The first sign was the perfectly preserved black orchid, left on her desk, nestled amongst her morbid collection of severed doll heads and taxidermy squirrels. Wednesday Addams usually only tolerated death, but this was artful death. The flower wasn't just dead; it had been meticulously pressed, its petals a velvety void, its stem a brittle skeletal line. It was an offering, not a threat.

Then came the precise, almost imperceptible shifts in her room. A book on Victorian mourning rituals subtly moved to the top of a stack. A single, gleaming spiderweb, spun with unnerving perfection, stretched across her window pane where none had been before. It wasn’t an invasion; it was an acknowledgment. Someone was watching her, not with malice, but with… understanding.

Wednesday had endured her share of unwanted attention. Adoring fans, terrified bullies, bemused teachers, even Morticia’s earnest but ultimately futile attempts at maternal bonding. This was different. This stalker wasn't trying to get close to her in the conventional sense. They were observing, appreciating, almost curating her existence from afar. It was almost… tolerable. Almost.

But Wednesday Addams did not tolerate mysteries for long. If someone was going to orbit her like a particularly persistent, yet discreet, black dwarf, she demanded an audience.

She left the bait in the crypts, naturally. A copy of Edgar Allan Poe's complete works, opened to "The Raven," its pages marked not with a bookmark, but with a single, skeletal finger bone she’d acquired during her last cemetery stroll. It was an invitation only a specific kind of mind would interpret.

She waited. Not in the crypt itself – that would be uncivilized. Instead, she perched on a gargoyle high on the Nevermore Academy's gothic spires, the twilight air cold against her face, the wind whispering secrets through the ancient stone. She held her cello, not playing, but simply feeling the resonant wood beneath her fingers, a silent predator waiting for its prey.

Hours passed, marked by the slow descent of the moon. Then, a flicker. A shadow moving with unnatural grace amongst the tombstones below. Not a student, not a teacher. This person moved with a deliberate slowness, a quiet confidence that spoke of someone who felt utterly at home in the graveyard's embrace.

Wednesday descended, silent as a wraith, landing lightly behind the figure who stood before Poe's open book, a gloved hand tracing the lines of the verse.

"Nevermore," Wednesday stated, her voice a low hum that seemed to vibrate with the very chill of the crypt, "is rather cliché, wouldn't you agree?"