Family Values
Dumbledore vs. Addams, Round 1
By Ishtar
FAMILY VALUES
Disclaimer: If these characters were mine, I’d be living in Ireland (no income tax for creative artists, go Ireland!) in a castle and posting in an entirely different time zone.
Chapter 04 — Dumbledore vs. Addams, Round 1
Little Whinging
At the beginning of January, a house came on the market on Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging, just two blocks away from Privet Drive. Remarkably, it sold that same day. Even more remarkably, the purchaser paid a premium to the owner for a rapid closing. The purchaser had the wherewithal to pay for it with a simple bank cheque, so there was no mortgage to slow things up. Two weeks later, the old owners said goodbye to Little Whinging. The next day, Mrs Arabella Figg and her four cats moved in.
The rapid turnover of the house had the neighbours gossiping a bit, but it was somewhat less than a nine days’ wonder, and people soon moved on to other topics of conversation. Mrs Figg was a typical old lady, a bit dotty but obviously able to take care of herself.
After settling in a bit, Mrs Figg made the acquaintance of her neighbours, and then some of their neighbours, and then let it be known that she wouldn’t mind doing a bit of child minding now and then, just to keep from becoming too bored. In a suburban area like this, there were plenty of young mothers with children, and word soon got round. After spending time with several families, Mrs Figg soon had a reputation for handling difficult children well. The first week in February, her persistent groundwork paid off. She received a call from a Mrs Petunia Dursley, of Number Four, Privet Drive, wishing to know if she was available to watch her little Dudley on Tuesday next. If Mrs Figg thought there was anything odd about her mention of only one child, she didn’t say anything.
On Tuesday next, she showed up at the appointed time and eyed the family curiously. She had seen them on the street on occasion, but hadn’t had the time or opportunity to make a close inspection. She had to admit, they weren’t what she was expecting, having been told they were average people with average tastes and slightly better than average income. Mrs Dursley was wearing a red ball gown which had obviously cost a pretty penny. Mrs Figg occasionally followed the fashion periodicals, and knew that a dress like that was custom designed, probably in Paris. The jewellery that went with it was just as expensive, and her hair and makeup were done with care and taste. Mr Dursley’s evening wear wasn’t anywhere close to comparable. It looked as if it had been rented for the night and fit awkwardly on his heavy body, and he looked like his tie was strangling him.
The young couple were going out dancing, Mrs Dursley said, for the first time since Dudley was born. It was so exciting, almost like their first date again. Mr Dursley didn’t look so excited, but was willing to go along with his wife.
Mrs Dursley introduced Mrs Figg to Dudley, warning that he was a bit strong-willed, and if he got into a tantrum, Mrs. Figg should just put him in his crib and let him cry it out. She gave Mrs Figg a list of emergency phone numbers and a tour of the house, and asked if there were any questions.
"Well, yes, I had been under the impression you had a second child, a little boy like Dudley, but dark haired. Mrs Simmons said you’d taken him in last fall."
"Oh, I see. That was my nephew. He stayed with us briefly, but he was adopted. Was there anything else?"
"No, I believe you covered everything. Have a good evening, dear. We’ll be just fine."
Once the Dursleys were gone and Dudley had been bathed and put to bed, Mrs Figg searched the house thoroughly. The upstairs had four bedrooms, one of which belonged to Mr and Mrs Dursley, one was Dudley’s, one was a guest room, and one had been fitted out as a playroom. In one corner of the latter room were a disassembled cot and a stack of boxes that contained lightly used boys' clothing in sizes too small for Dudley. Petunia had written "jumble sale" on the boxes.
There was nothing else to show that a second child had ever lived there.
Hogwarts Castle, Scotland
On a Wednesday morning in February, Albus Dumbledore returned to his office after breakfast, anticipating no more trouble than was usual for a school for several hundred magical teenagers, plus Peeves. Things had settled down remarkably rapidly after the events of the previous fall, when young Harry Potter had destroyed the Dark Lord. Most of the trials were over by Christmas, Dumbledore had managed to extricate his Potions Master from the Ministry’s clutches, and all was right with the world.
