You don't like me walk away.

Harry found more room to breathe, when he scooted closer to the edge of the couch. He tried not to invade Hermione's personal space by crossing his legs and squeezing himself into the corner.

Harry was puzzled. "You have a job??" the boy asked Fred.

"He works at The Mooncalf," Hermione stated.

Ron whipped his head at the frizzy haired girl. "How d'you know?" he demanded, before he turned to his other best friend. "Is that true?" he sought.

"Beats me," Harry shrugged.

Hermione is baffled by their collective surprise. "I've seen him there," she said.

Fred nodded from his seat. His arm was pitched atop the other armrest and his pointed chin sat in his coarse palm. "Yeah, I work as a server," Fred confirmed leisurely.

"And he's saving up for something big!" George teased with a big smile.

Fred snorted with displeasure, "Shut up."

"A broom?" Ron suggested.

"He keeps a little jar of coins on the windowsill," George enthusiastically described, miming the flat structure of the shelf and cupping his hand to mimic the container of money.

"It's good to be financially responsible," Hermione approved. "Especially when you guys are considering becoming entrepreneurs."

George shook his head. "Oh, no, Hermione," he rejected. "Fred's made it explicitly clear to me that these funds aren't going to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes; this is a more personal endeavor..."

The Gryffindor girl raised her thinly plucked brows. "Are you thinking about attending university?"

Ron laughed. "As if!" he crudely reacted, earning him a scowl from Hermione. He crumpled up the empty bag of popcorn and discarded it onto the table. A few un-popped kernels rattled inside like a maraca.

"Well?" Harry pressured, leaning forward attentively.

"Fred?" George egged on.

"Nothing special," Fred retorted indifferently.

Ron gawked at the twin. "He's hiding something!" Ron gasped, pointing a pale finger.

"He's not obligated to tell us!" Hermione said.

Ron accused, "Because he knows he'll get in trouble for it!" He whispered suspiciously, "Are you doing drugs?"

Fred was appalled and offended. "I am NOT!" he defended earnestly. "It's nothing like that!"

"One could say that love is a drug," George proposed.

"WHAT?!" Ron and Harry screeched.

"Fred's got a girlfriend?" Harry implied lightheartedly.

Ron launched himself off of the long sofa. "No way!" he exclaimed in disbelief.

Fred rose to his feet. "No, I don't," he denied, rolling his eyes at their theatrics. He smacked the back of George's head and glared at his conniving brother.

Hermione sighed, plastering her hand to her forehead. "God, just leave him alone!"

"George," Ron addressed impishly. "What do you know that you're not telling us?"

George shrugged, rubbing his stinging nape. "There's a lot of things," George prepositioned wickedly, claiming the now empty armchair. "For one, did you know that Fred has a green thumb?"

"But he hates herbology," said Ron, as Fred headed towards the Boys' Dormitory. He craned his neck to watch the tall boy disappear up the stairs. "Where're you going?" Ron shouted.

"My shift starts in an hour," Fred replied, dragging his hand along the smooth railing bar. "Gotta get ready."

The Mooncalf’s To-Do Before Opening List was fairly easy and simple. Wipe down tables, roll up silverware, arrange the placemats, sweep, repeat. Tasks naturally added themselves on throughout the day and especially during the lunch rush, but the chores will split amongst the staff (thank Merlin for that). Polly always gave Fred something easy to do in the morning, this time, he was sanitizing the tables. 

No magical jazz band played in the background, but the squeals of chairs scrapping against the floor and the chatter in the kitchen acted as The Mooncalf’s soundtrack. They accompanied Fred modestly, as he sprayed down the matte tables and wiped them off with a small towel. His arm swept from left to right and in circular motions; Fred moved onto cleaning the next section. 

These mundane routines bore Fred to death. First few shifts, he had accidentally dozed off a few times, until he found a method of staying alert: humming.

People might've assumed he was a lunatic with the constant mumbling, nodding, and foot tapping (if Polly didn't want to charm the trumpet or cello to play a tune before opening, then Fred will imagine one himself).

Fred slowly drawled out, occasionally bopping his head along, "Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts, teach us something please..."

The entry bell chimed. Fred didn't look up-- it could've been Michael or the repairman (the employee bathroom's sink was broken), so he moved the salt and pepper shakers out of his way, and the cleaning spray coughed another wave of alcoholic solution. "Whether we be old and bald, or young with scabby knees!"

Wipe wipe wipe wipe wipe.

“You’re in a patriotic mood today.”

“Huh?” Fred looked up and found you observing him stoically. He stopped cleaning. “Thanks for covering me yesterday,” he blurted graciously, casting aside the towel.

“Of course,” you curtly replied. “How was the game?”

Fred lit up like a bulb. The ginger boy tutted his tongue, “We wouldn’t have won if it weren’t for Katie.” He paused for momentary consideration and leaned against a table. “You really should come to at least one match. It’s your last year," Fred commentated.

Your eyes were devoid of any concrete feedback Fred could gather. Your expression remained blank. “I’ll consider it,” you said noncommittally, turning your head keenly. "How's the plant?"

"Good," Fred reassured. "I've dried some of the petals. George and I are gonna experiment with recipes when we've got time."

Fred saw you contemplate your next words. Your gaze went askance, almost honing in on the lint on his shoulder or the stitches of his collar.

"My Uncle Fester is getting married next week," you reported.

"Oh," Fred said. That's a weird name. He licked his dry lips, unsure how to proceed. "Congratulations?" Fred offered sheepishly. "Sorry you have to miss it...?"

You corrected his assumption. "My parents contacted Dumbledore to excuse my absence."

"Oh... that's nice..."

"Come as my plus one."

Fred blinked. "Sorry what?" he clucked.

"Excuse me," you cringed, pausing to recollect your thoughts. Your nostrils huffed as if you were a bull ready to charge. "Would you like to attend my uncle's wedding... with me?"

His mouth hung slightly agape, ready to catch a fly. "Huh?" Fred dumbly mused.

