a display case in the corner. Inside rested a leather-bound book, its cover aged and cracked. Her eyes gleamed. “A clue.”

She reached in, pulled it free - and felt the weight wrong immediately. The cover was stiff, the pages glued. She opened it to reveal nothing but blank sheets.

“A fake,” she said.

Before either of them could speak again, a voice snapped from the doorway.

“What on God’s green earth are you doing in here?”

Arlene stood framed in the light, hands on her hips, eyes blazing.

Harry reacted instantly. He stepped closer to Wednesday, slipping an arm around her shoulders and leaning just enough to blur the distance between them. His voice was smooth, apologetic. “Sorry. You know how it is - young couple sneaking off, looking for a little privacy for their love tryst.”

Wednesday stiffened under his arm, color prickling faintly at her cheeks. Harry could feel her hand grab his hand, her black nails biting into him with enough force to make him bleed even through the sleeve. He ignored it. He was prepared for that and more as a response to his cover up.

Arlene’s eyes narrowed, but she huffed. “Well, you picked the wrong place for your… activities. And that book? The real one was stolen last month. What you’re holding is just a replica.”

Wednesday’s eyes sharpened at the revelation, but she said nothing.

Harry gave a sheepish grin, leaning just slightly closer into her. “Won’t happen again.”

Arlene muttered something about “Nevermore kids” and ushered them out, still scowling.

Outside, the wind whipped down the street. Wednesday straightened her outfit, silent, her mind already turning on the new lead.

Harry smirked sidelong. “See? I’m so smooth at it. The old Potter charm works flawlessly… Sorry, that was a bit too intimate, right? ”

Her glare was sharp enough to pierce steel. But she didn’t correct him.

O-O-O

The bell above the café door jingled as they stepped back inside, the warmth of the Weathervane greeting them with the smell of roasted beans and cinnamon. Customers murmured at tables, and the espresso machine hissed steadily behind the counter.

Xavier was already there, slouched at a corner booth, his long fingers tapping against the wood in a restless rhythm. His eyes immediately narrowed when he saw Wednesday and Harry walk in together.

“So,” Xavier said, voice edged with suspicion and, “why were you two off sneaking around together?”

Wednesday didn’t dignify the question with an answer. She strode past him without pause, her boots sharp against the floor, and reached for the bell on the counter. Ding-ding.

Tyler appeared from behind the espresso machine, wiping his hands on a rag. “Hey. What can I get you?”

“Quad over ice. My usual,” Wednesday said flatly. “And information. Where is the original Pilgrim Meeting House?”

Tyler blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. “Cobham Woods. It’s basically a ruin now. My dad’s been out there more times than I can count - clearing squatters, trespassers, the occasional creep with candles and robes.” He frowned. “Why do you wanna know?”

Wednesday’s face was unreadable. “Because monsters do not tend to live in shopping malls.”

Tyler shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re obsessed with this stuff. Monsters, ghosts, whatever.”

Wednesday’s eyes locked on his, black and unblinking. “Would you rather I be obsessed with makeup and boy bands?”

Tyler raised his hands in surrender, grinning faintly. “Fair point.” He reached for a cup. “Want me to show you? The place is tricky to find if you don’t know the trail.”

“No,” Wednesday said at once. “I have to be here for the statue unveiling. If I’m not, Principal Weems will skin me alive. I can find the ruin on my own.”

Harry, who had leaned against the counter, chimed in casually. “And I also have to be there. Piano recital at a monument? Lucky me.”

The quad was set on the counter. Wednesday collected it with one hand, turned without another word, and strode out. Harry pushed off the counter and followed, ignoring Xavier’s pointed glare at his back.

The cobbled street of Jericho was quieter now, the crowd noise of Outreach Day fading behind them. The air was sharp with autumn, the smell of smoke and leaves threading between brick storefronts. Wednesday walked with her hands clasped behind her back, her stride deliberate. Harry matched her pace easily, his hands in his pockets, every step carrying that lazy weight he wore like armor.

“You play piano,” she said at last, her voice carrying no question.

“Since I was a kid,” Harry replied. His tone was easy, but his eyes flicked toward her. “And you with the cello. Weems gets her showcase, her little concert of prodigies.”

Wednesday’s gaze cut to him, unblinking. “Music is interesting. Structured. Precise. But you don’t strike me as the type to obey anyone’s rhythm but your own.”

Harry’s lips tugged faintly, almost a smile. “You’d be right. I play what I like. Tonight? Just penance.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the wind ruffling her braids and the edge of his coat. Then Harry stopped, reaching out to catch her wrist. His touch wasn’t rough, but deliberate, his fingers firm and warm against her pulse.

“I’m not here to get in your way,” he said, his voice quieter now, stripped of sarcasm. “But I’m not letting you go alone to the ruins.”

Wednesday’s brows lifted slightly. “No. I work alone.”

Harry stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him even in the cool air. “You don’t have to like it. But I’ve been chasing the same thing. The monster. I want answers as much as you do.”

Her eyes locked on his. “You’re lying.”

He shook his head slowly. “I’m not. You saw the clippings on my desk, the maps, the notes. I’ve been at this for months. I wasn’t hiding it.”

She remembered - his corner at the café, the red circles scrawled over newspaper articles. She didn’t answer right away.

“Go on,” she said finally.

