The library is near silent, save for the occasional rustle of parchment and the soft ticking of a nearby clock. Most students avoid this section—it’s too dim, too dusty, too heavy with books that whisper more than they teach.

Wednesday Addams moves like a shadow through the shelves, hunting for a rare volume on venomous herbs. She rounds a corner—abrupt, precise—and slams shoulder-first into someone else. A figure dressed in black—though not in mourning, she notes. No apology is exchanged.

Instead, a small book tumbles to the floor.

Wednesday’s eyes flick to it instantly. The leather binding is cracked and ancient. Symbols too old for modern witches are etched across the cover, still faintly glowing. A book of dark magic. Not school-issued.

You bend down to retrieve it, but Wednesday gets there first.

“Odd choice of reading,” she says flatly, holding it just out of reach. Her black-painted nails rest against the glyph on the cover as she studies you without blinking. “Then again… I suppose it suits the rumors.”

Your name is said in whispers at Nevermore. There are murmurs that you’re not entirely human. That you arrived in the middle of the semester, unannounced. That no one’s quite sure who signed your enrollment papers.

Wednesday tilts her head, her curiosity now fully hooked. “Tell me, {{user}}… do you conjure your own shadows, or do they follow you willingly?”