A sassy glare penetrated Fred's palpitating heart. "I know you heard me the first time," you deadpanned, balling up your hands.

What a sudden and demanding invitation! Fred couldn't begin to unravel the implications of such an offer.

"I don't know," Fred admitted, staring at the soft curve of your cheek (it looked a little... pink? Can someone like you even blush?).

"We'd leave Saturday morning. The ceremony is Sunday night; we'll only miss Monday classes."

"Uhhh," Fred pursed his lips. It's rather short notice, he complained internally.

But I get a chance to leave school... a weekend expedition was extremely tempting, but that implied Fred would need to get a few days ahead of his homework-- and that was just so much planning!

Would Mum be mad if I missed a day?

It's a wedding! She'd understand.

Free food, a party, you... fuck it.

"Sure, I'll go," Fred decided.

The faint corners of your lips twitched, almost threatening your stolid face with a smile. "Don't bring a gift; I'll say mine is from the both of us."

Fred's mouth formed a thin line of skepticism. "What is it though?"

"Taxidermy rats getting married."

Oh.

"That's," Fred gulped. DEAD RATS? "Nice," Fred mustered as politely as possible.

"I got it at the bazaar."

The sarcastic eye-roll couldn't be contained. "I'm surprised," Fred mocked before crossing his arms. "I told you you should've worked there instead," he reminded you.

Your chin dipped downwards like an apple bobbing in the water. "Both places have pros and cons."

Fred was going to meet the infamous Addams family. He tossed a bundle of socks into his suitcase. Your infamous family! Fred thought, ripping a shirts off their hangers. He'd only be gone two days, but it's better to be prepared, right? Just in case someone spills wine on him? Or if there's heinous deodorant stains? Fred's already packed a week's worth of underwear...

"I already watered it this morning," Fred said to his twin, as he flung open the drawers to his wardrobe, trying to pluck out a decent looking button-up (why in Merlin's whimsical world were all of his clothes so... Fred looking?). "So you only need to water it tomorrow, okay?" Fred added, holding up an ivory formal shirt to the light. He turned it around, carefully inspecting for missing buttons, holes or broken seams. This one's good, Fred concluded, folding it up for his suitcase.

"Aye, captain," George nodded, giving him an informal salute. "Won't let you down," the redhead promised, slowly creeping up on Fred. He peered around the tall canopy bed post and scanned the mismatched pile of clothes accumulating on Fred's bed. Barely half were deemed "sophisticated" enough for a wedding.

Fred pulled out a pair of ink black Oxford shoes from his withering chest. He checked the soles, rubbed his thumb along the leather toes and eyed the dark insides. He sighed. "Can I borrow your dance shoes?" Fred asked, returning them to the chest. "Mine are all scuffed from the Yule Ball."

George shrugged, "Sure, man." By the time George motioned to the steam trunk sitting at the end of his own bed, Fred was already rummaging through it like a raccoon. "But who the hell gets married in November?"

"The Addams apparently," Fred answered, stuffing George's shoes into his suitcase.

"I cannot believe you said yes," George quipped. "You know, Ron thinks he's never gonna see you again-- that you're gonna get eaten by a cyclops or something. Maybe trapped in a mirror's reflection."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Fred grumbled, patting down his packed clothes to make room for his bagged toiletries (toothbrush, paste, comb, hair gel, soap, the usual).

"Well, I hope you have fun as her date," George snickered, puckering and smacking his lips to make obnoxious kissing noises.

"Plus one," Fred fervently corrected, closing the toggle latches of his luggage.

"DaaAAAAAaate," George sang back. He cupped his cheek with one hand as the other twisted his hair around a nimble finger. He dramatically sighed and spoke in a high-pitched voice: "Oh, I just can't wait to have Fred Weasley as my date to my uncle's wedding!"

"Shut it!"

"I hope Fred Weasley asks me to dance! Then I can pretend to fall and have him catch me with his big muscular arms!" George turned around, hugged himself tightly. He passionately kissed the air.

"For Merlin's sake, George!" Fred pushed him, trying to knock him out of the childish stupor.

George squealed, staggering on his feet. "Ooh la la!" the boy caroled, pushing his twin with twice as much force.

Fred's back collided into a bedpost. He surrendered to the physical charade, watching as George began to dance around the room, hopping and twirling like a maniac. George occasionally grabbing Fred's arm and pulling him into spins.

"How are you so annoying?!" Fred snapped, when George grabbed his shoulders.

George happily ignored the very rhetorical question. "It's been a while since you practiced your foxtrot," he commented instead. George grabbed Fred's stiff hand and placed his other on Fred's waist, blissfully gliding him around the dorm. "Can't have my brother looking like a fool in front of the Addams."

"My brother is looking like one right now!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist!" George spat back snootily. "I'll water your bloody plant, get a start on your homework, and fix up the chocolates. You'll be thanking me for all my hard work once you get back!"

"Yes yes, what a great person you are-- now, let go!" Fred ripped himself away and snatched up his suitcase. "I'm gonna be late!" he exclaimed, grabbing "his" leather bomber jacket (it belonged to Bill, but landed in Fred's possession, because Bill had a "real" job and could afford newer clothes). Fred zipped up the coat and gave himself a rundown in the mirror: matching socks, decent shoes--

"You look fine, Ashputtel; it's not like the wedding's today." George was immediately 'shh-ed' before being pulled into a hasty side-hug. George smiled at the effort. "Have fun," George said, letting Fred go.

"Thanks, mate," Fred called out, as he disappeared into the corridor. George listened to his footsteps scurry, stop, and then dash back to the room like lightning. George sighed, seeing Fred poke his head back in. "Water it once--,"

"Great gargoyles!" George gasped. "I know! Just leave already!"

The trees are all naked in Hogsmeade. The sky is overcast and there’s a peculiar chill in the air, devouring the usual luster the townsfolk carried. There’s no need to haggle at the marketplace (because they’ve closed up shop for the impending winter), there’s no competition over the greenest lawn or most beautiful garden; everybody’s more keen on staying inside as long, as it’s disgustingly cloudy. 