“The killings started just after last year began,” Harry explained. His eyes narrowed, gaze scanning the street ahead as if piecing it together again. “At first, everyone thought they were random. Wanderers, hikers, loners. But when you line them up? The victims don’t feel that random at all. And it was definitely not a damn bear. It’s like someone’s making it look that way.”

Wednesday’s tone was clinical. “You think it’s connected to Nevermore.”

Harry nodded. “Too many coincidences. But I can’t prove it. For all I know, the timing’s a setup - a fake to make people point fingers at the school.” He exhaled sharply. “Still… my gut says it’s closer than anyone thinks.”

Wednesday tilted her head. “Closer how?”

He hesitated, then met her eyes. “My bet is on a teacher. Someone on the inside. But I don’t have evidence. Just… intuition.”

Finally, Wednesday’s voice broke the silence, quieter than before. “If you waste my time, I’ll bury you where no one will find you.”

His smirk returned, softer now, like he couldn’t help himself. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

She pulled free at last, resuming her pace, but the air between them felt changed - tighter, humming with something unspoken. Suspicion, yes. But something else too, curling at the edges, a thread neither wanted to tug.

O-O-O

The trail through Cobham Woods was narrow and littered with fallen leaves, the canopy overhead bare enough to let the cold sky press down on them. Wednesday led the way, her boots deliberate on the damp earth, Harry just a step behind, his hands shoved in his pockets. The woods had an old hush to them - the kind of silence that suggested they were walking straight into the heart of something forgotten.

And sure enough, there it was.

The ruins.

Just as Tyler had said, the skeleton of the Pilgrim Meeting House hunched in the clearing like the broken bones of history. Its timbers were blackened and warped, stone foundation cracked in jagged seams. The air smelled faintly of mildew and rot, and a crow perched on the sagging roof let out a single croak before taking off into the gray sky.

Thing skittered out from beneath Wednesday’s coat sleeve, his fingers tapping irritably against the air as if to say finally.

Harry stared for half a heartbeat, then crouched and held out his fist. “Sup.”

Thing looked at him, flexed his thumb, and knocked his knuckles against Harry’s like they’d been friends for years.

Wednesday blinked. “That’s it? You meet a sentient hand and your first reaction is to fist bump?”

Harry shrugged, rising back to his full height. “I’ve seen weirder. Doesn’t even crack the top ten.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I wonder if I will ever receive a single answer from you that isn’t wrapped in mystery.”

His smirk was infuriatingly casual. “Mystery’s more fun.”

Meanwhile, Thing crawled up Harry’s arm with ease, settling on his shoulder like a perched bird. Harry tilted his head as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You can even understand him,” Wednesday observed. Thing tapped out a short sequence, which Harry answered back without hesitation.

He shrugged again. “I’ve got a feel for things like that.”

Before she could press him further, a shuffle came from the ruins. A figure lurked near the broken wall - a man in rags, hunched and muttering. His eyes darted toward them, but the moment Thing flexed his fingers in an unmistakable get lost gesture, the stranger bolted into the trees without a word.

“Well handled,” Harry muttered approvingly.

Wednesday stepped closer to the sagging doors of the Meeting House, her dark eyes sweeping the weathered wood. Harry noticed how her fingers hovered just above the surface, taut with expectation.

“Use your powers,” Harry said quietly.

Thing signed the same, tapping insistently.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “I can’t control when they happen. They come when they want, not when I ask.”

“Then maybe think louder,” Harry teased.

Her glare was sharp, but there was a flicker of humor. She bent, plucked a crushed soda can from the ground, and held it dramatically against her forehead. “I’m seeing… great misfortune… for whoever littered this here.”

Harry huffed out a laugh. “Very convincing.”

Next she picked up an empty chip bag. “The spirits tell me… this person lacked taste. And likely dignity.”

Thing smacked his fingers against the ground like a clap.

But then she reached out, fingertips brushing against the doors of the ruins.

Her body went rigid.

Her knees buckled before Harry could react, and then she was collapsing backward, convulsing. He lunged, catching her before she hit the ground, her body trembling against his arms.

“Wednesday!”

Her eyes rolled back, breath caught in her throat, every muscle taut as if lightning surged through her veins. Harry dropped to his knees with her, cradling her carefully against the cold earth.

And then the sky split.

Rain hammered down in sheets, drumming against the ruined wood, plastering Harry’s hair to his forehead in seconds. Water streamed across Wednesday’s pale face, her braids clinging to her skin. Thing scrambled anxiously over her arm, tapping frantically at her wrist, but she was lost in whatever vision had seized her.

The first thing Wednesday felt was the cold, slick weight of rain plastering her braids to her face. Then the pain - sharp, lancing through her skull like her mind had been split open. She sat up with a sudden jolt, her voice tearing from her throat in a raw scream.

“Crackstone burned them all!” Her voice shook the ruins. “Every outcast… tied, bound, and thrown to the fire. Only Goody Addams escaped. The mother-” her words faltered, grief threading through rage-“the mother was not so lucky.”

Her breathing slowed into ragged pulls. Harry crouched in front of her, rain dripping from his hair, his hands hovering as if torn between steadying her or giving her space. His face was tight, eyes wide, trying to process what she’d just revealed.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered. “That’s… one crazy of a vision.”

Before she could answer, a sharp crack echoed outside. A twig snapping underfoot.

Both their heads snapped toward the sound.

Wednesday’s voice was low, steady, but her fingers curled around the wet earth. “Probably the same homeless man from earlier.”

Harry’s expression was unconvinced. They crept toward a jagged hole in the wall, rain still hissing through the rotted beams. Together, they peered through the gap.