At least all was right until the flame in his fireplace burned green and the face of Arabella Figg appeared to float above the bed of coals. "Headmaster Dumbledore, are you there? This is Arabella Figg!"
Dumbledore rose from his desk and hurried around to a position from which she could see him. "My dear Mrs Figg, this is an unexpected pleasure. What can I do for you this fine day?"
"Did you, or did you not, tell me that Harry Potter was staying with the Dursleys in Little Whinging?"
"Of course he is," said Dumbledore. "I took him there myself. Is there a problem?"
"I finally made contact with the Dursley woman," said Mrs Figg. "In order to obtain access to the home, I pretended to be looking for a little extra work doing some child minding."
"Yes, good thinking, that. With two children, they’d be needing some help sooner or later," said Dumbledore.
"Well, they don’t have two children. They only have one, who goes by the name of Dudley, looks just like his father, and bears no resemblance to the Potters. I inquired about a second child, and Mrs Dursley told me they’d given her nephew up for adoption!"
"What?!" Dumbledore gasped. "That’s impossible!"
"You heard me! He’s not there. There’s a second-hand cot and some other things, all marked for the next church jumble sale. There’s no sign that Harry Potter lives in that house."
"Did you find out anything about who adopted him?"
"I couldn’t inquire without raising suspicions. They don’t really know me and just hired me for the night. If I got nosy, there would be no hope of being invited back."
"All right. See if you can find out any more from the neighbours, and try to further the acquaintance with the Dursleys. If necessary, you can invite Mrs Dursley to tea and slip her something to make sure she’s talkative. Yes, I’m sure Severus can brew something that’s safe for use on Muggles."
"There was something curious I noticed about them, Albus. You said they lived a normal middle-class lifestyle. However, last night Petunia Dursley was wearing an expensive designer gown and jewels to go with it. Is it possible that someone bribed her to turn Harry over to them?"
"It shouldn’t be possible, no. Wait one moment while I check the monitoring spells I have on the boy." His letter had made it clear to Petunia Dursley that the child must stay with his mother’s blood relatives, and he’d even laid a minor compulsion charm on it to be sure. Petunia Dursley should not have been able to turn her nephew over to anyone else without Dumbledore’s knowledge and permission. However, even if that charm had been broken somehow, the boy’s condition could be determined, and even his location if he were anywhere in Britain. Dumbledore hurried over to a shelf full of shiny silver items. Some of them were simply toys, like the rack of little silver balls that clicked against each other as they swung back and forth. Most of them, however, were connected to persons or places in which he had an interest. Nothing intrusive, mind you, he had no interest in violating anyone’s privacy — but if a little modest surveillance saved a life, it was worth it, wasn’t it?
First he checked the status of the charm he’d placed upon Harry, to extend the blood protection created by Lily Potter’s sacrifice to be extended to the Dursley home. The little silver gyroscope spun contentedly on its base, indicating that the protection was still in place. That was a relief, anyway. He was afraid that his charms work might have failed quietly somewhere along the line; he had been a bit hasty when he cast the spell.
Next he looked at a small glass globe held in a silver frame. A curl of brilliant green smoke drifted idly inside the globe, and this reassured Dumbledore further. The movement of the smoke indicated Harry’s emotional state. He was currently calm and happy, and seemed to have got over the agitation that had bothered him for weeks after his parents’ deaths. Likewise, his health, which was indicated by the bright green colour of the smoke, had improved. The shade had been a bit off before, which was also understandable at the time, and nothing to be overly concerned about. Little children were remarkably resilient, and it was obvious that Harry had just needed some time to adjust to his new surroundings.