Fred knew it was gonna be dreadfully bleak the next few weeks. The United Kingdom had abysmal weather compared to its “mainland” neighbors, but that was why the Addams had moved across the sea to Europe. For the terrible weather.

To quote you specifically, you had shared that “the British Isles had the most intoxicatingly gloomy disposition” that drew your eccentric parents in. 

“Why stay in New England for its secondhand features when you can go straight to the depressing source?” — you in potions the other day. 

Fred had been SEVERELY appalled by everything you had said. Fred reminisced, We have so much more than shitty climate! With each heavy step, each second he was stressing his arm carrying the suitcase, he was growing more patriotic. Our Minister of Magic may be an imbecile, but Fudge doesn’t compare to whatever the hell’s happening in America! What a mess! 

Fred’s mentally and physically taxing journey came to an end as he neared a park. Crunchy brown leaf shells clustered around the mulch skirt of the skinny trees, and a gravel path circled around a large empty fountain, the centerpiece of this dead park. At the top of architectural feature was a stone statue of Hengist of Woodcroft, Hogsmeade’s medieval founder. During any other season, water would be spewing into the giant pool. 

A few people were strolling the rim of the park, holding hands or carrying hot drinks, chatting and laughing. You were sitting on the ledge of the fountain’s retaining wall, as still as the Hengist of Woodcroft statue, with a black traveling bag by your feet. He came close enough to see your initials embellished in silver on the leather front. 

If it weren’t for the long cape coat, he would’ve assumed you were immune to the cold. The white square cuffs of whatever you were wearing beneath poked out of the thin black sleeves, and your hands were politely clasped in your lap. Your ankles were crossed, back straight as a ruler, and judgmental eyes honed in on Fred’s approaching figure. 

Fred finally set his luggage down. “Not too late, am I?” Fred asked, hiding his hands in his pockets. 

You gave him a uniquely positive reaction. The head of your brows twitched and you approvingly blinked, as you craned your neck slightly upward. “Right on time actually,” you answered. “I told Lurch to warm up the car. I know you’re adverse to temperatures below 10 degrees.” 

Fred scoffed at such a claim. “Adverse?” he echoed, feeling ridiculed. He condemned your words with a point. “You’re wearing a jacket too,” he stated bluntly. 

“This,” you said, rising from the fountain. “Is a fashion statement.”

“What?” Fred snorted. The top of your elegantly styled head barely met his pointed chin. He crossed his arms, “Are you trying to scare me?” 

“No,” you flouted, stepping out of Fred’s shadow. “I’m getting Lurch’s attention,” you continued, staring straight past him. 

Fred’s face was a puzzle of confusion. “Lurch?” Fred repeated, warily turning around to find the largest man (besides Hagrid, he supposed) he ever laid eyes on. “Blimey,” he mumbled. 

“You called?” 

Fred tried not to marvel at this giant; his voice was so deep and hollow, it reminded him of a clocktower bell. Lurch’s hair was like straw, choppy and coarse; his cheeks were unfilled, eyes pushed into his pale skull with dark circles beneath them. He was a daunting man in a neat suit. 

“Lurch, take our bags to the car,” you ordered precisely. 

He grunted and bent down to grab them. His hands were like the scarred paws of a wild beast; Fred could see every blue and green vein beneath Lurch’s skin. 

“Thank you, Lurch.”

Fred continued to stare. “Th… thanks,” he idly gratified. 

Lurch gravelly groaned and began to walk away. For someone so big, Fred was anticipated for each footstep to cause the ground to quake and tremble with fear. Onlookers stopped in perturbed curiosity, whispering behind their hands at a loss for kind words to say. 

“Let’s go, Fred,” you directed calmly. Your small palm nudged the back of his arm, urging him to move on, but he was still in awe— in awe of that Lurch guy and in awe of you. 

Fred first assumed Hengist had animated himself. Perhaps the founding father possessed the erected stone statue in order to kick Fred Weasley out of his special park, but then Fred realized that Hengist of Woodcroft couldn’t be so gentle and soft— it was you. 

This was a first for Fred, because besides that awkward handshake in the Hospital Wing, you had never initiated contact first. You’d always been so confined in your little bubble; the only time he disturbed it was at the restaurant (when he was disturbing your shift by his nonstop chatter). Fred was under the impression that you’d let him drown in the Black Lake just to minimize all physical touch—

You drew your hand away, as soon as he turned to check. 

“Alright,” he agreed (with some secret disappointment). "Lead the way."

The inside of the Addams’ family car smelt faintly of embalming fluid and roses, which didn’t compliment each other at all. It was rather jarring actually, but you didn’t seem to mind. The interior was entirely black except for the most bizarre machinery at the front. 

Right where Lurch was sitting was a console with a million little buttons and dials with various symbols and letters (Fred could hardly make out what they said, since they were in such small print). And behind Lurch’s turning wheel were an assortment of glowing pictures and numbers. 

Lurch had driven them out of town through a sketchy road in the woods. There were two gearsticks sitting by the large flat armrest between the driver and passenger seat Fred noticed. The first one was set at a certain notch, but the second one was completely untouched. 

This was… fascinating. Fred couldn’t pull his eyes away from all the muggle technology. How did they come up with this?

If you don’t have magic, you might as well get a little creative, Fred answered to himself.

You and Fred occupied the window seats with one empty placement “separating” you two. There was a handle on the door, which Fred assume could open and close it, but there was also a little button next to it. What does that do? 

Fred hesitantly reached out to it, feeling his pointer finger run over the smooth surface. He gave you a quick glance to see if you were disapprovingly observing, but your focus was locked on the windscreen. 