And saw it.

A pair of enormous, bloodshot eyes staring back at them, glowing faintly in the storm’s dim light.

The wall splintered as a massive arm swung through, wood exploding around them.

But then - the shimmer. The same translucent barrier that had saved Wednesday before, stretching like glass between her and the creature.

This time, the monster pushed harder. The barrier groaned like cracking ice, then shattered with a sound like a hundred panes of glass breaking at once. The force hurled Wednesday backward, slamming her against the damp stone floor.

Harry didn’t hesitate. He moved between her and the thing, raising his hands. Bright redhot fire erupted from his palms, arcing forward and searing into the monster’s chest.

The beast didn’t flinch.

It bellowed, shaking the ruins, then tried to bolt.

“Not this time,” Harry snarled.

With a guttural crack, a tree outside ripped free of its roots as if plucked by invisible hands, soil scattering into the air. It crashed down across the monster’s path, blocking its escape.

The air shifted, heavy with the sharp tang of ozone. Wednesday’s eyes widened as Harry’s head tilted back, his emerald gaze blazing, brighter than before. He thrust his hand skyward, and the storm answered.

A colossal bolt of lightning split the night, jagged and merciless, striking the monster with a sound that shook the earth. The beast shrieked, flung across the clearing, its flesh smoking where the bolt had landed.

Harry exhaled, shoulders sagging as if he’d poured every ounce of strength into the strike. “That’s it. It’s-”

The monster rose.

It turned, limping, then barreled into the woods, vanishing into the storm’s shroud.

Harry froze, disbelief painting his face. “No. No way that thing just-”

But Wednesday wasn’t looking at the trees. She was staring at him. At his eyes, still faintly glowing. At his hands, still sparking faintly with green light.

Not a hallucination. Not a trick of adrenaline. Real. Just like what she had glimpsed when he’d saved her from Rowan.

Her heart thundered, but she forced her voice cold. “We’ll deal with you later. Right now, we hunt.”

She tore after the monster, boots splashing through mud. Behind her, after a heartbeat of hesitation, Harry followed.

Branches whipped their faces as they sprinted, the rain stinging like needles. Then Wednesday stopped dead.

The tracks had changed.

What had been clawed gouges in the soil now resolved into human footprints. Bare. Precise. Leading deeper into the woods.

Her chest tightened.

Harry caught up, eyes narrowing at the prints. “Of course, the monster is a human. Absolutely perfect.”

She rounded on him, voice sharp. “Don’t try to dodge it. I saw you. Your eyes. Your hands. Fire. Lightning. No hallucination this time. What are you?”

His jaw clenched. Rainwater streamed down his face, his glow gone now, only a human boy staring back. “Not the enemy. Not yours. That’s all you need to know.”

“Not good enough,” Wednesday hissed.

“Then deal with it,” Harry snapped. “Because unless you’d rather stand here arguing, the thing that just slaughtered people is getting away.”

Their glares locked, silent sparks in the storm.

Then Wednesday turned, braid whipping against her back. “Fine. We hunt. But you will tell me everything. Eventually.”

Harry’s smirk was humorless, bitter. “Try to keep up first.”

The storm lashed harder, the forest rattling with every gust. Wednesday had barely taken three steps after the fading human footprints when a voice cut through the rain.

“What the hell are you two doing out here?”

Xavier emerged from the treeline, drenched to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes darted from Wednesday to Harry, suspicion blazing in them. “Together? Really? Harry, you of all people-”

His words were half drowned by the storm, but the look he shot Harry was sharp enough: betrayal.

Wednesday didn’t flinch. “We saw it. The monster. It’s human.”

She spun to point at the ground, but the prints were gone - washed into nothing by the torrent. Her jaw tightened.

“Convenient,” Xavier muttered, though his voice cracked with something more wounded than skeptical.

Harry stepped forward. “She’s not wrong. I saw them too. Monster tracks. Then they shifted into human ones.”

Xavier blinked between them, their frantic expressions and the storm’s violence pressing on him. Slowly, his posture softened. “Alright. If you both say it… then I want to believe you.”

Wednesday’s lips thinned. “Belief is useless without proof.” She turned sharply, her braid snapping with the motion, and stormed back toward Jericho.

“Wait-” Xavier hurried after her, Harry close behind.

The three of them trudged through mud and rain, branches slapping their coats. Finally Xavier found his voice, still tight. “What were you really doing out here?”

Wednesday shot Harry a glance, the barest nod.

Harry exhaled, then answered, “Investigating Joseph Crackstone.”

Wednesday added without hesitation, “We think he’s connected to Rowan’s mother. To her vision.”

Xavier slowed, eyes narrowing. “Vision?” He turned to Wednesday. “Were you… trying to use your psychic abilities?”

Her head snapped toward him. “How do you know about that?”

He shrugged quickly. “Lucky guess.”

Her stare lingered, but then she answered, voice cool. “They’re recent. Only a few months.”

Harry stayed quiet, though his mind churned. The way she shook when they came, the toll they took. He filed it away, already deciding he’d tear through books on the subject later to learn more.

Xavier’s voice cut in, softer now. “But you can’t control them, can you? And it scares you.”

Wednesday’s silence was answer enough.

Harry’s jaw tightened. He doubled down on his silent vow: he’d find out more, even if he had to scour every forbidden tome in his archives. If she wouldn’t admit fear, he’d be prepared anyway.

