Okay, so I had this thought whilst re-reading the first harry potter book for the fifth time. I had read many fan-fictions of Harry becoming an Addams but not the other way around, which was odd. This fanfic goes along the theory that the Addamses are immortal except to the killing curse, as some sort of family curse.

Chapter 1: the three who lived

Mr and Mrs Dursley of no. four privet drive were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large moustache. Mrs Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent most of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters or the Addamses. Mrs Potter and Mrs Addams were Mrs Dursley's sisters, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs Dursley pretended she didn't have any sisters, because her sisters and their good-for-nothing husbands were as unDursleyish as possible to be. The Dursleys suddered to think what the neighbours would say if either the Potters or the Addamses arrived on the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son and the Addamses small twins, but they hadn't even seen them. These children were another reason to keep both the Addamses and the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like them.

When Mr and Mrs Dursley woke up on the dull, grey Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious would soon be happening all over the country. Mr Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie or work and Mrs Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half past eight, Mr Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs Dursley on the cheek and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. 'Little tyke,' chortled Mr Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr Dursley didn't realise what he had seen - then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must've been the trick of the light. Mr Dursley blinked and stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive - no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't hep noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes - the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdoes standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and he was wearing an emerald-green cloak! But then it struck Mr Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt - these people were obviously collecting for something... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills.

Mr Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at night-time. Mr Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunch-time, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker's opposite.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't se a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

'The Potters and the Addamses, that's right, that's what I heard - '
'yes, their children, Wednesday, Pugsley and Harry - '

Mr Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone and almost finished dialling his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his moustache, thinking ... no, he was being stupid. He was sure that Potter and Addams were common last names. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephews were called Harry and Pugsley, and his niece Wednesday. It might've been Harvey, Preston and Wendy. There was no point in worrying Mrs Dursley, she always got so upset at any mention of her sisters. He didn't blame her - if he'd had sisters like those ... but all the same, those people in cloaks ...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
'Sorry,' he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passers-by stare: 'Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, fir You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy day!'

And the old man hugged Mr Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw - and it didn't improve his mood - was the tabby cat he'd seen that morning. It was now sitting on the garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around it's eyes.
'Shoo!' said Mr Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour, Mr Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined to not mention anything to his wife.

Mrs Dursley had a nice, normal day. She tod him over dinner all about Mrs Next Door's problems with her daughter, and how Dudley had learnt a new word ('Shan't!'). Mr Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living-room in time to catch the evening news:
'And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been sightings of these birds flying every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.' The newsreader allowed himself a grin. 'most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?'

'well, ted,' said the weatherman, 'I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early - it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.'

Mr Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Addamses and Potters ...

Mrs Dursley came into the living-room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. 'Er - Petunia, dear - you haven't heard from either of your sisters lately, have you?'

as he expected, Mrs Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, she normally pretended she didn't have sisters.
'No,' she said sharply. 'Why?'
'Funny stuff on the news,' Mr Dursley mumbled. 'Owls ... shooting stars ... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today ...'
'so?' snapped Mrs Dursley.
'Well, I jut thought ... maybe ... it was something to do with ... you know ... their lot.'

Mrs Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the names 'Potter' and 'Addams'. He decided he didn't dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, 'their children - they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?'
'I suppose so,' said Mrs Dursley stiffly.
'what's their names again?'
'Harry, which is a nasty, common name if you ask me, and Wednesday and Pugsley - though why anyone would name a child that I have no idea.'
'oh, yes,' said Mr Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. 'yes, I quite agree.'

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Addamses and the Potters? If it did ... if it got out that they were related to two pairs of - well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if Petunia's sisters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs Dursley. Both Potters and Addamses knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind ... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't effect them ...

How very wrong he was.

Mr Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't do so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen in Privet Drive. He was tall, thin and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realise that he had just arrived where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realise that he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, 'I should've known.'

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest streetlamp went out with a little pop. He clicked it again - the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, eve beady-eyed Mrs Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment he spoke to it.

'Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.'

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.
'how did you know it was me?' she asked.
'My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly.'
'You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day,' said Professor McGonagall.
'All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.'
Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.
'Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right,' she said impatiently. 'You'd think they'd bea bit more careful, but no - even the muggles have noticed something's on. It was on their news.' She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. 'I heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars ... well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent - I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle, he never had much sense.'

'You can't blame them,' said Dumbledore gently. 'We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.'
'I know that,' said Professor McGonagall irritably. 'But that's no reason to loose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in muggle clothes, swapping rumours.'