He boldly pressed it and gasped. The glass pane was going down! He felt the wind gush into the car and immediately stopped. If he stuck his head out, it wouldn’t be ripped off right? Who was he kidding— he plays Quidditch! His limbs have never been torn apart by the elements, and this car was not as fast as his broom…

Fred poked his head out the window and felt the coldness rake through his hair and kiss his cheeks. Dad would love this, Fred noted. All these muggle inventions… Arthur Weasley would definitely lose his mind. 

Fred pulled himself back into the vehicle. “How do I make this go back up?” He asked, pointing at the open screen. 

“Pull the button upwards,” you replied. 

Fred revisited the area; he slid his finger into the small gap and pushed it slightly toward the ceiling— the glass was now going back up! Fred held his finger in the position for a few seconds until he was completely sure the window was properly closed. 

Fred could only see the back of your head; you must’ve been surveying the passing scenery too (but with less enthusiasm compared to Fred). 

“Would you like to listen to some music?” You asked him idly. “It’s a long ride.” 

“Music?” Fred looked around; there was no space for an instrument. “How?”

You kept watching the trees slowly thin out into a large clearing ahead, unfazed by his confusion. “We have CDs,” you told him. 

Fred made a face of bewilderment. “What??? Like the disease?” 

You stared at him. “You’re thinking of STDs,” you sighed, reaching for the chair pocket in front of you. Your seatbelt extended, and you pulled out a large binder. “I said ‘CDs,’ they’re a muggle invention that make music portable,” you clarified. 

Fred studied the way you unzipped the book and revealed a bunch of colorful circular discs tucked inside plastic sleeves. This must be magic. 

“How does it work…?” Fred scrutinized innocuously. 

“The car has a CD player. Each disc has a special microscopic engraving that the player reads and translates into sound,” you explained, flipping through the pages meticulously. “My parents mostly listen to opera, traditional and classical music.” 

You held out the thick book to him, and Fred methodically accepted it. They looked so thin; he was scared of cracking a disc. He laid it in his lap, as you had done, and started to look at the covers (rather bland in appearance; they seemed to be zoomed in portraits of the composer or of an orchestra. This didn’t impress Fred, as they didn’t seem to move). 

“Are you familiar with any of these titles?” You questioned, having failed to notice a positive reaction from Fred. 

He shook his head. Most of them appeared to be in Spanish or Italian; Fred sadly only spoke English and a little Welsh. “No, can’t say I am…” 

“I figured. Do wizards have a West End?”

Fred handed back the binder. “Yes, we do. We’ve got loads of musicals and whatnot.”

“I’m sure muggle productions cannot compare.” You shut the book and opened it from the back cover. The decorated CDs were more stylized and simple. To Fred, they were cartoonishly illustrated— he could probably find something similar in a children’s book. 

Lurch emitted a weighty groan, and his hand clasped the unused gearshift, slowly pushing it forward til it surpassed the first one. 

“Lurch says to hold on tight,” you translated effortlessly. 

“Um, why?” 

Before you could explain, the Addams’ car began to drive up an invisible ramp, gradually climbing higher and higher into the sky. Its new designated path wasn’t as smooth as driving on the ground had been, but Fred found he was being pushed back into his seat by gravity. Along came a few bumps and trembles that knocked his knees together and had Fred nervously grasping at the car seat for stability. 

Turbulence shook the locomotive, as Lurch cut them through a dense cloud. The high road was a precaution to eliminate possible muggle sightings, but eventually the car settled on a layer right above the blanket of weather and began to drive, or fly, normally. 

“I won’t subject you to 8 hours of classical music,” you graciously said. “I think you’d rip your ears off,” you joked. 

“I’d open the door and plummet to my death actually,” Fred amended with a boyish smirk. 

“We can take turns,” you compromised. “I will choose first,” you firmly resolved, as you carefully considered the musical discs. You wriggled one metallic plate from its protective pocket and held it out for Lurch to take. His sunken soulless eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, before he stretched his arm out and took the CD. 

From his perspective, Fred was only able to make out the cover to be black with white detailing. He was most intrigued by how this so-called “CD player” functioned, so he paid close attention, in case his father were to question about it. 

Lurch pressed a small rectangular button on the front console, and a thin compartment flap opened, pushing out a tiny tray the perfect size of the CD. Lurch placed it in, and the tray retracted into its main body. His rigid fingers click another button before adjusting a dial. 

DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN DUN DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNN. DUN DUN. DUN DUN DUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNN. 

It’s so loud! “Morgan’s crown!” Fred blabs, very taken aback by the organ’s sheer drama. “My dad would fucking love this!” 

“There are portable CD players. I’ll find one for you, if you’d like.” 

“Yes, I would!” Fred nodded enthusiastically— having one of his own would be splendid! He pointed at the knobs Lurch had touched before. “You can control the volume with those?” Fred deduced. 

You confirmed, “Yes. You can also skip songs and loop the tracks.” 

“Bloody hell! What’re we listening to right now?” 

“Phantom of the Opera.”

“Phantom of the Opera?” 

Eight hours had gone by, but he was only conscious for the first four, when they had also listened to Cabaret. This whole trip was… a fever dream. Meeting in the park… scary butlers… sewage phantoms… lunch in Scotland…

Bloody hell. Not only was Fred’s neck stiff and sore from sleeping against the window, there was a small red spot on his forehead where he was pressed up. He tenderly rubbed his aching muscles, and he’d awoken to find that it was dark outside… very very dark outside. 

A horror novel’s worm-eaten pages projected into real life— that’s what this was. Fred anticipated the hollow call of a distant werewolf or a banshee’s blood curdling scream behind them, but there were only owls and skittish deer, watching. Barren forest shrouded them from the inky sky, but the headlights illuminated everything Fred needed to see: a sketchy country road and— MERLIN’S BEARD!

Fred sat up and pressed his cheek against the window once more, because just up ahead was the most intimidating of gothic houses, no, mansion, Fred Weasley ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. Hundreds of mullioned windows were lit up with chimneys spewing out white smoke. Poles sat on the roof waving about flags and balconies to overlook the vast courtyard. 