Breaking the tension, Harry asked, “Wasn’t your dad a psychic?”

Xavier gave a short, bitter laugh. “Vincent Thorpe? Yeah. First thing he’ll tell anyone is that psychic visions are unreliable. Can’t be trusted. That’s his gospel.”

Rain drummed on the canopy above, soaking through the branches and dripping down in steady rivulets. The three of them trudged through mud, the storm clinging to their clothes and tempers alike.

Wednesday suddenly stopped. Her pale face was unreadable, but her voice carried sharp conviction.

“I saw Crackstone. Clear as day. In my vision.”

For the briefest moment, it looked like she regretted admitting it. Her shoulders stiffened, her chin tilted higher, but she continued anyway. “He locked all the outcasts in the Meeting House. He burned them alive. Only Goody Addams escaped. Her mother wasn’t so lucky.”

The silence that followed was broken by Xavier’s frown. “And what does that have to do with any of this? With the monster?”

Wednesday’s dark eyes flashed. “The pilgrim in Rowan’s drawing isn’t just a symbol. It’s Joseph Crackstone. That’s what this all connects to.”

Xavier’s lip curled. “Or maybe you’re just using your visions to prop up whatever story you’ve already decided is true.”

Harry saw it instantly - the moment Wednesday shut down. She had been slowly, grudgingly trusting them both. But Xavier’s words slammed the door. She drew herself in, cold and rigid, her walls back up.

“You have no right to mansplain my powers to me,” she bit out, each syllable sharp as glass.

The air crackled. Harry had thought that letting them talk might help, maybe even bring them closer. Instead, it felt like watching a pair of magnets flip and repel. He wondered if they could possibly get on worse even if they tried.

“Alright,” Harry cut in, stepping between their stares. “Enough.”

But Xavier’s jaw was tight. “I’m trying to help. Psychic visions aren’t truth. They’re ruled by emotions, not logic. And emotions…” he let out a humorless laugh, “aren’t exactly your strong suit.”

Harry was torn between slapping his own forehead or Xavier’s. If that was Xavier’s idea of flirting, then Harry might not be the most hopeless romantic at Nevermore after all.

He didn’t even need to look - he could feel the way Wednesday retreated further behind her mask, the annoyance radiating off her like a furnace behind ice.

Harry lifted a hand toward Xavier in a subtle drop it gesture as he followed Wednesday, but Xavier only stood there, arms crossed, watching them walk away with a scowl carved into his face.

When they had put distance between them, Harry tried. “He didn’t mean it like that. He’s just… wired wrong sometimes.”

Wednesday shot him a glance colder than the rain. “Cute display of friendship. Try it again when it isn’t wasted.”

He sighed, but she was already on a different track. Her eyes narrowed, her voice a blade. “Now that we’re alone - what exactly was that, back there? With the monster. What are you?”

Harry slowed, his smirk gone. He weighed his words, then let the truth fall between them like a stone. “I’m a mage.”

Wednesday blinked, surprise flickering in her expression for once. “Mages are stories. They’ve been extinct for centuries.”

“Yeah, well.” His green eyes caught a flash of lightning, glowing faintly. “I’m living proof they aren’t.”

She studied him. “The fire. The lightning. That was magic?”

Harry gave a single nod.

For a moment, the storm filled the silence between them. Then Wednesday inclined her head, as though filing the answer away.

“I appreciate the honesty,” she said quietly. “For once.”

He looked away, visibly uncomfortable, and she didn’t press further. Not yet. There would be time later to tear his secrets open. For now, she let the storm carry them forward, two shadows bound by truths that felt heavier than the rain.

O-O-O

The night fell heavy over Nevermore, a storm’s echo still clinging to the walls as if the rain refused to leave entirely. The corridors were drowned in silence, save for the occasional groan of the old stone and the restless creak of beams under the wind.

In her bed, Wednesday tossed beneath her blankets, face pale, lips pressed thin. Sleep was no sanctuary-it was a battlefield.

Her dream clawed at her mind with brutal clarity.

She saw Goody Addams again, hair loose and wild, her hands bound as she thrashed helplessly. All around her, the cries of outcasts rose like a chorus of agony. She smelled burning pine, dry hay, flesh. She watched fire eat through the Meeting House walls, devouring them until the screams became one deafening, endless howl.

Monsters lurked at the edge of her vision, twisted shadows tearing at the dying, their snarls mingling with human cries. The fire rose higher, an inferno of judgment, and through it all, Crackstone stood unmoved, his eyes black pits reflecting the flames.

Wednesday’s chest heaved, the heat unbearable, and still she couldn’t wake.

Elsewhere in the school, Harry hadn’t even attempted sleep.

He stood on a lonely balcony of stone, forgotten by most students, where ivy curled over broken balustrades and the cold bit through his shirt. The courtyard below lay drenched in moonlight, but his gaze was fixed on the fire dancing in his palm.

Emerald flames licked up from his hand, crackling in the darkness. He turned them over slowly, staring into them as if the fire itself might answer the gnawing thoughts he couldn’t silence.

Images shimmered within the blaze.

A girl convulsing on the ground, pale and rigid, her braid splayed across wet stone. He saw her body arching, fighting against visions she could not control. He heard her scream.

The fire shifted.

A monster’s face appeared in its glow, bloodshot eyes glinting as claws tore through the ruins. Its snarl shook the flames themselves, and for a second Harry swore he could feel its hot breath through the magic.

The fire shifted once more.