The final item was a compass with two arrows. One was the normal compass arrow; the other was a little silver arrow that had one fine black baby hair sealed in its shaft. Dumbledore picked up the compass and turned it until the compass arrow was correctly aligned; the other arrow was spinning randomly. Dumbledore frowned. It shouldn’t be doing that. "Point me Harry Potter," Dumbledore commanded firmly, and the second arrow began to move. First it swung south, which he expected, but then it swung east, then south again, then started pointing randomly again, drifting back and forth as if at whim. Dumbledore muttered a word under his breath that he never used anywhere the students might hear. Of all the spells to fail, it had to be that one!
He returned to the fireplace where Arabella Figg was waiting, more or less patiently. "The boy is safe, healthy and in good spirits, but the tracking spell seems to have failed. We’ll have to look for him the hard way, Arabella. In addition to investigating at the Dursleys’, I’ll have to ask you to check with the Muggle authorities. We had all the proper papers filed to make their bureaucracy happy. Surely if the Dursleys put him up for adoption, there would be a record somewhere."
Arabella looked dubious about the possibility. "I don’t know about that, Albus, they seal the records on that sort of thing. I don’t have any legal connection to the matter, and they wouldn’t just give me the information. Do you have a Ministry connection that might help?"
"I’ve managed to keep the Ministry from getting involved so far, and would rather continue doing so. The whole point in keeping Harry with his Muggle family was to keep Minister Bagnold from putting him under Ministry control."
"I’ll do my best, then, but I don’t expect much success. I’ll play social worker with the officials and dotty old cat lady with the neighbours and see I can turn up. I’ll let you know if I need some help with Petunia Dursley."
"You have my thanks, Arabella. I’ll work things from this end." Arabella withdrew her head from the flames, which resumed their usual colour.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk again, but the paperwork he’d been doing no longer seemed important. Arabella Figg was only a Squib, but she was one of his best people; indeed, she was one of the few people he had that could move effortlessly between the Wizarding world and Muggle society. She also had an excellent mind, and knew how to keep a secret. If anybody could find out what Petunia had done with Harry, Arabella could.
0o0o0o0o0
Unfortunately, Arabella’s prediction was correct; the Muggle records dealing with guardianship and adoption were sealed to protect the privacy of both parents and children.
Dumbledore made discreet inquiries at the Ministry, but nothing turned up. He took to checking Harry’s status daily, and his concern was somewhat relieved by the constant spin of the gyroscope and the slow eddy of the green smoke.
The Dursleys hired Arabella to watch Dudley several times over the next few months, and each time she searched the house discreetly, but didn’t succeed in finding anything. She never got close enough to dose Petunia with the potion that Dumbledore provided.
It wasn’t until the beginning of August that they got a break. The Dursleys had gone out to a dinner party, leaving Arabella with Dudley as usual. After putting the boy to bed, she began her usual search. She was beginning to think it was hopeless, but to her surprise, it paid off.
The Dursleys kept a large photo album filled with pictures of Dudley. While flipping through it, Arabella found an envelope with a return address in the United States. Inside the large envelope were several photographs. One was unmistakably Harry Potter, digging enthusiastically into the remains of a birthday cake. Another was of Harry sitting with two other children, a slightly older boy and a little girl, both of whom were helping Harry shred the wrappings on a package. A third showed all three children, outdoors this time, with a slim woman dressed in a long black dress. The day appeared to have been fairly bright, since the woman was wearing dark sunglasses and carrying a black parasol to shade her pale skin. She was sitting on a stone bench with Harry in her lap and both of the other children at her feet.
Enclosed with the pictures was a brief note in an elegant hand.
"Dearest Petunia," it read. "I thought you would appreciate a few pictures to see how Harry has grown. I must thank you again for bringing him to us. He is quite the daredevil; I keep finding him in the most remarkable places, and where he goes, Pugsley and Wednesday will follow. Gomez is thinking about buying a large dog to keep watch over them. Between you and me, it had best be a very large dog. Yours, Morticia."
Arabella didn’t dare to just take the pictures, because Petunia might notice they were missing, but she did study them carefully, making note of all the details she could, and copied the note and the return address before slipping the envelope back into the album. Despite the late hour, she reported to Dumbledore immediately on returning home.