Everything was so… symmetrical and square. Fred was mildly peeved by this, because how can something so grand exist? All this wealth… clumped up in a building, when the money could’ve been spent somewhere else… 

But it was very beautiful. 

“You… you live here?” Fred queried with wavering awe. 

The car stopped in the long driveway, and Lurch was the first to exit the vehicle. He made his way around to your side and opened the door. 

“Yes.” You unbuckled your seatbelt and slowly climbed out. White gravel crunched beneath your black soles. “We have lots of family to house,” you added, bending down to see him. Once your eyes met for a moment, you straightened and slammed the car door. 

And I thought my family was big. Fred turned to peer out the window, but he found the Addams’ residence was entirely eclipsed by Lurch’s large build. He clamored to unclasp his seatbelt, as Lurch unhurriedly opened his side door. 

Fred’s breath escaped his mouth like mist. “Thanks,” he mumbled to the butler, who only groaned in acknowledgment. 

Fred awkwardly watched the butler open the trunk, but as soon as his uncertainty crossed his mind, your voice immediately cut through. 

“Lurch will take our things in,” you informed Fred. 

You sounded… distant. Fred turned towards the direction of your sound; you were distant, paces and paces ahead of him. 

Fred lightly jogged to catch up. “I doubt Malfoy could compete with you,” Fred commented. 

“He’s a ninny as British people say,” you retorted wittily. “I could buy his estate with my allowance,” you lowly remarked, as you both hiked up the stone stairs. 

Fred was gagged. 

The front entrance of the Addams’ home was shielded by a large armorial. Fred could tell it was extravagantly painted even in the darkness, but he found a few... oddities. A three headed lion shrouded in gold crowns appeared to represent the family. One head was pictured in the midst of a roar, another tight-lipped, and the last eating a foot. Fred stopped and craned his neck; there was a large ribbon situated beneath the fierce mammal. 

Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc.

“We gladly feast on those who would subdue us,” you translated, reading Fred’s curiosity. You watched his side profile subtly contort with unreadable emotion. “Father installed it right after we moved in,” you added, reminiscing in its first grand reveal. Although the weather was far from perfect (a rare sunny day in England), it was a spectacular display of commitment and love. “He’s very proud.”

“That’s… nice,” Fred nodded, somewhat touched by the sentiment. 

“Addams take it to heart.” You were satisfied by Fred’s compliment. “Or what’s left of one,” you ominously added, striding towards the wreath covered doors. 

The entrance was decorated with garlands of clean animal vertebrae and beheaded rose bundles. Inside was a loud ruckus; Fred heard ceramics being smashed, inhumane screams and the scrapping of chairs, but he found there was also epic music, laughter and applause. 

Fred Weasley was going to meet the Addams. 

The acid of Fred’s stomach washed up to his dry throat, as your small hand grabbed the silver lever handle. He dug his heels into the smooth ground (no use, by the way), and you pushed the bar downward.

“Wait!” 

Fred grabbed your wrist and you froze like a sculpture. Fred, on the other hand, was a deer in headlights. Your beaming eyes could’ve turned yellow, and he wouldn’t have noticed, because the weight of your gaze was… threatening. He gulped; his clever humor and boyishly charming guise had abandoned him on your doorstep. 

As he clumsily lets go of your wrists, your arm falls to your side and you turn perfectly ninety degrees to face him. His cheeks devoid themselves of blood and confidence; Fred deflated like a balloon at the sight of your precise attention. 

You neither raised a brow nor frowned at his abashed nature. “What is it?” You asked the tormented Fred. 

He scrunched his brows like trampled caterpillars. “This... this feels weird,” he admitted, as his lips crumpled into trepidation. 

“Why are you nervous?” 

“I don’t think I belong here,” Fred explained with a shrug. He gestured around the mansion with his shoulders. “This is some high society bullshit.”

“We’re not part of any society. We prefer isolation.” 

Fred rolled his eyes. “I’m meeting your parents,” he spat out angrily. “I’ve never had to meet anyone’s parents before.” 

You snickered, and he almost popped a blood vessel. You shouldn’t giggle at my pain! You don’t even laugh at my jokes!

“It’s not funny!” Fred reprimanded, jabbing a calloused finger in your vague direction. “I’m— I’m being vulnerable and honest right now!” He cried out. 

“You’re being nervous,” you rectified impertinently. "About meeting my parents.”

He seethed with a nod, “Yes! Yes, I am!”

You didn’t understand his frustration. “They’re harmless,” you indulged aloud. 

Your oblivious ignorance baffled him; he scoffed at your ill-fitting reassurance. “Are they?” He rhetorically prattled. He pointed at the three-headed lion stalking them above. “We eat those that subdue us???” Fred paraphrased emphatically. 

“They’re too obsessed with each other to be perceived as threatening or dangerous. You’re being ridiculous,” you argued. “You know, their bedroom walls are padded to be soundproof.”

His cold cheeks started to fill up with color. “Oh, gross—!” Fred gagged. “You didn’t have to tell me that!” 

You slyly smiled at his embarrassment. “It eased the tension, didn’t it?” You inferred by his newly flustered state. “Fred. Let’s go inside,” you soothingly pressured. You pointed at Lurch, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Lurch is waiting for this debacle to be done with. And you’re hungry. I can hear your stomach.” 

“Shut up.” 

The foyer was a ginormous hall that broke into several corridors to the right, left, and front of where you and Fred stood. You didn’t allow Fred the time to marvel at the chandelier, at the harlequin patterned floors, or at the two grand staircases arching around the splendid antique table (which hoisted up the biggest potted Venus flytrap he’d ever seen). Candelabras were everywhere; it was a huge fire hazard, but you didn’t seem to mind that or the fact everything had a thin blanket of dust.

Once inside, Fred managed to locate all the commotion to be leaking from the east wing. Its hallway was dimly lit with eerie spiderwebs crawling down the ceiling and flickering electric lights. There was the faintest of groans to the floorboards, and the smell of tobacco smoke and charcoal was growing more apparent with each step. The amount of rooms were plentiful, but the ones you and Fred needed to be in were at the very end of the hallway. 