A boy stood in the center of it all, unmoving. His own face-frozen, powerless, staring at a beast that had shrugged off everything he had thrown at it. Fire. Lightning. Rage. And still, it hadn’t been enough.

Harry’s fingers curled tighter.

The flame roared higher, bright enough to cast long shadows against the stone wall behind him. For a moment, he let it burn unchecked, the emerald glow searing against the night. Then, with a low growl in his throat, he snapped his fist shut.

The fire died instantly, sparks swallowed by the dark.

The silence that followed pressed harder than the storm ever had. He stared at his hand, the skin unburned, his breath shuddering.

The memory rose unbidden - lightning ripping through the sky, striking the monster with everything he had, and it hadn’t even staggered. He could still hear the beast’s retreating roar, still feel the futility gnawing at his bones.

For the first time in years, a thought surfaced. Bitter. Unwelcome. Heavy.

I need to be stronger.

The wind whipped around him, tugging at his coat, carrying the smell of rain and ash. He let it wash over him, standing still in the dark, that single truth burning hotter than the fire he had extinguished.

Chapter Text

The morning came with cruel irony.

After the storm and downpour that had soaked the woods and their hunt the night before, the sky had opened wide and cloudless, a cruel shade of blue. Sunlight poured down relentlessly, the kind of sharp golden glare that seemed to hiss against Wednesday's pale skin. To her, the day was dreadful- not because of gloom, but because of its lack of it. This is what they call "perfect weather," she thought bitterly. Perfect for honoring monsters.

The town square had been dressed up like a festival ground. Fresh banners hung from poles, red and white ribbons fluttered in the breeze. The mayor, the sheriff, the council- all lined up proudly in their suits and pearls. And at the center, shrouded under a heavy violet cloth, the new monument to Joseph Crackstone waited.

Wednesday's eyes, however, saw none of the pomp. She saw the divide.

To the left, the Jericho townsfolk. Neatly lined chairs, clutching their pamphlets, the smugness of people celebrating their heritage. To the right, the Nevermore contingent, an equally neat line but one marked by purple uniforms, pale faces, claws, scales, and every shade of outcast. A wall of differences, separated by an invisible but undeniable chasm. How fitting, she mused. Even in celebration, they split us apart. A monument to a man who burned us alive, watched over by a town that still thinks itself pure.

She sat in the choir, right where Principal Weems had ordered her to. The rest of the students hummed nervously, music sheets trembling slightly in their hands. Wednesday's cello rested against her body, but it didn't feel like an instrument today. It felt like a weapon. Its cold wooden frame might as well have been a blade. Each string thrummed under her fingers like a bowstring drawn tight.

Her dark eyes flicked once toward the stage. Thing was in position, hidden where only she knew. Their plan was simple, efficient.

Harry was out there too, further down the line where the piano had been set up. Even from here, she could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, though he masked it with the same lazy posture he always carried.

Wednesday's grip tightened on the cello's neck. The heat of the sun above, the endless chatter of normies, the heavy sheet over Crackstone's monument. All of it pressed in like the opening bars of a dirge.

She would not let them have their day.

In her lap, the cello's wood felt like ice. Like death waiting for its cue.

Thing twitched his fingers once from his hiding spot, a silent signal only she could see.

Wednesday drew in a slow breath, her face the picture of calm. But inside, her blood hummed like the taut string of her instrument.

How can they celebrate a man who slaughtered us?

She already knew the answer.

They could. They would.

Unless she stopped them.

Mayor Walker adjusted the microphone, his polished smile gleaming too brightly in the midday sun. Principal Weems stood just beside him, her posture immaculate, her hands folded neatly at her waist. Together they made quite the pair. One a shallow politician who lived off empty words, the other a headmistress skilled in veiling truths. If Crackstone himself could see them, Wednesday thought he would have applauded their talent for performance.

The mayor began to speak. His voice echoed across the plaza, bouncing off the brick and stone as if it could convince the walls themselves of his sincerity.

"Joseph Crackstone was a great man," he proclaimed, his tone dripping with practiced cadence. "He believed in unity, in perseverance, in the eternal truth that if we never give up, anything is possible."

Wednesday's lips twitched into the faintest curl. Unity. Perseverance. Eternity. Absolutely useless drivel. She could practically predict his next line before he said it. The whole speech was nothing more than a cut-and-paste collage of clichés, uttered without the slightest flicker of conviction.

"We honor him today," the mayor continued, "and remember him for eternity."

Eternity. Right on cue.

Wednesday sat stiffly in her chair among the choir, her cello upright against her knee, her bow gripped like a blade she hadn't yet unsheathed.

The mayor stepped back. The conductor lifted his baton, and the first swells of orchestral music washed over the square.

Wednesday raised her bow, her movements precise, her enthusiasm minimal. Each note that fell from her strings was played perfectly but without a shred of warmth. For her, the true performance had not yet begun.

Her dark eyes flicked across the podium to where Walker and Weems now stood, still smiling that politician's grin as though the whole town were theirs to charm. Their fingers moved in unison, pressing the button that sat at the podium's edge.

The fountain at the base of the bronze Crackstone shuddered, then burst to life. Water shot high into the air, tumbling down on each side in glittering arcs.

At least, that's what the crowd believed.

Wednesday's gaze sharpened. Her eyes followed the small blur of motion threading between legs and chairs. Thing, moving unseen through the chaos of feet and hems. The tension in her chest eased when she saw him climb unseen onto the fountain's edge, working quickly, invisibly, like a phantom hand guiding destiny.

