Thank you to Aequitas for her wonderful Betaing. She deserves lots of hugs and cookies.
:CHAPTER 3:
A Legacy Unknown
The grounds of Salem Witches' Institute were awash in the magnificent colors of autumn. The breeze carried its crackling parcels to and fro, leaving them in lumpy and damp piles on the Institute's otherwise perfectly groomed lawn. From her perch at the window-seat in the Headmistress' Tea Room, a young woman with smoldering eyes and curling brown locks watched it all with wonder. She wished very much that she were young again, and out there jumping around in the piles of leaves, breathing in the season's fragrant, earthy scents. Instead, she was in here, trying very hard to be pretty and proper, and occasionally looking up to greet the parents of a classmate.
Not that any of her classmates actually cared if Lanette Little met their parents. Not for the right reasons anyway. They might say, "Oh, Lanette is the great granddaughter of the Institute's founder." Lanette would flash the awed parents a gracious smile and say, "Well, actually, it's great, great, great, great, great-granddaughter, but thank you." She would then turn her head back to the window and stare distantly, keeping her ears perked for their comments. "She's an odd child," the parents would say as they walked away. "Oh yes," a classmate might whisper back, "She's always by herself. I think she likes it that way." The last sentence would be said in a way that made Lanette's love of solitude almost taboo.
Lanette did not think it was that strange that she liked to be alone. Things were much easier when you only had to look after yourself, instead of worrying constantly about what the other Sixth Form girls' opinions were (though sometimes these said opinions were so absurd they were amusing). This was why she never let on that she knew much more than everyone thought. Last year, when she and her classmates had taken the O's (Ordinary Wizarding Levels), Lanette had surprised everyone but her teachers when she received perfect scores.
"But she never raised her hand once in class," a classmate would exclaim. The others would nod their heads and add their whining insults to the discussion as if criticizing their least-favorite performer on the WWN.
Lanette would keep her head bent over a book as she listened to their protests. They could talk about her as if she was deaf, but it didn't mean she was. Lanette found herself hardly bothered by their harsh words, though. She was merely amused at how much they cared about her all of a sudden.
"She probably slept with the examiner or something," another girl might venture, conveniently forgetting that she herself had tried that and it hadn't worked.
It had been quite entertaining to watch them try to figure her out. When they finally gave up and turned their attentions to some other mundane subject, Lanette would go back to being the uninteresting, odd girl, who always either had her head in the clouds, or in a book. Lanette had no objections. She knew she was different, and at one point in her life, she might have cared. Now however, she was done trying to fit in.
The only reason Lanette was actually trying to be gracious on this crisp, lovely autumn afternoon, was because somewhere in this stuffy old room might be her grandmother; and of all people in Lanette's small orbit of existence, Grandmother was the one person she actually valued the opinion of.
"Lanette!" shrieked a voice over the crowd in the drawing room.
"Hello Mother," Lanette said, and rose to stand on her tiptoes and kiss her mother on both cheeks. Mrs. Vera Arvolon Little was a tall woman, and rather buxom. In fact, her surname was rather unfitting for a witch of her stature. Mrs. Little had beady dark eyes, pointy ears and a sharp nose. Her hair, which originally had been a very dark brown, was now a rather unflattering shade of blonde. Lanette suspected her mother had been experimenting with coloring potions again. Thankfully, Lanette thought, she had received most of her looks from her father's side of the family. The only thing Lanette had inherited from the Arvolon side was her chin, which was pointy, like everything else on her mother's face.
"Darling," Mrs. Little said in her most flamboyant tone, "it has just been a nightmare trying to find you in this place." Mrs. Little waved her arms wildly as if her daughter did not understand the English language. Lanette smirked at this thought, realizing she probably knew far more of it than her mother did.
"I was sitting over by the window," Lanette told her mother simply. She was not about to explain the need to get away from all the gossiping students and parents alike; her mother lived for that sort of thing.
"Of course you were," Mrs. Little said with a frown. "You know, you really should mingle more. People might get the wrong idea about you, darling. You know," she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper, "they might think you're some kind of recluse. You know—"
Lanette almost laughed. "No, I don't know, Mother. What I do know, is that I could be doing much more useful things with my time than acting prim and well-bred in order to impress the high-society pureblood parents of girls I don't even associate with." Mrs. Little looked horrified. After all, Mrs. Little was a high-society pureblood parent.
"Stop badgering your mother, Lanette," a cool, calming voice said from behind her. "She's only trying to look out for you." Lanette's eyes widened in glee.