Gated by large French doors, the celebration was split between two drawing rooms, one more profoundly decorated in coal black and the other glamorously furnished in… obsidian black. Both rooms were bustling with people; there was a clang of sword fighting, gunshot pops, champagne sizzles, and the moaning reed organ. 

A man, tense in the shoulders and partially hunched in the back, exited the Obsidian Room. He was very bald and even more pale with purple circles beneath his electric blue eyes. 

You call out to him, “Uncle Fester!”

The man stops in the intersection between the two rooms and stares at you and Fred, mouth gaping with surprise. “You finally made it!” He exclaims in a voice Fred could only compare to that of a wet sponge being squeezed. Uncle Fester raised his arms in excitement like a demented seal. “Almost thought you couldn’t come,” he admitted. 

“There were…” you dared to pause and side eye Fred’s antsy stature. “Some setbacks,” you finished with a lazy drawl. 

Uncle Fester turned to an agonizingly blushed Fred. It was an unmistakable jab to his ego… but your sweet old uncle extends his arm out for a handshake and

Zzzp!

“Ouch!” Fred ripped away from Fester and blew on his stinging palm. He’d been zapped but— Fred looked at your uncle’s mischievous smirk and his bare hand. “How’d you do that?” Fred wondered aloud. 

“Wandless magic. Neat trick, huh?” Uncle Fester quipped proudly. 

Fred agreed, “Wicked.”

Uncle Fester sniffled with recognition (like how a dog recognizes a familiar person). “Weasley, right?” Fester scratched the side of his bald head, “I think I met your brother in Romania.”

Charlie? Fred viewed it as a strange coincidence. “Really? What were you doing there?” He inquired. 

“I’ve traveled through Europe a few times,” Fester replied. He waved it off bashfully with a bone white hand. The man wistfully sighed at the memory and said, “I’m a wanted fugitive in nine countries.”

“Twelve,” you corrected plainly.

Uncle Fester shrugged. “Twelve,” he adjusted, while longingly staring up at the ceiling. His dazed attention was pulled back down to earth by your cough. He looked at you and Fred. “You guys must be hungry,” he said, inserting himself between you two. He nudged you guys into the Coal Black Room. “We have some light snacks before dinner.”

Even after meeting your bizarre uncle, Fred was still surprised to find that your other relatives and family friends carried the same… eccentricity. There was a woman— or maybe two women, Fred wasn’t sure, because they were conjoined, dancing with a faceless man. He was dressed very dapper, but right where there should’ve been two eyes, a nose and lips, there was only a smooth mound of flesh. They were dancing so wildly that Fred was surprised they hadn’t bumped into the other guests. 

By the gramophone (which was playing the most peculiar of music) was a woman with the biggest head he’d ever seen. Why, it looked like a balloon! It didn’t help that she styled her hair into a beehive, which only accentuated the largeness! She was speaking to an incredibly tall woman; if the Balloon Head Lady craned her neck back further, she would surely topple over… 

The fireplace was situated at the far end, blazing high, as a man with a pig nose tossed in another log. On the mantle were a bunch of baubles and memorabilia like snow globes, ships in bottles, tambour mantel clocks, skulls… 

Hopefully those are purely decorations. 

Right above the fireplace was a massive family portrait encased in a dark wooden frame exactly to your likeness. Your mother, dressed in a glittering skin-tight gown, was sat in a peacock chair; she was carrying an infant child, as you and your brother were posed beside each armrest. Your father stood directly behind you, with a hand on your shoulder, and the other clasping a shiny sabre. You were probably a preteen in the painting, but the dullness in your eyes and the flyaways by your ears stayed the same. 

Uncle Fester brought you guys to a long rectangular table cloaked in dark linen. There was a bubbling champagne tower, strawberry lemonade and green punch (which was foaming and a radioactive shade). Whether it was even edible, Fred didn’t know. There were regular hors d’oeuvres (to Fred’s much needed benefit): stuffed mushrooms, deviled eggs, pinwheels… mostly savory items. Fred was pleased by this selection, and once you grabbed a glass, he felt safe enough to copy. 

“Try the eggs,” Fester encouraged delightfully. He snatched a cylindrical slice and tossed it into his mouth. “Sooo good,” he mumbled. 

“Punch?” You asked Fred, as you poured yourself a cup of the strange green liquid. 

“No, thanks,” he replied, getting a ladle full of pink lemonade instead. He noticed you were quite pleased, when you took an initial sip of the punch; your tense brow muscles relaxed, and Fred grew curious about the drink’s taste. 

“Oh, look who we have here,” a soothing voice drawled teasingly. 

Fred turned around and GULPING GARGOYLES! She’s bald! AND THAT OTHER THING IS JUST HAIR! 

Uncle Fester dreamily cooed at the sight of the woman, “The belle of the ball.” He pulled her in and kissed her sickly pale cheek. 

Fred was aghast by this display of affection; they were practically twins: BLUE EYES, DARK CIRCLES— THE ONLY DIFFERENCE IS SHE WEARS LIPSTICK AND IS A WOMAN! He tried his hardest to be nonchalant, but his jaw was hanging WAY below its usual place. 

Fred couldn’t even get started on comprehending the second approaching guest. It was just a tall being made entirely out of hair. HAIR. From the top of its head to the floor, golden brown locks just dragged everywhere it went whilst wearing extremely dark circular sunglasses and a bowler hat. IT WAS A GIANT WALKING MOP.

Uncle Fester giggled sweetly, as he gazed upon the woman. They both stared longingly into each other’s eyes for some time, and Fred saw you inching away uncomfortably. 

“May I introduce my bride-to-be, Dementia?” Fester rhetorically chided. 

Dementia held out her skinny hand for Fred to take, which he did without a second thought (luckily he wasn’t zapped again). He shook her hand, and then noticed the ring on her dainty black-painted finger. It was absolutely massive. The silver band resembled a snake with all its tiny scales and shifty eyes, but in its unhinged jaw was a giant ruby. 

