The nursery of the Addams estate underwent a profound, architectural schism following the arrival of the twins. To accommodate the aggressively distinct auras of their offspring, Morticia and Gomez had commissioned Lurch to divide the cavernous room into specific aesthetic zones.
On one side lay the domain of the twins. It was a masterpiece of gothic interior design, draped in heavy, light-absorbing black velvet, furnished with iron-wrought cribs that resembled miniature mausoleums, and perpetually chilled by an unnatural, drafty breeze that smelled faintly of formaldehyde and dried roses.
On the other side was Sunshine's territory. In a continued, brilliant display of ironic torture, Morticia had insisted that the golden child's half of the room reflect her "hideous, sunny affliction." It was decorated in pale, ghostly yellows, featuring a grand, cream-colored canopy bed (Sunshine having graduated from the splintering serpent cradle) and toys that were painted in agonizingly bright, pastel colors.
To the untrained eye, it looked as though an angel were being held hostage in a graveyard. To the sixty-year-old soul trapped within the golden toddler, it was a tactical masterstroke. The bright, innocent facade of her living space perfectly reinforced her camouflage.
But as the months passed and the twins grew from tightly swaddled newborns into sentient, mobilizing infants, the true dynamic of the siblings began to take shape, cementing Sunshine's role not as a hostage, but as a heavily armed sentinel.
Wednesday Addams was a terrifying infant.
She did not babble. She did not cry for milk. She did not exhibit any of the standard, reflexive behaviors of human development. Instead, she observed. Her skin was a flawless, translucent alabaster, and her hair was a thick, ink-black curtain that Morticia meticulously braided into tiny pigtails. But it was her eyes that truly set her apart. They were dark, bottomless pools of profound, ancient woe. When Wednesday looked at someone, she did not merely see them; she visually dissected them, locating their deepest insecurities and holding them up to the cold light of day.
Even the spectral inhabitants of the manor gave Wednesday a wide berth. The poltergeists ceased their clattering when she was carried past, and the moving suits of armor froze in rigid, terrified attention. She was a black hole of emotion, a creature that absorbed all light and joy, leaving only a heavy, beautiful despair in her wake.
Sunshine understood her implicitly.
In her past life, the sixty-year-old woman had been forced into a loud, performative existence. She had to smile to avoid being struck. She had to apologize for breathing the wrong way. Her survival depended on her ability to constantly, frantically manage the emotions of her abusers.
Wednesday was the absolute antithesis of that trauma. Wednesday did not perform for anyone. She owed the universe nothing, least of all a smile.
Because of this profound, unspoken kinship, Sunshine took her self-appointed role as Wednesday's guardian with a deadly, fanatical seriousness. She was the golden shield meant to take the hits so the princess of darkness could plot in peace.
The first true test of this dynamic occurred on a bitterly cold midnight in November.
The manor was silent, save for the rhythmic, howling wind rattling the stained-glass windows. Morticia and Gomez were asleep in the master suite, and Lurch had retreated to his basement quarters. Sunshine was awake, sitting cross-legged on her cream-colored bed, her adult mind turning over the logistical problems of the impending wizarding wars. She was attempting to sketch a crude map of Britain with a piece of charcoal, mentally marking the locations of known Death Eater strongholds she recalled from her extensive reading.
A soft, wet, slithering sound drew her attention away from the parchment.
It was coming from the chimney on the dark side of the nursery. Sunshine froze, her blue eyes darting toward the iron grates of the fireplace. The embers had long since died, leaving only a pile of gray ash.
From the soot-stained darkness of the flue, a creature emerged.
It was not a friendly, eccentric Addams family pet, nor was it a harmless ghost. It was a Bog-Strangler—a vicious, low-level dark magical parasite native to the swamplands bordering the estate. It looked like a cross between a massive, hairless rat and a centipede, boasting a long, segmented body covered in slick, grayish-green mucus, and a face dominated by a circular maw of razor-sharp, inward-pointing teeth. These creatures were drawn to the scent of fresh, potent magical cores, viewing infant witches and wizards as a delicacy.