And then, it happened.

The fountain did not gush water.

It erupted in fire.

A roar of flame swallowed the monument, rushing upward with a fury that lit the square in blistering orange. The mayor's practiced smile broke into a gape of horror. Screams tore through the audience as people bolted from their seats, knocking chairs and each other aside in their rush to escape the inferno. The smell of smoke and molten metal filled the air, thick and choking.

Wednesday did not move.

She watched with her unblinking eyes as the bronze figure of Crackstone blackened, then dripped, metal surrendering under the blaze. The proud features of the pilgrim warped, sagged, and collapsed in on themselves, the effigy dissolving like a corpse left too long in the fire.

And then, with a calmness that made her appear otherworldly amidst the chaos, Wednesday raised her bow.

She played.

The opening notes of Vivaldi's Winter curled into the screams, cutting cleanly through the cacophony of panicked footsteps and shouts. Cold, sharp, merciless, her melody rang like ice laid over fire. People shoved past her, fleeing, faces wild with fear. And still, she sat, her bow gliding mercilessly over the strings, each note deliberate, steady, unwavering.

To the outcasts fleeing on one side, to the normies shrieking on the other, she was a figure out of nightmare: pale, unmoving, cloaked in black, her cello singing a dirge as flames devoured their monument.

Everything went to plan.

The fire consumed. The bronze wept. The people scattered.

The plaza was chaos. Screams tore through the crowd, chairs clattered to the ground as normies and outcasts alike bolted for safety, finally united. The fountain blazed, the Crackstone monument bending and sagging in molten rivulets, his once-proud face drooping grotesquely as if melting away his legacy.

Wednesday remained rooted, unflinching, bow gliding across strings, each note of Winter cutting sharp through the bedlam. She felt the music stretch across the square like a web - icy, deliberate, a sonata of her loneliness and defiance. This was exactly as she had envisioned.

Except.

Another sound began to rise beneath hers.

Deep, resonant chords swelled from the edge of the stage, weaving through the razor-precise lines of her cello. A piano. Bold, dramatic strokes, full of anger and grief and something else she could not quite name.

Wednesday's head turned, her bow never faltering.

There he was.

Harry Potter.

Sitting calmly at the grand piano beside her, as if the world wasn't burning in front of them, as if fire erupting from a fountain was just another part of his day. His emerald eyes locked with hers, unblinking, reflecting the blaze behind him. He didn't flinch, didn't look at the fleeing masses. He played. And his knowing gaze didn't leave her face for a second.

Of course it was him.

Of course Harry Potter would ignore the explosion, the chaos, and choose instead to join her.

His fingers moved with surprising dexterity, wild and alive, dancing across the ivory keys as if the instrument itself had been made for him. Where her strokes were precise and calculated, flawless by design, his music was untamed, spilling raw emotion into the air. It should have clashed. And yet. It didn't.

Together, it became something else.

Her cello was winter. Sharp edges, frostbitten precision, each note a shard of ice falling with intent. His piano was fire. Untethered, smoldering, fierce, every chord threatening to consume itself in its passion. Two contradictions, and yet they met in the air above the blaze and wove together into a harmony so stark, so piercing, that for a moment even Wednesday herself struggled to believe it was real.

Her bow trembled, not from error but from something foreign coursing through her chest. The sound was more than music - it was a battlefield, it was grief, it was defiance, it was life clawing against death.

She stared at him. He stared back.

And still, they played.

Each note seemed to fuel the flames further, as if the music itself carried them, spreading the blaze higher, wider, until the air was thick with heat and smoke. The fleeing crowd became distant, unimportant. There was only the cello, the piano, and the inferno bending to their song.

Time stretched. Notes filled every corner of the square. The fire glowed brighter, melting away the bronze tyrant's effigy, while their duet burned itself into the air like a mark of rebellion.

And as the last of the bronze face slid away into molten ruin, Wednesday's bow drew hard across the strings, Harry's hands crashing down on the keys in a final, thunderous chord.

For a moment, the world stilled.

The fire raged, the smoke rose, but in that brief heartbeat she felt it- eternity caught in the grip of music, a moment everlasting.

O-O-O

The infinity of that blazing duet, the strange eternity she and Harry had created together, didn't last. Nothing ever did.

Now, instead of fire and music, Wednesday stood shoulder to shoulder with him in the cold confines of Principal Weems' office. The towering bookshelves and immaculate order of the room only sharpened the tension that hung thick in the air.

Across from them, Weems paced furiously, her hands slicing through the air as she spoke.

"The mayor is livid!" she snapped, her usually smooth voice edged with steel. "Do you have any idea the storm of phone calls I've received? The complaints? The outrage? That monument was meant to unify this town, and instead, it has caused nothing but chaos. I want an explanation."

Wednesday's tongue sharpened instantly, a retort poised on her lips - but before she could strike, Harry spoke.

"I did it."

The words fell like stones into the silence.

Wednesday turned her head slowly, disbelief flickering across her features. He looked calm, his emerald eyes steady, as if the confession cost him nothing.

"I couldn't stand there and watch them praise a man like Crackstone," Harry continued, his voice even but heavy with conviction. "Not when he slaughtered outcasts, tortured them, tried to erase them from history. I wasn't going to be part of the lie."

Weems' eyes narrowed, her fury cooling into something more dangerous: disappointment. "Of course. I see now." She folded her arms, her gaze sliding pointedly to Wednesday. "It has Miss Addams written all over it. She must have filled your head with her crusades, taught you to poke your nose where it doesn't belong."

