Fate is the ultimate abuser. It demands absolute compliance, punishes deviation with tragedy, and insists that your suffering is part of a grander, beautiful design.
For the woman who had lived sixty years under the thumb of abusive men and apathetic systems, the concept of a 'magical destiny' pulling her toward the British wizarding war was not an adventure. It was a hostage situation. She had spent the first part of her childhood in this new universe reveling in the dark freedom of the Addams family. Now, she realized that her freedom was on a ticking clock.
If she was going to reject fate, she could not simply sit in her room and pout. She needed to actively fortify her reality against the narrative gravity of the Harry Potter universe.
It was near midnight. Sunshine sat in the center of the nursery floor, surrounded by a chaotic, meticulously organized pile of mundane hardware. She wore a simple black cotton shift, her golden curls tied back in a severe, tight knot. The only illumination came from a single, thick tallow candle resting on the floor beside her.
She was completely dismantling a heavily modified, high-tension crossbow mechanism Gomez had procured for her.
She needed weapons that did not rely on the golden sunflower locket. She needed weapons that left absolutely no magical signature, weapons that could bypass a Protego shield because they operated purely on kinetic physics, not spellcraft.
"You are hyper-fixating."
The flat, emotionless voice came from the shadows near the iron cribs.
Wednesday stepped into the dim candlelight. The three-year-old wore a long, stiff white nightgown that made her look like a Victorian ghost. She carried a small, preserved shrunken head by its hair, swinging it gently back and forth like a pendulum.
"I am preparing," Sunshine corrected, not looking up as she used a tiny silver screwdriver to adjust the tension spring on the crossbow trigger. "The omens in the solarium were specific. The universe is trying to force a collision between this house and Hogwarts. I am ensuring that if a collision occurs, they are the ones who shatter."
Wednesday sat down cross-legged opposite her sister, placing the shrunken head neatly between them.
"Grandmama says fate is a river," Wednesday observed, her dark, empty eyes watching Sunshine's precise, rapid hand movements. "You can swim against it, but it will eventually exhaust you and sweep you over the falls. The current is absolute."
Sunshine paused. She looked up at her younger sister. Wednesday was a creature of profound dark magic. She understood the theoretical mechanics of the universe better at three years old than most adult wizards did in a lifetime.
"Grandmama is a romantic," Sunshine stated coldly. "She believes in the poetry of destiny. I do not. Fate is not a river, Wednesday. Fate is a script written by lazy authors who need the protagonist to suffer so the climax feels earned. I refuse to read the lines."
Sunshine picked up the tension spring, her small fingers gripping the cold steel.
"In my... before I was here," Sunshine murmured, choosing her words carefully. She had never explicitly told Wednesday about her reincarnation, but she knew the terrifyingly perceptive toddler suspected her soul was older than her body. "I knew people who believed in fate. They used it as an excuse to tolerate monsters. They said, 'This is just how things are meant to be.' It is the philosophy of victims."
Wednesday tilted her head slightly. "And you are not a victim."
"I was," Sunshine admitted, the confession tasting like ash. "For a very, very long time. I died as one. I will not do it again."
She snapped the tension spring perfectly into place with a sharp click.
"If the universe wants me at Hogwarts," Sunshine continued, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying register of absolute resolve, "it will have to drag me. And to drag me, they have to find me. And to find me, they have to see me."
She set the crossbow mechanism down and reached beneath the collar of her nightgown, pulling out the golden sunflower locket. It was freezing cold against her skin, the goblin-silver rune carved into her chest aching with a dull, rhythmic throb as it continuously siphoned her massive magical core into the trap.
"The locket is sufficient camouflage for the Ministry's automated detection," Wednesday noted, her eyes tracking the gold. "But what if they send a physical envoy? Dumbledore is known to employ highly skilled Legilimens. Severus Snape, for instance. If they look into your eyes, they will not see a Squib. They will see the labyrinth."
"Which is why I am not relying solely on the locket," Sunshine replied.
She reached into a small, velvet-lined box sitting beside her tools. She pulled out a small vial filled with a clear, viscous liquid.
"What is that?" Wednesday asked, a genuine flicker of curiosity in her voice.
