September 1992, 2nd year
"I am fine," Hermione said, pacing in front of them. "I'm used to it."
Lynea sighed. And she had thought Harry would be her only problem this year. Weren't they supposed to be children enjoying their innocent days of childhood?
"You shouldn't have to be used to it in the first place, but that's neither here not there. You're not fine, Hermione, don't lie to us."
"Alright, fine," Hermione said, throwing her hands in the air. "I am upset. There. Are you satisfied now?"
They – that is Hermione, Lynea and Harry – were in an abandoned classroom on the seventh floor, somewhere no one was likely to just come by, as additional protection to the privacy spells Lynea had cast. Lynea had brought them here, because Hermione had been acting very strange the past few days. She had snapped at them more often and huffed and sighed quite a lot and brushed off all their concern with annoyance.
"You dragged up a lot of unwanted feelings that I buried a long time ago," Hermione said quietly.
"It was necessary," Lynea said. "And ignoring your own feelings won't help you in the long run." Not that she was any better.
"What else am I supposed to do? I can't change how the world works."
"You are a strong and confident person, Hermione. You are in no way lesser than any of us and you have proven that time and again, so why should you bother about what others are saying?"
"Because it still hurts!" Hermione clenched her teeth. "I know my own worth, my parents have always made sure of that. But I am only human. I turned towards books, because they gave me comfort. I do love getting my hands on every knowledge I can find, but at the same time I always feel pressured that I have to know everything, so others won't see me as lesser, so that I won't mess up and appear weak in front of those who would descent upon me like vultures if I did."
Hermione's words strongly reminded Lynea of the way the Slytherins conducted themselves – they never allowed themselves to show weakness in front of outsiders, either.
Hermione sighed heavily. "And then I discover the magical world and at first it seems like the perfect place for someone like me, until I hear the word 'mudblood' for the first time and my rose-tinted glasses are shattered again." She frowned. "Why is that anyway? Why are they blind to the colour of my skin, but turn on me the moment they realize I'm muggleborn?"
"History, Hermione," Lynea said. "Wizards see Muggle's as inferior and Muggles, during the times they were somewhat aware of our existence, feared wizards for being different – and that is its own kind of discrimination, isn't it? Only that the Statue of Secrecy prevents both sides from hurting the other." Lynea took a deep breath. "And this is where the difference between the non-magical and our world comes in. Why, do you think, do witches and wizards not even see the colour of your skin? Because in their eyes there is only magical and non-magical."
"And in your eyes?" Hermione asked. "You seem to know an awful lot about this, when you're supposed to be one of the colour-blind."
"I have been living with a Necromancer for several years now and she owns a funeral parlour and a mortuary that accommodates both magical and non-magical people. I saw how the villagers treated that lovely Indian couple. I saw how they reacted to that poor teacher's death and I did not understand why they barely showed any respect towards him when they were usually devout Christians."
Lynea did not understand many things when it came to most people's reactions to death, but she had observed enough people to at least know what range normal reactions fell in.
"I saw it and I did not understand it," Lynea said, "until my grand-aunt explained it to me. The way you are brought up influences your view on the world a lot. Children believe in what their parents tell them. So when you grow up in a world where skin colour isn't treated any differently than the colour of your eyes or your hair, but instead are told that Muggles are bad people and muggleborn cannot be any different, because they descend from Muggles … The supremacists discriminate you for your blood status, because you are related to non-magical people.
"Witches and wizards could not afford discrimination based on skin colour back when the Muggles were hunting them for being of magical blood. They were a minority back then and they still are a minority today. Only today, the Muggle's don't know we exist anymore. The resentment that the witch hunts brought about was carried on from generation to generation. Muggles are inferior, so of course those that come from Muggles must be inferior as well. Then they trample all over our traditions and people like Dumbledore even endorse that – how are we supposed to react to that? Why should we celebrate a silly Halloween Feast, when we could instead call upon our ancestors? Why should we celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ and then his Resurrection, when most of us don't even believe in God?"
"You're talking about the eight sabbats," Hermione said.
Lynea nodded. "The old traditions – the ones that are rooted in magic."
Hermione sat back down. "I never found anything about this in the library."