Wednesday stepped forward, her gaze sharp and merciless. "Don't insult us both with feigned ignorance. You knew. You knew what Crackstone did, what he was - and you stood there, smiling beside the mayor, doing nothing."

Weems inhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before answering. "Sometimes," she said, her voice weary now, "compromises must be made. This town, this school, this fragile balance we walk… it isn't perfect. But outrage will not keep us standing. Sometimes silence is the only way forward."

The words pressed against the walls like a suffocating blanket.

For a long moment, Wednesday didn't speak. Then she straightened, her chin lifting as she turned toward the door. Harry followed, his expression unreadable, but his silence spoke loudly. He wasn't about to betray her by backtracking now.

At the threshold, Wednesday stopped. She turned her head just enough that her dark gaze caught Weems in full.

"You're wrong," she said, her voice quiet but piercing. "People deserve the truth about who we are. About what was done to us. There are no compromises when it comes to that."

The office fell into silence. Weems didn't answer. She didn't need to - the weight of her inaction already said enough.

And so, without waiting for permission, Wednesday stepped out into the hall, Harry close behind her, leaving the principal alone in her perfect, porcelain fake office.

The halls of Nevermore stretched out before them, cavernous and dim, their footsteps echoing against the old stone. The tension from Weems' office still clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. Wednesday walked a pace ahead, her braids swinging like a pendulum behind her. Harry followed, hands shoved in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.

At last, she stopped. Slowly, she turned to face him.

"What was that?" Her voice was calm, measured, but her eyes burned with an intensity he had come to recognize. "I didn't need you to help me. I can handle myself just fine."

Harry leaned against the wall, tilting his head back with a small exhale. "I know." His eyes found hers, steady, unwavering. "I did it because I wanted to."

Wednesday's brow arched ever so slightly. "Wanted to?"

He nodded. "I hate Crackstone as much as you do. Hate how they paint him as some hero when he tortured and slaughtered outcasts. Standing there, listening to them lie, watching everyone clap like trained seals- " His jaw tightened. "I couldn't just let that slide. It felt… wrong."

The torchlight flickered across Wednesday's face as she studied him, her expression unreadable.

Harry pushed himself off the wall and crossed his arms. "Besides, I knew Weems wouldn't punish me."

That drew a thin line of skepticism across her lips. "You're certain of that?"

"Pretty damn sure," he said with a crooked grin. "She's got big expectations for me. For what I can do. And when someone's counting on you to be the ace up their sleeve, you get a little more freedom than most."

Wednesday tilted her head slightly, her voice cutting through the quiet. "And what exactly is your relationship with her? You speak as if she knows more about you than she should."

Harry let out a short breath, almost a laugh. "She does. Weems has this… network. She keeps track of strange kids across the country, the ones who don't quite fit in anywhere. When she found me, when she realized I was a mage, she made a very persuasive pitch. She convinced me to give Nevermore a chance." His gaze flicked to the vaulted ceiling as if remembering. "A place where I could at least try for something like a normal life. Whatever that means."

Wednesday's stare lingered, dark and searching, as if trying to peel back every layer of his words and look at the bones beneath. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter but no less sharp.

"So you leverage her faith in you for your own convenience."

Harry smirked faintly. "I call it strategy."

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Wednesday turned, her boots striking the floor again as she walked ahead. "It's still idiotic."

He fell back into step beside her. "Maybe. But it sure works like a charm."

She didn't argue. She didn't agree either. But in the stillness of the hall, in the echo of their footsteps, something unspoken lingered - the faintest acknowledgment that for once, she wasn't entirely alone in her war against the world.

O-O-O

The hallway outside Ophelia Hall was quieter than usual, the hum of gossiping students replaced by the distant murmur of a passing storm. Wednesday pushed open the door to her dorm, expecting solitude, only to find chaos waiting for her.

Their shared dorm room glowed faintly under the light of Enid's fairy string lights, casting pink and blue shadows across the chaos of her side. Clothes lay strewn across her bed, makeup brushes and palettes scattered across the desk as if a war had been waged there.

Enid was bent halfway into her wardrobe, tossing clothes left and right like a wolf rummaging through prey bones. Sequined tops and pastel skirts rained down in a pile at her feet.

Before Wednesday could form a cutting remark, Enid's voice tumbled out, rapid-fire. "So Ajax is literally the densest boy alive. I mean, I dropped hints all weekend-compliments, smiles, actual puppy eyes- and he just blinked at me like I'd grown a second head. Can you believe it?" She spun dramatically, arms full of sweaters. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it is to have to spell it out for a guy? Like, 'Hey, do you want to go out on a date with me? Yes, Ajax, a real date, not just hanging out.' Ugh!"

Wednesday closed the door behind her, slow and deliberate. "Tragic. You finally caught your prey, but the hunt turned out underwhelming."

Enid dropped the sweaters onto the growing pile and flopped onto her bed with a groan. "Exactly! He said yes, obviously, but…" She trailed off, her bright façade dimming. Her hands fidgeted with the corner of a pillow. "I don't know. I thought I'd be more excited. I mean, this is what I wanted, right?"

She didn't respond at once. Instead, she studied Enid's reflection in the mirror- brightly dressed, vibrantly painted, but her eyes betrayed a hesitation that glitter and eyeliner couldn't cover.

Then, unexpectedly, Enid's voice sharpened. "Why did you and Harry do it?"