"Grandmother!" she gasped, and turned around, truly happy for the first time that evening. She calmed herself for a minute to kiss her favorite relative on the cheek and then threw her arms around Grandmother in a hug. "You're here!"
Grandmother, who also happened to be named Lanette Little, was the mother of Mr. Little. She was a witch in her eighties who looked as if she had once been a model of Witch Weekly America. Even now, she was the vision of beauty, with lovely silvery hair she kept piled on top of her head, and finely sculpted features alight with glow. Her eyes, though wilted with age, held a spark of fire.
"Of course I am here, dearest," said the spritely older witch. She drew back from Lanette's firm hug and held the girl's shoulders, her gaze pouring into her granddaughter's soul. "I did not forget that it is your birthday today."
Lanette's blue eyes burned with happiness. With the arrival of the Upper School's Parents' Weekend, nobody had noticed that the quiet Lanette Little's birthday fell on the day of the Headmistress' tea. True, it was not as if Lanette went around announcing the fact to whoever would listen, but a girl only turned seventeen (and legal) once.
"Oh, Lanette," her mother exclaimed, "of course – your birthday!"
Trust my own mother to forget, Lanette sighed inwardly. "I'm sure it only slipped your mind, Mother," Lanette said with just enough sarcasm that Mrs. Little's face flushed. "I'm sure you had this long speech planned out about how your only daughter turns seventeen only once and about what an important day it is for her." The blush deepened.
"Of course," Mrs. Little said meekly. "Happy birthday, darling."
The elder Lanette Little watched her granddaughter with an wrinkled smile. She was a bright girl, much too bright for the people she associated herself with. Or didn't associate with, depending how one looked at it. She had been an adult witch long before today, and though custom dictated many things, wished that she could have told her namesake sooner of her legacy.
"Vera, look, there are the Canteburys," Grandmother told her daughter-in-law, "and I know you've been dying to tell them of your recent discoveries in Doxy-displacement." The Canteburys were a prominent family in wizarding New England, and somehow distantly related to the Arvolons. They had three daughters; two in the Lower School, and one in 7th Form, a year ahead of Lanette. Mrs. Little never seemed to tire of comparing Lanette to Agnes Cantebury, who was blonde, talkative, and very popular.
"Oh!" Mrs. Little brightened instantly. "It is true, I've been meaning to talk to Stacy. The two of you wouldn't mind terribly if I went and spoke with her for just a minute?"
"Not at all, Vera."
"No, Mother. Please, go right ahead."
Delightedly, Mrs. Little disappeared into the mass of green school robes and pastel-colored ones of the parents.
"That should occupy your mother for at least a half-hour."
"You're brilliant you know," Lanette laughed.
"Yes, I do know, thank you," Grandmother said, mimicking her granddaughter's previous tone. She then met Lanette's eyes sharply. "Actually, there is an ulterior motive for my sending your mother off like that."
"Yes?" Lanette ventured, an excitement bubbling in her veins.
Grandmother eyed Lanette for a moment. "I'd rather speak of it away from prying ears. Would you mind gathering your cloak? Let us take a walk on the grounds."
"Okay," Lanette said, glad for any reason to get out of the Headmistress' Tea. "It will take me a few minutes to run to Bridget Bishop Hall," she said, naming the Residence Hall named after the first witch tried at the Trials of 1692. "If you would mind waiting by the Living Tree in the quad, I'll be down really quickly."
"Fine," Grandmother said with a small smile. "Shoo."
But if had Lanette had looked back, she would have seen something almost frightening in those oceanic eyes.
Lanette flew across the campus, dried leaves kicked up by the heels of her feet. She loved running. She loved the free feeling it lent to her. The only thing she loved more than running was riding. Chester, a flying-horse in the Institute stables, was her favorite mount. Like most things about her, the fact that she was an expert flier was not widely known. Before her Upper School days, Lanette and her father had often competed in the New England Volerathon – a competition where riders and their flying beasts were pitted against others in a series of difficult courses.
Then one day, her father had taken a fall. No one knew for sure how it happened. But all of a sudden, he was no longer in his saddle, and he was falling through the air, faster, and faster, and nobody had the power to slow him. With a sickening crunch, the 13-year old Lanette watched as her father's life was snuffed out in a moment of silence. It had been such a normal, sunny afternoon….
Smartly, Mr. Little's mother had put Lanette back into a saddle as soon as she could. Grandmother had said that it was important for Lanette to deal with her fear now, instead of later. So Lanette had ridden. But she would never compete again; that part of her life was behind her. Also left behind were her wishes for peer approval. They did not understand death, so how could they understand her?