"Why would you?" Lynea asked. "Those that grow up in the magical world don't know anything about discrimination based on skin colour and those that do are few and far between. And blood purity is just as complicated, because those who view the supremacists with distain often do not see the full picture – like Dumbledore, who thinks all pureblood Slytherins are evil and desperately tries to get rid of traditions whose origins have nothing to do with the issue, which only fuels the fire. Someone like you who has to face both sides is rare."
Hermione rested her chin on her hand in thought. Lynea glanced at Harry, who hadn't partaken in the conversation so far. The boy had furrowed his brows and looked deeply upset, but also confused.
"You have been awfully silent, Harry," Hermione voiced aloud.
"I don't –" Harry scowled. "This is all stupid and I hate it. Everyone is equal and I don't understand why people can't see that."
"Spoken like a true twelve-year-old," Lynea said.
"A very sheltered one," Hermione said and Lynea knew she was referring to Harry's own not-so-white skin.
But unlike Hermione Lynea knew that the Durselys had made sure to isolate Harry from everyone and everything. He had probably never been confronted with any of this, because there had been no one to confront him with it. Harry's childhood had been hard in a different way. But Hermione didn't know that.
Hermione sighed and turned to Lynea. "Just give me some time, alright? I need to sort through my feelings and then I'll be fine. It's not like I don't understand your side. In fact, I can imagine very well what Malfoy and Nott must be going through at home and how conflicting it must be to discover that your parents might not be the all-wise saints you thought them to be."
She grabbed her bag and stood up, looking down at Lynea. "I am still grateful that you made us all sit down and talk about it. It's not you I am upset with."
Lynea nodded. "I know. I just wanted to make sure you are alright."
Hermione laughed. "I'm not." And then she left.
Lynea waited until the girl was outside the range of her privacy spells and then turned to Harry. "You know she wouldn't have said that if she knew, right?"
Harry shrugged. "But she doesn't know. And she does have a point."
"Harry," Lynea sighed. "Your life hasn't been any easier than hers so far. The two can't even be compared because they're very different situations."
"Why did you do it?" Harry asked quietly. "Why did you make me talk about it? Your grand-aunt already knew, wasn't that enough?"
Lynea stayed silent for a minute.
"Naenia is not a kind person," she began slowly. "She gave you a choice, but that is as far as she goes. My mother would have gone about this differently if she had the means to make a difference. It's –" Lynea sighed. "Harry, you needed to talk to someone, to tell someone the whole story. And I know you distrust every adult you come across, so the only option was our housemates – people you know and trust, people who abide by the Slytherin rules and won't betray your secrets. I know going to Snape would have never crossed your mind – or going to any other adult who might actually actively do something, unlike Naenia. But you can't stay in that house any longer.
"You might think you don't have a choice, that the adults won't do anything in the end, that you can just be happy with having friends who will take you in for a brief amount of time – but what you really need is a proper home with a proper family that loves you and cares about you. We might be your only option, because Dumbledore won't be happy about you leaving your mother's protection behind, but … It's better than staying with the Dursleys, isn't it?"
"You know, don't you?" Harry said quietly. "What it is like."
"I do," Lynea said equally as quiet.
"Tell me."
Lynea sighed. "It's a long story. To understand the full picture, we need to go as far back as when my grandfather was still alive and that was ... fifty years ago. But the gist of it is that my father hates me for the white streak in my hair."
"Like the Dursleys hate me for being a wizard."
Lynea gave Harry a sad smile. "Yes, like that."
"What did he do?"
"Many things. He never hurt my mother or my brother, but he made sure they wouldn't put a stop to his actions, either – and it wasn't like any of them understood what was wrong with me until Naenia explained to them that I wasn't abnormal, that I was a normal child – just with an aptitude for Necromancy and all that entails. Father always made sure to let me know I was different. He saw me as a freak. At first, he tried to discipline me and when that didn't work beat it out of me, burn it out of me, curse it out of me. That was the emotional and physical abuse. I wasn't neglected, but I think he might have started doing that, too, with time."
"Lynea," Harry said softly. "You sound like someone telling a distant story. Like it doesn't affect you."
"Ah," Lynea said and shrugged. "It's over. It's all in the past. I learned that it was never my fault, because once my father was arrested, I finally had someone in my life who could show me the truth. Naenia taught me about Necromancy. She told me my father's story and she showed me how wonderful magic truly can be – how beautiful the Forbidden Arts are, how powerful the Old Magics are, how normal it is for a Necromancer to be fascinated with Death.