Wednesday's gaze returned to her paper. "Do what?"

Enid spun, her hands flying in exasperation. "Play together. During the monument reveal. When the whole thing was literally burning down, you two were just… there. Like it was planned. Like it was… I don't know. More than just vandalism."

Her tone carried something Wednesday didn't expect: passion, more edge. Not curiosity about the fire, not outrage over the chaos, but about her and Harry.

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. "You're interrogating me before your date. Bold strategy. Though not a wise use of time - you'll be late."

"I'm serious, Wednesday." Enid's voice softened, but her hands twisted together nervously. "The way you two played- it wasn't just music. It felt like… like you were connected. Like the whole world could've gone up in flames and you wouldn't have cared as long as you kept playing."

Wednesday's face remained impassive, though the memory of Harry's emerald eyes meeting hers as his wild notes tangled with her precise bow scratched at the edges of her composure.

She said only, "It was music. Nothing more."

Enid didn't look convinced, but she turned back to the mirror, grabbing her lipstick and dabbing on a final layer. Her movements were rushed now, almost desperate to end the conversation.

"Fine. Be all mysterious, as usual." She stuffed the lipstick back into her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"Your date will arrive before you've finished psychoanalyzing me," Wednesday said, tone flat.

Enid gave herself one last glance in the mirror, her smile too forced to reach her eyes. "Yeah. You're right. I should go."

She lingered just a second too long at the door, as if waiting for something from Wednesday. But Wednesday said nothing, and so Enid plastered on her brightest grin and hurried out, the click of her boots fading down the hall.

The room fell silent again, save for the steady rhythm of the typewriter. Wednesday stared at the page, her mind not on the words but on the echo of a piano and strings meeting fire.

O-O-O

The night pressed heavy over Nevermore, clear skies littered with stars that mocked Harry with their distant indifference. He moved like a shadow across the cobblestones, hands buried in his coat pockets, his jaw tight.

After the encounter with the monster, something inside him hadn't stopped burning. Not fire, not magic, but humiliation. Rage. He was supposed to break things like that. Tear them down for breakfast. And yet his fire hadn't even made the beast blink. Even lightning, the kind that could split mountains, had only sent it stumbling before it ran.

Unacceptable.

So, he had fallen into old habits. Sneaking out after curfew, slipping into the woods or abandoned courtyards where no one would see him. Practicing, forcing the magic until his body ached and his veins buzzed like copper wires. Tonight was no different. He'd just returned from a brutal session that left his fingers raw and his chest hollow.

That was when he heard it.

Not the wind. Not an animal. But quiet, broken sobs drifting from the direction of the greenhouse.

He froze, instincts taut. Then, curiosity winning over exhaustion, he padded closer, his boots crunching softly against gravel until he reached the glass door.

There, bathed in the dim light of the moon through glass, crouched Enid Sinclair.

Her knees pulled to her chest, her claws half-extended and trembling, tears streaking down her glitter-dusted cheeks. The girl who usually shone too bright for anyone to ignore now looked small, folded into herself, her shoulders shaking as if she were trying to disappear entirely.

Harry's chest tightened. He pushed the door open quietly.

"Enid?"

She jerked her head up, eyes wide and wet, before quickly ducking away, swiping at her face with her sleeve. "Oh my god - Harry. No, you- you can't see me like this."

He stepped in anyway, lowering himself beside her, close enough to offer warmth but not crowding her. "Too late. I already did." His voice was softer than his usual sarcasm, steady in the dim greenhouse. Patient. Waiting for her to come to him.

Her lip trembled. "He didn't show. Ajax. I waited… I dressed up, I tried so hard, and he just… didn't come. How pathetic is that?"

Harry let out a long breath through his nose. "That doesn't make you pathetic. That makes him an idiot."

She gave a humorless laugh that cracked into another sob. "I just feel so… embarrassed. Like I built this whole thing up in my head, and now I'm just sitting here crying in a greenhouse. And you - ugh, you had to find me. Could this get any worse?"

Harry leaned his head against the glass wall, watching her from the corner of his eye. "I've seen worse. Trust me."

Enid sniffled, curling tighter into herself. "Why are you even being nice to me? You should just make a joke about it and leave."

"Because," Harry said quietly, offering his shoulder, "sometimes sacrasm doesn't cut it. Sometimes people just need… this."

She hesitated, then slowly leaned into him. Her head rested on his shoulder, damp hair sticking to his coat. He didn't move, didn't tease, just let her cry into the night.

Minutes stretched. The air filled only with the sound of her sobs quieting into shuddered breaths, the faint buzz of insects outside the glass, the slow rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, she whispered, "I just wanted to be wanted. Is that so wrong?"

Harry turned slightly, just enough to glance at her. "No. No, it's not. It's human."

She closed her eyes, the words settling in her chest. For the first time that night, she didn't feel so small.

They stayed like that, talking in fragments- about dates gone wrong, about the weight of expectations, about monsters both literal and not. Time slipped, the moon arched higher, but neither of them cared.

By the time the first pale light of dawn began to creep against the horizon, Enid's eyes were swollen but her body no longer trembling, tear marks on her cheek raplaced by the wrinkles of a smile.

As they rose at last, Enid lingered, her gaze fixed on him in the soft morning light. She thought of the hours they'd shared, of his steady voice and the warmth of his shoulder. Something flickered in her chest she didn't have a name for, but she held onto it tightly all the same, treasuring it in silence.