Westfield, New Jersey
Two days later, wearing a red suit in the best Muggle style, Dumbledore took an international Portkey to the United States, arriving in the Wizarding capitol of Boston. He hoped to get some official assistance in collecting the missing child, and indeed received some initial encouragement from the local Aurors, but that assistance seemed to dry up after he mentioned the name ‘Addams’. This perturbed him somewhat since he was used to the unconditional respect from law enforcement personnel and government officials that came with his title of Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Undeterred, he acquired a Portkey to a location in New Jersey conveniently near the Addams residence, arriving in an upstairs broom closet in the rather interestingly named "Arcanum Hall" in downtown Westfield. From there, he took a Muggle taxi to the Addams’ residence, or at least as close as the taxi driver would go, which was the outer gate.
Once the driver had betaken himself elsewhere (at high speed), Dumbledore tried the gate, dismissing as a joke a sign which read, "Warning: Trespassers Will be Eaten." The gate did not open, and there did not seem to be a way to summon attention. Looking about to make sure he was unobserved, he drew his wand and trained it on the large and obvious lock.
"Alohomora!"
It didn’t budge.
"Alohomora!" he cast, with a bit more power to it. The gate creaked open a bit, but as soon as Dumbledore put his hand out to push it open the rest of the way, it slammed shut again. This obviously called for sterner measures.
"ERUMPO FORIS!" The gate swung wide as if burst open. Dumbledore tucked his wand away and strode through the gate, but his entrance was completely spoiled by the gate swinging shut abruptly and catching the tails of his suit jacket in the latch. After a brief struggle, Dumbledore resumed striding up the path minus some of the fabric from his jacket. A swatch of red hung from the lock, and if a gate could snicker, he swore that one was doing it.
He looked about cautiously as he approached the large, imposing house at the top of the hill. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, yet he heard no birds or even bees. The gardens were lush, perhaps even overgrown, with odd and exotic plants — there were no marigolds or daisies here, and the only roses were purple and black. Indeed, a surprising number of flowers were black.
He mounted the steps and examined the doorbell. It had a bell-pull of the type he remembered from his youth, and with confidence he gave it a brisk yank. A shrill scream rang out from somewhere inside the door. "Great Merlin!" he exclaimed.
Suddenly, the door opened. A tall, ghoulish figure in a formal butler’s uniform filled the opening. "You raaaang?" it asked.
"Good afternoon. My name is Albus Dumbledore. May I speak to Mr or Mrs Addams?"
The butler groaned and stepped aside to let Dumbledore in, abandoning him in the foyer. Dumbledore strolled about, carefully examining everything, until a tall woman, probably the woman Arabella had seen in the picture, entered. "Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?"
"Good afternoon, Madame. Am I speaking to Mrs Addams?"
"You are. And your name would be …?"
"Terribly sorry. I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts School in Scotland."
"I see." She stood still and silent, regarding Dumbledore with a dark intensity that made him want to squirm. It was quite unaccountable, really. He hadn’t felt that way since his own school days, when Madame Manders had caught him transfiguring Horatio Gunnings’ sweets into soap.
"Yes, well, I believe that you may be housing a young man here, a boy actually, by the name of Harry Potter. I don’t know how he came to be in your custody, but he belongs with his relatives. In England."
"Did Petunia Dursley send you?"
"Er, no."
"Good. I would hate to think she reneged on our agreement. The results could have been … unpleasant. Would you come with me, Mr Dumbledore?"
Without waiting for Dumbledore's assurance that he would follow, she turned and walked away.
They passed through several dreary rooms before she opened a tall double door and escorted him into a large, comfortably furnished office. A swarthy man sat behind a wide oak desk, with his chair tipped back and his feet comfortably resting on the desk top. He held a handful of throwing knives, with which he was apparently in the process of playing a game of darts.
"Gomez, dear, this is Mr. Dumbledore. He claims to be the Headmaster of Hogwarts, a school in Scotland."