Sunshine's blood ran ice-cold. The creature was ignoring her entirely. Her magical core was locked down tight, buried beneath her golden, non-threatening exterior.
The Bog-Strangler was heading straight for Wednesday's iron crib.
Wednesday was awake. The pale infant was sitting up, her tiny hands gripping the iron bars, her dark, empty eyes fixed on the approaching monstrosity. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply watched the creature with an expression of cold, clinical curiosity.
The sixty-year-old survivor did not hesitate.
In her past life, she would have frozen. The paralyzing grip of fear would have rooted her to the spot, reducing her to a shivering, helpless spectator. But that woman was dead. She was Sunshine Addams, and nobody—man, wizard, or swamp beast—was going to touch her sister.
Sunshine slipped out of her bed, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor without making a single sound. She moved with a rapid, terrifying fluidity that completely belied her chubby toddler proportions.
The Bog-Strangler reared up on its hind segments, its circular jaw expanding, a foul-smelling drool dripping onto the Persian rug. It prepared to lunge over the iron bars of the crib.
Sunshine intercepted it.
She didn't use wandless magic. She didn't want the resulting magical signature to trigger the Ministry of Magic's Trace or alert Dumbledore's monitoring instruments across the ocean. She relied on the sheer, brutal physics of the Addams environment.
As the creature lunged, Sunshine threw her small weight forward, tackling a heavy, solid-bronze candle stand that stood near the fireplace. The heavy stand toppled with devastating precision.
CRACK.
The solid bronze base slammed directly onto the midsection of the Bog-Strangler, pinning it violently to the stone floor. The creature let out a high-pitched, gurgling shriek, its segmented body thrashing wildly, slick mucus flying in all directions. It snapped its terrifying jaws, desperately trying to twist its head to bite its tiny attacker.
Sunshine stepped forward, her golden curls glowing in the moonlight spilling through the window. She looked down at the writhing monster.
Her cherubic face was a mask of absolute, chilling apathy.
"You are trespassing," she whispered, her high-pitched toddler voice dropping into a register of pure, icy venom.
She lifted her foot—clad in a heavy, reinforced black leather boot Morticia had commissioned—and brought it down on the creature's skull with all the force her small body could muster, pivoting her heel to ensure maximum structural damage.
The crunch was sickeningly loud. The creature's thrashing ceased instantly. A pool of thick, black ichor began to spread across the stone.
Silence rushed back into the nursery, save for the howling wind outside.
Sunshine stood over the corpse, her chest heaving slightly, the charcoal from her map-making still smudged on her fingers. She felt a profound, savage satisfaction. She had protected her own. She had taken action. The helpless victim of her past life had been fully, violently exorcised.
She turned her head slowly, looking toward the iron crib.
Wednesday was still standing, her tiny hands gripping the bars. The infant princess of darkness looked from the crushed, oozing monster on the floor to her golden-haired, angelic-looking sister.
For a long, agonizing moment, the two siblings just stared at each other. The contrast was a masterpiece of gothic irony. Sunshine, looking like a literal cherub dropped from a Renaissance painting, standing over a brutally dispatched corpse. Wednesday, looking like a demonic omen, entirely safe within her iron cage.
Slowly, deliberately, Wednesday gave a single, solemn nod.
It was an acknowledgment. A pact forged in the dark.
Sunshine nodded back. She reached down, grabbed the creature by its crushed tail, and dragged the heavy, oozing carcass toward the window, fully intending to hurl it back into the swamp where it belonged.
I will be the monster they don't see coming, Sunshine vowed silently, heaving the carcass over the heavy oak windowsill. Let them look at you, Wednesday, and tremble. Let them look at me and smile. By the time they realize their mistake, it will be far too late.