"Extract of Lethe-Root, mixed with concentrated Belladonna and diluted Basilisk venom," Sunshine explained clinically. "It is a localized neurological paralyzer. Morticia uses it to stun the larger carnivorous plants when they need repotting."
Sunshine uncorked the vial. She picked up a small, silver eyedropper.
"The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the primary entry point for a Legilimens," Sunshine said, her adult mind entirely detached from the horrific physical act she was about to perform. "If the window is shattered, the intruder cannot see inside. They only see broken glass."
Wednesday's eyes widened, a rare display of shock breaking through her stoic facade. "You are going to blind yourself?"
"Temporarily," Sunshine corrected. "The dilution is precise. It will not damage the optic nerve permanently, but it will cause temporary, excruciating paralysis of the ocular muscles and create a thick, cloudy cataract over the cornea. To a magical scan, it will look as though my eyes are biologically dead. A Legilimens cannot extract memories from a dead conduit."
She didn't hesitate. She couldn't afford to hesitate. The fear of Dumbledore's manipulation was infinitely heavier than the fear of physical pain.
Sunshine tilted her head back, holding her left eye open with her fingers. She brought the silver dropper down.
"Wait," Wednesday said, her voice sharp.
Sunshine paused, the dropper hovering a millimeter from her cornea.
Wednesday reached out, her small, icy hands grabbing Sunshine's wrist. The three-year-old princess of darkness looked at her sister with an expression of profound, terrifying respect.
"You are willing to mutilate your own senses to maintain the deception," Wednesday stated. It wasn't a question.
"I am willing to burn the house down to trap the intruder," Sunshine replied firmly. "Let go of my wrist, Wednesday."
Wednesday did not let go immediately. "If you do this, you will be blind for at least forty-eight hours. The pain will be staggering. You will be entirely vulnerable."
"I am never vulnerable," Sunshine said, her voice softening slightly. She looked at her sister. "Because I have you. And I have Pugsley. And I have Father and Mother. The British wizards think love is a protective charm cast by a dying mother. They don't understand that true love is standing guard while your sister poisons her own eyes."
Wednesday stared at her. Slowly, the dark-haired toddler released Sunshine's wrist.
"I will stand guard," Wednesday promised, her voice a solemn, gothic vow. "If anyone approaches you while you are blind, I will introduce them to the guillotine."
Sunshine smiled, a genuine, warm expression that looked horrifyingly out of place given the context.
She tilted her head back again. She squeezed the dropper.
Two drops of the clear, viscous liquid fell directly onto her left eye. She repeated the process for the right.
The reaction was instantaneous.
It felt as though she had poured boiling acid directly into her skull. A blinding, searing white fire exploded behind her eyes. The pain was so intense it stole the breath from her lungs, forcing her jaw open in a silent, agonizing scream. Her hands flew to her face, dropping the vial to the floor, her body thrashing backward against the Persian rug.
Wednesday did not flinch. She calmly picked up the dropped vial and corked it.
Sunshine lay on the floor, her body trembling violently, her hands hovering over her eyes, terrified to touch them. The burning sensation slowly morphed into a heavy, freezing paralysis. When she forced her eyelids open, the nursery was gone. There was only a thick, impenetrable gray fog.
She was completely blind.
"Are you functional?" Wednesday's voice floated through the fog, completely unbothered, clinical.
Sunshine forced herself to sit up. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. The pain was receding into a dull, thumping ache in her temples.
"Yes," Sunshine gasped, her voice hoarse. "I am functional."
She reached out, feeling the floor until her hands brushed against the cold steel of the crossbow mechanism. Even blind, her sixty-year-old mind retained the spatial awareness of the pieces.
"Your corneas have clouded," Wednesday reported from the darkness. "They are a milky, opaque white. It is highly disturbing. You look like a reanimated corpse that died of a fever."
"Perfect," Sunshine breathed, a terrifying, victorious smile spreading across her face.
She had rejected fate. She had blinded herself to prove a point to the universe. If Albus Dumbledore or any of his lackeys ever came looking for the golden anomaly of the Addams family, they would not find a prodigy. They would find a tragically blind, non-magical, helpless little girl.
They would underestimate her. They would pity her.
And pity, as Sunshine Addams well knew, was the absolute deadliest blind spot a monster could possess.