When Lanette reached the ivy-clad Bishop Hall, she slowed her steps. The no-running policy in the dormitories was strictly enforced with a string of potent spells. They were quite annoying, but there was no getting around them. Her room was on the third floor, so it took her several agonizing minutes to get there.
Lanette's room was modestly sized, like most of the students' rooms, but because it was the corner room, it featured a wonderful window that looked out towards the cove. Lanette loved this window. At night, when most were asleep, Lanette would look out through that window and spot the lighthouse, throwing its light off into the depths of the night.
From her dresser, Lanette pulled her favorite cloak – a sapphire blue one that was long and flowing. Usually, the girls were required to wear the forest green cloaks that were issued by the school to match their uniforms of green and white plaid. Today though, she felt a little rebellious. After all, it was her birthday.
When Lanette met her grandmother at the Tree, the cloak's ruffled hood was pulled over her brown curls and accented her eyes of the same color. Its body covered her thin, bony shoulders and fell to the ground around her legs, hiding how skinny they were. It created a mysterious effect that Lanette loved, though she wouldn't admit it.
"You look lovely, dearest," Grandmother told her warmly. "I was right when I gave you that cloak."
"It's a shame I never get to wear it, really," Lanette spoke as they began to venture across the grounds. "The Elders are awfully strict about the dress code.
Grandmother was wearing a stunning cloak of her own in a shiny bronze. It might have seemed too young for a witch of her years to wear, but Grandmother, who looked stunning in anything, was nothing short of radiant. They made quite a pair on that lovely fall afternoon. If one had happened to glance out Lanette's window in the Headmistress' Tea Room, they might have wondered at the bronze and blue pair who walked with such radiance across the courtyard below.
"Lanette," Grandmother said as the path they were following turned abruptly out of the main school and into a seldom-visited part of the Institute's grounds, "what do you know of our family's history?"
"I know that the Little family was prominent in forming wizarding New England," she said after a moment. This part of the school seemed desolate and foreign to her. No one ventured here unless it was on a dare. The buildings were crumbling and hollow, and held the sad stories of many souls that had once passed through their doors. These buildings were said to be haunted, and the ghosts of Salem witches weren't known for their kindness. Lanette shrugged off the chill that she felt seeping at her bones and concentrated on what her grandmother was saying.
"What else?" urged Grandmother, "What do you know about the women in our family?"
"Well, my mother is a self-absorbed socialite who— "
"Not your mother's side. Our side." Grandmother said this in a way that made Lanette look at her. She knew she carried many of her grandmother's traits. She would never be as beautiful, or as wise, or as cunning, but she did have her eyes, and her smile, and her wit. Lanette liked to think that someday, she would be exactly like her grandmother.
"Well," Lanette said slowly, "I know that our ancestor, the first Lanette, started Salem Institute." They stopped at the remnants of a bell. It was little more than a rusty shell set in crumbling brick, but it reminded Lanette that Salem had once been a very different institution of learning.
"Aha, now we are getting somewhere!" Grandmother said with fervor. "Go on."
"Tha . . . that's all I know," Lanette said, pained. She was used to knowing things. She placed a hand on the cool metal of the bell, suddenly wishing she knew more of Salem Institute's history, her family's history. Why had she never asked?
"It's time you knew more."
"More," Lanette echoed. There was no question in her voice. She wanted to know more. She would know more.
"Our family's history is great, especially in the witch's line. It is terrible, too." There was something dark in her grandmother's eyes. "It's time you knew all of it. You're of age today." The words held a tone of foreboding that caused Lanette's curiosity to strain at her insides. Suddenly, being of age held a whole new meaning. For some reason, she knew that her whole life was about to change. Her mouth would form no words, so Lanette waited for her grandmother to continue.
"The story begins, scores of years ago, when the 'first Lanette' – as you call her – graced the shores of The New World. Her name," she paused, "was Lanette Ravenclaw."
A/N: Aha! Now we are getting somewhere. You may not see any connection yet, but it is there. I promise. Lanette, herself, is very glad she has been introduced. She has gotten quite finger-waggy over these past few days.
I do hope you liked her. I certainly enjoyed writing her and her family
- not to mention the social aspect of wizarding New England. I sort of
see the Salem Institute families as the WASPs of the wizarding world.
Old money, old blood, old traditions. Often stuffy and even more often,
boring. Coming from a line of WASPy people, it's fun to write about
them. smirks