"Looking for a donation, are you?" asked Mr Addams, leaping to his feet and showing Dumbledore to a chair. "What are you running, some kind of agricultural school? Animal husbandry, that sort of thing? I'll be happy to endow a chair for you, how about in Genetic Engineering? Wave of the future, you know. What do you want? Half a million? A million?" Dumbledore blinked in astonishment. "All right, two. You drive a hard bargain, sir!" He whisked a leather chequebook out of a desk drawer and started to write.
"Dearest, Mr. Dumbledore isn't here about a donation."
"He's not?"
"No, he's not. He's here about Harry."
"Ah, offering a scholarship! I see. Getting your bid in early, eh? You'd better take the donation, then, get your facilities up to snuff."
"Mr Addams, Harry's attendance at Hogwarts is not in question. He's already been accepted and his tuition paid for by his parents before their untimely deaths."
"Well, that's efficiency for you!" said Mr Addams with apparent delight. "Must save a lot of time, accepting them while they're still babies!"
"I'm not here to talk about school, Mr Addams. I'm here to take Harry back to his relatives."
"I don't understand. He's with his relatives. He's with us."
"Dearest, Mr Dumbledore seems to be under the impression that we have somehow unlawfully obtained custody of Harry, and are holding him in durance vile. Am I correct, sir?"
"I wouldn’t put it that way, exactly."
"Then how would you put it, Mr Dumbledore?" Her voice was low and calm, but with a distinct air of menace to it. Gomez Addams' smile seemed to have become more of a feral grin, and the temperature in the room had dropped alarmingly.
"Harry Potter is a most important child," Dumbledore continued desperately. He is … gifted, shall we say? Hogwarts is one of the few schools in the world capable of educating him. Since his future lies in Britain, it is important that he live there, with his family, as I arranged."
"As you arranged? Why did you have any say in Harry's placement?" asked Gomez, his eyes glittering. "Are you the executor of his parents' wills? Are you his trustee or guardian?"
"I told you, I am the Headmaster at Hogwarts School."
"A position with no official status, sir. At least none of which I am aware. Certainly not the authority to place an orphaned child." Gomez opened a drawer and pulled out a folder. "This, sir, gives us all the authority we need to care for Harry. I'll think you'll find that you don't have a leg to stand on, legally speaking."
Dumbledore flipped through the papers, astonished to find a full set of guardianship papers granting custody of one Harry James Potter to Gomez and Morticia Addams.
"That's as may be, but I really must insist…"
Dumbledore was interrupted when the door burst open and three giggling children tumbled into the room, chased by an elderly woman, and all came to a sudden stop on seeing a stranger. The black-haired boy was indubitably Harry Potter; the rumpled hair, the green eyes and the jagged scar on his head were much as Dumbledore had seen them last October. A little girl of about the same age was clinging to his sleeve. A slightly older boy looked at Dumbledore, his eyes growing wider and wider, and then he screamed in terror and ran out of the room again. The two black-haired children screamed as well, although their shrieks were more of delight than fear, and followed him. The elderly woman shrugged and pursued the children.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mr Dumbledore. I expect it was the beard. There was an unfortunate incident last Christmas with a department store Santa. You know the sort of thing," said Morticia. "However, you can see that Harry is in perfect health and good spirits, and we have every legal right to raise him as we see fit. We will be perfectly willing to show you around the house and grounds, to reassure you that he is being well cared for, but we will not let you take him away."
To her credit, that's exactly what she did, showing him the nursery, the main rooms of the house, and the kitchen. All of the rooms were technically within the bounds of normality (for a man who had been born only a few years before this house was built, who now lived in a castle, and who knew nothing of advances in Muggle home building) but the décor was unsettling, and he felt a subtle pressure, almost like something really wanted him to leave. It felt like an old spell, very old, and not maintained properly, but still trying to do its job. He'd seen no sign of magical ability among the adults he'd seen, although their demeanour was certainly odd. The only thing that might have been active magic was the odd behaviour of the gate, but that could just as easily be explained by rusty springs in the hinges. Perhaps, he suddenly thought, perhaps the house had belonged to a magical family, probably a Dark family, when it was built, and the wards had not been removed when they left. Lingering effects of Dark magic on subsequent Muggle residents might very well explain their strangeness, as well as the unwillingness of people like the taxi drive to remain in the vicinity of the house. He should probably tell the Americans, so their 'Anti-Hoodoo and Voodoo Squad', as they called their Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, could come remove the lingering wards and remove any trace of magic from the site.