"She made me realize that feeling no grieve over losing someone to Him is not a bad thing, that wanting to touch a dead animal and feel the power of Death surrounding its body does not make me a freak, that feeling the need to be close to Death is ingrained in the nature of a Necromancer. Having less of an emotional range than others – especially compared to children of my own age – and showing difficulties in experiencing empathy and expressing sympathy … Naenia was the same as a child. She slowly learned to better understand others, but she never truly acquired the same level of emotions as others and that is fine. I am fine.
"It took me very long, but Naenia is a patient person." Lynea chuckled lightly. "She has all the time in the world, after all." Then her face hardened. "And father is rotting in Azkaban for the rest of his life, even though he was arrested for a different reason."
Harry was looking at her with wide eyes.
"Do you think differently of me now, Harry?"
Harry shook his head. "No. I don't understand your thing with death, but I do know what it feels like to think you are a freak."
"Which neither of us are."
"I know," Harry said. "I knew that the moment Hagrid came into my life."
"And yet you never reached out for help."
"Because I didn't think I would get any. Because I didn't want to be a burden. Because I didn't want the others to treat me any differently."
"I know," Lynea said. "I never reached out for help, either. But I can assure you the others will still treat you the same. This doesn't change who you are as a person."
"Snape changed."
The corner of Lynea's mouth quirked up. "In a positive way, no?"
"He told Dumbledore he had thought I was a pampered child, spoiled rotten, and destined to be as lazy and arrogant as my father."
"So you did hear their conversation, after all."
Harry shrugged. "Some of it. It sounded like Dumbledore intentionally kept it from him."
"Yes, Professor Snape implied as much when we told him. I'm beginning to think his hatred for you had something to do with your father. They should be about the same age, so maybe they have bad history between them."
"But I'm not my father," Harry said quietly. "I didn't even know him."
"Some people fail to see us for who we are, because they can't let go of past grudges and grievances. Bitterness does that to a person."
"Like your own father?" Harry asked tentatively.
Lynea nodded.
"Okay," Harry said. "Tell me the long story. I'm curious."
"Are you sure?" Lynea asked with a raised eyebrow and Harry nodded. "Hm, okay. It began like this:
"My paternal grandfather was Veiovis Lémure, middle child of the previous Head of House of the Lémure family and elder brother to my grand-aunt Naenia. He was the odd one out, because he strived for a freedom the Lémures could never allow themselves to have. There are rules in place for very good reasons. So he joined Grindelwald's forces, where he met Evangeline Selwyn. I don't know whether he truly loved her, but he did father a child with her and then died shortly after. They never married.
"The Lémure family has a set of requirements that outsiders have to meet before they are allowed to become a part of the family. Evangeline never met any of them. So the Lémures decided to wait and see whether the child had an aptitude for Necromancy before stepping in. But Evangeline couldn't let the child be born out of wedlock. Her fiancé, Sullivan Fawley, still agreed to marry her. There were some tensions, of course, but the two eventually worked it out. The Fawleys are a generous family. They never cared about my father's ancestry – although I think it wasn't always like that, but I can't know for sure. They certainly never cared that I inherited some of the Lémure traits.
"But my father cared. He resented the Lémures for never acknowledging him. He resented them for barring him from their knowledge and power. When the Dark Lord rose to power with the promise of everything my father longed for … Well, he was one of the first to take his mark and he revelled in it. And then I was born. And then the Dark Lord was vanquished not a year later and my father suddenly lost his position.
"Of course he resented the white in my hair. He had resented the Lémures all his life and now they were suddenly showing interest. He hadn't grown up with Necromancers, he didn't know what they were like. He only saw how freakish I was and that the Lémures wanted to impart their knowledge onto me and not him.
"In the end, he was caught torturing some muggleborn who had offended him at work or something. I honestly don't even know what the real cause was, it wouldn't have justified his actions, anyway." Lynea rose from her seat and stretched her arms above her head. "It's over and done with. A thing in the past. Now we need to make sure that you are allowed to leave the Dursleys in the past, as well."
There was a thought nagging at her, but Lynea resolutely pushed it down. She had more important things to worry about than her inner conflict about being neither true Fawley nor Lémure nor anything else. Harry was her top priority and she certainly wasn't avoiding her own problems.