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: 'A fine thing it would be if, on the very day you-know-who seems to have disappeared at last, the muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?'
'It certainly seems so,' said Dumbledore. 'We much to be thankful for. Would you like a sherbet lemon?'
'A what?'
'A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of muggle sweet I'm rather fond of.'

'No, thank you,' said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think it was the time for sherbet lemons. 'As I say, even if you-know-who has gone -'
'My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this "you-know-who" nonsense - for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.' Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. 'It all gets so confusing if we keep saying "you-know-who". I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.'
'I know you haven't,' said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. 'But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one you-know - oh, all right, Voldemort - was frightened of.'

'You flatter me,' said Dumbledore calmly. 'Voldemort had powers I will never have.'
'Only because you're too - well - noble to use them.'
'It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.'

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, 'The owls are nothing to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?'
It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not gong to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

'What they're saying,' she pressed on, 'is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. he went to find the potters. The rumour is that Lilly and James Potter, and Gomez and Morticia Addams are - are - that they're - dead.'
Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped. 'Lily and James ... Gomez and Morticia ... I can't believe it ... I didn't want to believe it ... oh, Albus ...'
Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. 'I know ... I know ...' he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. 'That's not all. They're saying that he tried to kill the Potters' and Addams' children, Harry, Pugsley and Wednesday. But - he couldn't. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying when he couldn't kill the three infants, Voldemort's power somehow broke - and that's why he's gone.'

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

'It's - it's true?' faltered Professor McGonagall. 'After all he's done ... all the good people he's killed ... he couldn't kill three infants? It's just astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry, Wednesday and Pugsley survive?'
'We can only guess,' said Dumbledore. 'We may never know.'

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, 'Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?'
'Yes,' said Professor McGonagall. 'And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?'
'I have come to bring Wednesday, Pugsley and Harry to their aunt and uncle. They're the only family they have left now.'
'You don't mean - you can't mean the people who live here?' cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing to number four. 'Dumbledore - you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son - I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Potter and Addams children come and live here! Surely there isn't a branch of the Addams or Potter family that they could take them in?'
'It is with deepest regret that James was the last of the Potter bloodline, and Gomez the Addams bloodline. I'm afraid that this is the best place for them,' said Dumbledore firmly. 'Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they're older. I've written them a letter.'

'A letter?' repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. 'Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people won't be able to understand them! They'll be famous - legends - I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as 'Potter and Addams Day' in future - there will be books written about the three - every child in our world will know their names!'
'Exactly. They'd be far better off growing up away from all of that. Ah, Hagrid is here,' Dumbledore replied calmly.

A large droning noise interrupted before Professor McGonagall could say anything else, the cause of it being a blue motorcycle coming to a holt from the sky.

But what was even stranger was the man riding the motorcycle. He was over seven foot tall at the very least, and his hands were the size of dustbin lids. His leather-covered feet were like baby dolphins and his brown hair reminiscent of a large bird's nest.

'Ah, Hagrid! No problems at all, I trust?' Dumbledore greeted him.

'None a' all, professor. Lil' Harry here fell asleep jus' as we were flyin' over Bristol, with Wednesday and Pugsley no' far behind,' Hagrid replied. Albus then took the children from Hagrid and gently placed them on the doorstep of No. four.

Just then, Hagrid, who couldn't take it any more, cried his eyes out, sounding like a wounded dog.

'There there, Hagrid,' Dumbledore tried to comfort him.

'I'm sorry Professor. It's jus' Lily an' James an' Gomez an' Morticia are dead... and lil' Pugsley, Harry an' Wednesday off ter live with muggles...'

'Yes yes, it's all very sad, but please be quiet or we'll get caught,' Professor McGonagall hissed. And at that Hagrid pulled out a bright spotted handkerchief and blew his nose.

Whilst that was occurring Albus pulled out a letter from underneath his cloak and laid it on the little bundle of blue blankets that was Harry.
'Good luck, Harry Potter, Wednesday and Pugsley Addams,' He whispered.

'Well there is not much left for us to do here,' said Dumbledore, now turning to McGonagall and Hagrid, 'Might as well join in the celebrations.'

And the three adults left, leaving Harry, Pugsley and Wednesday asleep on the doorstep, not knowing they were special, not knowing that they were going to be woken the next day by Aunt Petunia's high-pitched shriek as she put out the milk bottles, not knowing that they were going to be spending the next few days being poked and prodded by Dudley, not knowing that people were meeting in secret and raising their glasses declaring, 'To Addams and Potter - the Three Who Lived.'