Go big or go home, I guess, Fred thought as he politely let go. “Congratulations,” he said to Dementia. 

“And Cousin Itt,” Fester said, gesturing to the hairy being . 

“.bɘɿᖷ ,uoy ƚɘɘm oƚ ɘɔin ƨ'ƚI” 

Fred’s hand shot up to his ear, as Cousin Itt’s voice was so shrill and nonsensical that Fred presumed he was going crazy. Or had an insane case of tinnitus. Either way, he was grateful that Itt didn’t notice. 

Fred decided to play it safe. “Hello,” he respectfully responded. 

The tall hairy being turned to you and in an unintelligible high-pitched voice remarked, “¿miʜ ɘʞil uoy ob yʜW? .bɿɒwʞwɒ oƨ ƨ'ɘH”

Based on your reaction to Cousin Itt, which was punitive silence, as you continued to drink that green stuff, Fred concluded that it was… an unfavorable statement. 

Cousin Itt intrigued Fred most of all the Addams. Of whose side was Itt related to? What gender was Itt? Are there eyeballs behind those sunglasses? And how are people understanding Itt? 

“¿bɘɿɒɔƨ oƨ ʞool ɘʜ ƨɘob yʜW?”

Uncle Fester patted the area that would be Cousin Itt’s shoulder. He sighed loudly and scolded Itt, “Stop teasing the boy!”

“Huh?” THEY WERE TALKING ABOUT ME? Fred realized. He whispered to you, “What’d Itt say?” 

“Nothing important,” you blandly answered, as Dementia and Fester began to shoo Cousin Itt away.

“On with you!” Dementia cried out happily, pushing Cousin Itt lightly on the back, away from you and Fred.

Itt continued chattering to which Uncle Fester tried to shun, until the trio was distracted by the Faceless Man, who was somehow engaging them in conversation… Fred only knew this, because where his lips should be, there was a weird contraction of muscles beneath the smooth skin. It was freakish to watch (Fred had honestly lost his appetite), but Fred couldn’t help it, until you broke him out of his brief spell by saying: 

“They’re acting stranger than usual.” 

Fred sat in the thought for a moment. He recalled all the times he and George had invited Lee or Alicia to his house and all the times his Mum would make such a big fuss over them. Fred chuckled— one time, when George and he were maybe 10, Lee was sleeping over during the summer holiday; they cleaned out the attic and played knights and dragons up there.

Forts were made from stacked up boxes, caves out of pitched blankets and beautiful princesses out of whatever was left (Lee and George could fight over Guinevere the beautiful coat stand, but Fred would have Helen the faux pine tree to himself). Lee, George, and Fred were actually knights trained under Merlin the stuffed hippogriff, but their ambitions had caused them astray from their brotherhood (imaginary play was very intense). 

Mum kept popping in, asking if they’d like any snacks or a cold drink since it was so stuffy and hot up there… she always showed up at the worst times possible; Lee was running around carrying Guinevere, and Mum screeched, afraid he’d poke an eye out. Merlin was close to dying from the bubonic plague once… Lee, George and Fred had gathered around his deathbed, listening ardently to his last words, and Mum thought they were talking to a ghost. 

“I think that’s how families are when your friend is over,” Fred reassured humbly. “My mum gets a little obsessed with my friends,” he joked. 

You grabbed a black napkin square and carefully took a squishy stuffed mushroom between your pointer and thumb. “Perhaps she’d get along with mine,” you said before taking a considerate bite. You swallowed the garlic and sweet cream cheese. “My mother is... always lurking in the doorways.” You shoved the remaining mushroom piece into your mouth. “Speak of the she-devil,” you whispered, as an elegant woman glided towards you. 

Your mother had the rare rapturing kind of beauty: unearthly and uncanny. Her skin had the same luster as a pearl. There was a soft curl at the ends as the tresses fell to her hip and a Cheshire Cat-like smile on her blood red lips. Her face was so pleasant to look at; her eyes were swiped with kohl and there was a certain glow to them. 

“Ahh, you must be the one and only Fred Weasley…”

Yes… yes, I am.

Fred was in a trance. Her voice was so… mythical. The alluring cadence was similar to a siren’s, but it wasn’t just that he was distracted by.

“Mother,” you addressed her. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Addams,” he absentmindedly greeted. 

“Please, you can call me Morticia,” she delightfully offered. The champagne glass she was holding stirred subtly. Her piercing dark eyes languidly raked themselves over you, before she turned to Fred, amused. “We’ve heard a lot about you,” Morticia said glamorously. 

“Good things, I hope,” Fred responded, trying to regain his usual charm. Not that he was trying to charm your mum or anything; he just wanted to make a good first impression… despite the whole Potions fight thing…

Morticia shook her head with a sigh. “Horrid things,” she clarified, lifting her chin delicately. “I hear you’re an aspiring entrepreneur; just like my husband. Very respectable business. It takes great courage and audacity to compete with other well-established companies.” 

A little backhanded but okay… 

“What does your husband do?” Fred asked her. 

“Many things, dear, but right now, he’s prioritizing being Uncle Fester’s best man,” Morticia fondly retorted. She took a dainty sup out of her champagne and simpered coyly. 

Fred saw it as an amiable notion; your father was a family-orientated man by the sounds of Morticia. He didn’t mean to compare, for you were nothing like Draco Malfoy, but your home was so fabulously exquisite (despite the taste being… mildly peculiar), and the Addams’ fortune must’ve stemmed from something dark and twisted. To live in a place like this, Fred pondered, it’s gotta be shady business. 

Morticia looked around her home, as if she was taking it in for the first time. “It is,” Morticia answered knowingly. 

Fred squinted curiously. “Huh?” 

“We Addams deal in shady business,” Morticia smirked.

Oh, what the fuck?

