Chapter 7: Departure
"By the way, Russell," said Professor Flitwick, his tone cautious, "forgive my asking, but I heard your parents have both passed away." He hesitated for a moment before continuing, "What I don't understand is how the orphanage allowed you to live alone. According to British law, a child your age shouldn't be living unsupervised."
He leaned forward slightly. "Would you mind telling me how you managed that?"
Russell smiled faintly. "That's no secret, Professor. My parents are gone, yes—but I still have a few distant relatives. One of them officially adopted me. In return, once I inherit my parents' estate, I'll pay him a small portion of it. It's all perfectly legal and mutually beneficial."
"Ah, I see," Flitwick said, looking enlightened. "That explains it. Still, if you ever need any help, please don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you, Professor," Russell said politely. "Though, speaking of help… do wizards actually use pounds sterling?"
Flitwick chuckled softly, catching the hidden concern in his words. "You needn't worry. Hogwarts provides special assistance for students in your situation. And at Gringotts, the goblins will gladly exchange Muggle money—pounds included—for wizarding currency."
"That's good to know," Russell said, visibly relieved.
"Now then," Flitwick said as he rose from his chair, brushing imaginary dust off his robe, "let's get you to Diagon Alley, shall we? Are you ready?"
"Of course, Professor—just give me one minute."
Russell grabbed a quill, quickly jotting down a note:
Going to Diagon Alley today. Won't make it for lunch. Save me a seat tomorrow.
He stuck it to his window for Pugsley to find later—he knew the boy would come knocking like clockwork—and then hurried after Flitwick.
---
Russell had assumed the professor would take him via Apparition, considering how conspicuous a tiny wizard and a young boy would look on public transport. But instead of teleporting, Flitwick walked to the curb and raised his wand into the air.
Russell tilted his head. "Professor?"
Flitwick smiled. "Ah—you've never used the Knight Bus, have you? You just hold your wand out like this, and it will come to you wherever you are."
Russell's expression paled. "Knight… Bus?"
Motion sickness had been his nemesis since childhood. The idea of a magical bus—capable of appearing and disappearing at random speeds—sounded like his personal version of hell.
"Professor, is there no faster way? Something like… instant teleportation?" he asked hopefully.
"Instant teleportation?" Flitwick blinked, then laughed. "You must mean Apparition. I'm afraid that's far too risky. Even adults can splinch themselves if they're not careful. For someone your age, it could cause permanent side effects. I won't take that chance."
Russell sighed. "Fair enough."
Moments later, with a thunderous BANG, a massive triple-decker purple bus materialized before them, screeching to a halt at the curb. The doors burst open with a metallic clang.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus!" cried the conductor cheerfully. "Emergency transport for witches and wizards in need! Just stick out your wand arm and step aboard, and we'll take you wherever you need to go. Name's Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor today—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening. His confident grin faltered into an awkward, stammering smile.
"P-Professor Flitwick! W-well! Long time no see!"
The young man looked about eighteen or nineteen, with ears far too large for his head and a smattering of pimples across his face. His purple uniform matched the color of the bus exactly.
"Stan, my boy!" Flitwick said in surprise, eyes lighting up. "It's been ages! I'm escorting a new first-year to Diagon Alley to buy his school supplies."
Stan relaxed slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right, of course, Professor. Pleasure to meet you, lad."
Russell smiled politely and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Shunpike. I'm Russell Fythorne."
That seemed to put Stan at ease. He grinned again and waved them both aboard.
"Two to Diagon Alley, then? That'll be fifteen silver Sickles each," he said.
For once, he didn't try to upsell them on a "Chocolate Frog & Toothbrush combo deal."
No doubt even Stan Shunpike knew better than to pitch a Hogwarts professor.
And so, clutching his bag and bracing for nausea, Russell climbed aboard the wildest bus ride of his life—
his first official journey into the wizarding world.
Professor Flitwick counted out a single Galleon and thirteen Sickles, then placed the coins carefully into Russell's palm.
"Professor, you didn't have to pay for me," Russell said, a little embarrassed.
Flitwick chuckled, eyes twinkling. "Nonsense, my boy. It's all covered under travel expenses. Hogwarts hasn't sunk low enough to make its professors pay out of pocket just yet."
He gave a quick, mischievous wink, and Russell couldn't help but grin back.
Up front, Stan Shunpike sat unusually silent in the conductor's seat, staring ahead as though lost in thought. The driver glanced over in mild surprise — it wasn't like Stan to stay quiet. Usually, he'd be chatting up passengers nonstop. But today, for reasons unknown, the young man hadn't said a word since the bus departed.
Perhaps the sight of a Hogwarts professor had spooked him into temporary good behavior.
---
"Professor," Russell said after a while, curiosity getting the better of him, "do you happen to know the Addams family?"
"The Addams family?" Flitwick repeated, brows lifting. "Now there's a name I haven't heard in some time. Where did you come across them?"
"They live near my home," Russell replied simply.
"Ah, that makes sense," Flitwick said, his tone thoughtful. "The Addams lineage is very old — and quite extensive. Their influence spans much of Europe and the Americas. If the family near you bears that name, they're likely a smaller branch of the main line."
Russell hesitated before asking, "Are they… dangerous?"
Snape's warning still lingered in his mind.
Flitwick rubbed his chin, considering his words carefully. "Well… that depends on how you define dangerous."
"The Addams family's primary business is funerary services. They practically monopolize the death and burial industry across the Western wizarding world. Because of that, many of them are exceptionally skilled in necromantic and curse-related magic — some of which the Ministry classifies as Dark. But to say they're all Dark Wizards would be… an unfair generalization."
"So basically," Russell said wryly, "not evil, just hazardous to be around?"
"Precisely." Flitwick smiled faintly. "For a young wizard like you, they might not mean any harm — but they could still be a little… perilous. Their sense of normalcy differs greatly from ours."
Russell could only nod. That's an understatement, he thought, remembering Wednesday and Pugsley gleefully playing with actual knives and crossbows.
"Oh, and which Addams family members do you know?" Flitwick asked curiously.
"The husband is Gomez Addams, and his wife is Morticia Addams," Russell said.
Flitwick's face lit with sudden recognition. "Ah, them! I should have guessed."
"You know them personally?" Russell asked, surprised.
"Of course!" Flitwick said, beaming. "Gomez was a formidable duelist in his youth. His first entry into the International Wizarding Duel Championships was legendary — he swept through the ranks without a single loss and made it straight to the finals."
"But…" Russell prompted with a grin, already sensing the answer.
Flitwick laughed, his chest puffing proudly. "But he met me in the finals, and alas—his winning streak ended there. He took second place that year… and the next three as well."
He sighed nostalgically, eyes softening. "When I retired from competition, he finally claimed the champion's title. A well-deserved victory, I might add. But I heard afterward that he'd turned his focus to Muggle fencing, of all things, and never returned to the dueling stage again."
The professor's expression carried genuine regret. "A shame, really. He was one of the most talented duelists of his generation."
Russell smiled faintly, imagining Gomez Addams in a wizard's duel — probably laughing manically while casting hexes with the same passion he brought to swordplay.
Somehow, the image fit perfectly.