Quite satisfied that he'd solved the puzzle, he chatted affably with the elderly woman he'd thought was a nanny, but who was actually somebody's grandmother, while she served dinner to the children. A tiny black kitten had climbed up onto the table and was sniffing the plates.
"Smells good," Dumbledore said, taking an appreciative whiff over the pot. "What is it?"
"Oh, it's just Son of a Bitch Stew."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You just throw some son of a bitch into the pot and cook him until you can't tell what he was." She reached over to the table and casually picked up the kitten. "You want me to throw something in the pot for you?"
"Oh, no, that won't be necessary, I shan't be staying. But thank you," he said hastily.
"Grandmama, I do believe Mr. Dumbledore thinks you might put that kitten in the stew," said Morticia.
"Oh, gracious, no," said Grandmama, to the great relief of Dumbledore, who had been thinking that very thing. Then, just as he was beginning to relax, she said, "He's way too small yet." She tucked the kitten into a basket near the pantry door.
Dumbledore decided that leaving would be a good idea. "Mrs Addams, you said you'd show me the grounds?"
The grounds were that same unsettling mix of the expected and the outré. There were formally planted beds at the front of the house and more cottage style plantings to the sides, where plants that were commonly used in magic grew side by side with ordinary, though oddly coloured, garden plants. Behind the house, the land sloped down to a small bog, which Morticia said contained a number of rare plants, and then the land rose into the forested slopes of the Watchung Mountain Reservation. And to the north, at the bottom of the hill on which the house was built, a family graveyard. The predominant name on the stones was Addams, though that was not exclusive. The family had owned the house for some time, then. That clashed with something else he'd been thinking earlier, but he was getting increasingly tired. He'd think about it later, when his mind was clearer.
The sun was setting behind the mountains as Morticia led him to a moss-covered, free-standing crypt in the centre of the graveyard. "This is the crypt of Charles Felonius Addams, the founder of our line. He devoted his life to the Family, as, of course, do we. Observe his motto, carved over the lintel of his tomb. Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatus nunc. Not just pretty words, Mr Dumbledore. Harry Potter is safe with us. The Family always protects its own." She turned to face him, and in the gathering dark her dark eyes seemed black and bottomless, like Snape's. "I must go help Grandmama put the children to bed. I trust you can see yourself out."
And then she disappeared into the shadows, leaving Dumbledore standing among the carved stones, contemplating the words of the motto that had disappeared in the darkness.
A/N1: I've taken some, er, "liberties" with the geography of Westfield, New Jersey. The house on which Charles Addams (whose middle name was not Felonius, but might have appreciated the joke) modelled the Family's home is located in the middle of a pleasant (and very expensive!) neighbourhood. I've moved it closer to the Watchung Mountain Reservation, which is one of the major sources of weirdness in New Jersey (the other is the Pine Barrens, the home of the Jersey Devil). Arcanum Hall is located in the centre of Westfield, and I have no idea what anybody does in there, but it seemed a logical place to have a Portkey terminus. The Second Empire style of house dates back to the 1850's, and Albus Dumbledore was born ca. 1840. The Family still keeps much of the house in its historical state, so Dumbledore didn't see it as being as "unusual" as Petunia did.
A/N2: From the movie, the Addams Family motto is translated as "We gladly feast on those who would subdue us." Morticia presumes that Dumbledore, as an old-fashioned Headmaster, will be familiar with Latin.
A/N3: I know we haven’t seen much of Harry yet, but come on, he’s only two! Stay tuned for the next chapter, "Growing up Addams".