“I, uhh, um—,”

“You were thinking it, weren’t you?” Morticia razzed. She pursed her lips and lifted a thinly plucked brow. “I’m quite proficient in reading body language; there was a malicious sparkle in your eye,” your mother explained. 

You huffed at her mischief. “That’s a lie,” you objected. “She’s a Legilimens.”

Oh. Oh no.

Morticia scoffed with lighthearted vexation. “Darling,” she frowned. “You spoil all my fun.”

“If Fred wants something to be known, then he’ll say it. Stop invading his mind, Mother.”

“I see you’ve gotten better at Occlumency,” Morticia observed slyly. Fred blushed crimson, as the woman then looked him up and down thoroughly. “I didn’t realize that plant was for you.”

Your foot scrapped the floor loudly. “Mother,” you peeved, glaring at her sloping side profile. 

“I thought my daughter’s green thumb was finally showing,” Morticia continued with a pitiful sigh. “Alas, my efforts bare no fruit,” she added, keenly ignoring you. She raised her empty hand and waved someone over. “Let me introduce you to my husband.” She called out to the room, “Gomez!” 

Your father was… short. Gomez’s hair was parted and gelled down the middle; his face was clean shaven, if one disregarded the pencil mustache above his upper lip (which pinched a fat lit cigar). 

Gomez took out his cigar and blew out faint smoke. “Old sport!” He shouted grandly, sticking out his hand. “Is that what you folks say here in England?” Gomez asked, as Fred accepted the handshake. 

Fred shook his head. “Not particularly.”

Gomez was only visibly disappointed for a second, but his grasp on Fred’s hand tightened, and he enthusiastically shook it harder. “You’ve got a good grip, boy,” he grinned. 

“Thanks?”

He finally released the ginger from the handshake. “What do your parents do, Fred?”

“My father works for the Ministry of Magic—,”

“A politician!” Gomez yelped, grabbing Morticia’s arm. She sympathetically patted his hand and pouted. 

“No,” Fred soon denied. “Not exactly.”

Gomez was relieved to hear the rejection. He let go of his wife and pressed a tan hand over his thumping heart. He weakly chuckled, “Oh, that’s good. Politicians are tricky people.” 

“Yeah, fair enough,” Fred agreed with a shrug. The Addams seemed rather goodnatured to Fred; they possessed a humorous quality he couldn’t quite describe without saying ‘funny.’ A wave of pride overwhelmed Fred. “My dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office,” he said. 

“A very respectable position. There are dangerous and suspicious people out there,” Gomez nodded approvingly. Your father wiggled his finger at Fred, motioning for the boy to lend him his ear, as Gomez leaned in. “Be very careful around these parts,” Gomez whispered. 

“Especially around this one,” Morticia said, placing a light hand on your shoulder. “She’s a very suspicious character.” 

“Mother,” you scolded. 

BOOOOONNNNNNG. 

Fred gawked at the sight of Uncle Fester standing atop an ottoman. “Merlin’s beard!” Fred gasped, as the man banged the large gong in his hand once more.

BOOONNNNNNNNNNG.

“Dinner is ready!” Uncle Fester proclaimed. Dementia hopped onto the ottoman, and he passed the gong to her. 

She whacked the mallet against the golden disc. 

BOOOOOOONNNNNNNG.

“Please make your way to the Dining Hall!” Dementia screeched. 

Fred definitely needed to book an appointment with a doctor after this wedding. He doubted his hearing would leave unscathed from all this loud nonsense. 

All the guests in their strange fancy-pants glory persisted in their bubbly chatter but halted their dancing, sword fighting, and snacking, as they followed their hosts’ wishes. They were getting ready to exit in an orderly fashion, but you had other plans. 

You discarded both of your drinks lazily, hastily grabbed Fred’s elbow, and tugged him out of the Coal Black Room. The coldness of your hand stung him just as much as Uncle Fester’s electric trick. Fred somehow felt his own body heating up, trying to compensate for the whiplash. You had Fred pulled out of the drawing room before your parents could blink. 

part three

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QUESTIONS

I know that some of you have questions like:

What is a split class? 

A split class is where one teacher has two grade levels of students in their class. I will have my class of (so far) 31 students split between 4th graders (15) and 5th graders (16). I am teaching both grade levels in the same classroom, at the same time.

How can you teach two grades together? 

It will be hard but my admin, coaches, and fellow teachers are helping me work out the best schedule for me and my students.

Why can’t you get help from your school or district? 

Unfortunately, part of the reason that I am teaching a split is because there is not enough money. The school and district can’t help me with everything I want or need for my classroom. If I don’t reach out for help from other sources, I end up buying most of what I need from my own pocket. Honestly, I wish I didn't have to reach out and ask for help like this... Unfortunately, funding for education continues to get cut, which leads me to this position.

This sounds familiar, haven't you done this before?

I did teach a 4th/5th split two years ago. This year will be harder though as I cannot combine my language arts lessons. So I have nothing that I'm teaching the two grade levels that are the same.

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AMAZON WISHLIST

My Amazon wishlist has a variety of items with a variety of prices. Feel free to sort it by prices (that’s what I do). The items also send straight to me so you don’t have to worry about anything!

Amazon Link Click Here

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KOFI

Honestly, I had forgotten that I had this Kofi account. Feel free to donate money through this account.

Kofi Link Click Here

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JOURNALS

I made these journals and are selling them on Amazon. I would love it if I could sell a few more of these journals to help!

Dream Journal

Beach Vibes Journal

Farm Vibes Journal

A Magical Park Journal

Fanfiction Tracker Journal

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TEACHERS PAY TEACHERS (TPT)

My fellow teachers, I sell items on TPT. If you would like, you can buy my items off of TPT. I am working on putting more items on there.

TPT Link Click Here

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Thank you for any of the support you can give. I truly appreciate it. Every time people donate to my class, I make sure to make a big deal about it with my students. When they find it's been donated by people they don't know, they take much better care of it for some reason. In my classroom, we cherish everything that is given to us.