(What are you even suggesting, this is totally canon. Anyone who wants to get to you will have to fight me first. Bring it.)
It’s fairly obvious if you know what to look for. Unfortunately, so few people do, not realizing that person does not necessarily mean human. But perhaps this is inevitable, given that most nonhumans are dead, elsewhere, or intensely and viciously private nowadays.
A younger humankind would have laughed at the idea of “pure blood”. If anyone human-shaped was pure, then it was the purely nonmagical humans. Mud Men, many nonhumans affectionately called the tenacious people.
Goodness gracious, where did people think magical blood came from in the first place? The term mudblood? And if you wanted to call a pure elf or fae a creature or a beast, then it was a good idea to dig your own grave first. Save everyone else the trouble.
But that was then… and this is now. Now, you often must watch closely.
Lucius Malfoy, for example, is not a terrifying difficult puzzle. One only has to look up the family tree to find their French origins and relation to many prominent Veela clans there. Although, that is perhaps more difficult than it sounds, as the Malfoys have “fixed” all their copies and buried the rest deep in unmarked graves.
But, watching closely… the hair and general preening suggested quite clearly, accompanied by a certain slant to the jaw and elegance to the limbs. Along with how the man could lure many a Ministry official into agreements with seamless charm and smooth smiles. And also in the way his handsome face will twist into something terrible in anger, his hands clenching like claws, flexing with half-remembered fire and talons.
When Lucius Malfoy cares for the peacocks at Malfoy Manor, when nobody is watching, he will cluck and coo at them. And they will answer him. Veelas have their own origins, after all, in the avian set of magical creatures.
On the other hand, while Narcissa is loyal to her husband, the Black family has their own hidden nonhuman origins.
She is much more of a lurker than dear bloodthirsty Bella, waiting for the right moment to strike from the shadows, much like viciously protective Andromeda – they are more scavengers than predator, the younger two. Though none the less cruel or dark. None the less protective of their nest.
Narcissa is quiet, unlike the howls of hateful Walburga, much like the silent judgement of cold Orion or the creeping calculation of young Regulus. Entirely unlike the brash swipes and territorial snarls of Sirius, who is more familiar with lurking in shadows and striking for blood than he will ever be comfortable with.
They are so similar, yet so different. What they are has many names, bogeymen is one; they are the brothers and sisters of all the necromantic (and some of the demonic, too), and they come in so many kinds.
Luna Lovegood is another simple puzzle – that she is practically made of thousands of clues is answer enough. That she can see things and creatures and the invisible sorts that most can’t is almost the only clue you need. Fae are a rather insular bunch, after all, and few have the Sight to looking for the Fair Folk or the way their Worlds weave together.
But as for the little clues, well… the girl’s heritage is in the vegetables in her ears, the odd-sounding sentences and introductions, and the used bottlecaps around her throat. It’s from the inverted reading of everything… to the visiting of Thestrals in bare feet and with both an apple and a strip of flesh as offering.
Little things, odd things, but important things.
There are certain Safe Ways of dealing with the world, you see – a certain way to go about doing things. Like tossing salt over your shoulder if you spill it, never breaking a mirror, and not intruding on Fairy Forts for anything. Luck has to be worked for, and a smart fae follows traditions and pays attention when their ears burn. Listening to omens like owls and robins and black cats can save a life. (Luna didn’t know to be listening then, she regrets it now.)
And it’s too faint to see, but when she skips, she hovers for a split-second before she falls. Somewhere deep in Luna Lovegood, something is singing a half-remembered warble… of wings made of gossamer and glass turned flesh.
Weasleys, on the other hand, are an interesting matter, especially with the introduction of the Prewetts. Weasleys come from a curious line of creature, literally quite curious, and… well… quite weasel-like in appearance, as opposed to the avian origins of Veela. But Prewetts… Prewetts were born of fire – fire sprites, elementals, somewhere between nature spirit and demon, spiteful and fierce and warm and hot.
One would need the right machinery to see it, but it can be felt perfectly fine when a child of Molly Weasley gets angry. The air around them gets quite warm. And they turn quite red, which clashes horribly with their hair, which is sign in itself, really. Quite a temper, fire has, if you poke it.
For those who can see it and are paying attention, Ginny Weasley’s hair rises slightly when she’s furious, and her tomato-red ears give off the faintest of sparks. Luna doesn’t mention it though, because it’s not very polite to point out that sort of thing. She does, however, note with some interest that Ron’s do the same, after she meets him.
Harry Potter, the infamous Boy Who Lived, is… a bit strange. He’s hard to pin down, honestly, almost impossible. When he flies, one might suspect something born of wind or something born with wings. When he fights, one might suspect something animalistic, something extremely loyal and fierce, and maybe a bit mean when provoked out of gentle contentment. Or maybe something powerful, something truly sorcerous or maybe demonic.
He hisses like a naga, he’s got eyes between nymph and necromantic, and he acts sometimes… elvish in demeanor… house-elvish. It’s hard to tell, honestly. Who knows? He certainly doesn’t.
Hermione Granger, while on the subject of the three friends, is actually incredibly obvious. That truly fearsome intelligence? That offensive temper, that righteous determination, that jealous pride, that cruel vindictiveness when crossed? That affinity for fire? That near hoarding of as much knowledge as she can reach? A tad insecure, but the young ones are always easily upset, and the kindness and crusading isn’t at all a dealbreaker.
Oh, wouldn’t the so-called “purebloods” be surprised? But, then again, many forget that fire hides under the earth. And the riddling, terribly clever kind of dragons aren’t really around anymore. The rare few that remain, however, always tend to be such book-wyrms.
Like the mudblood girl’s, Tom Marvolo Riddle’s naga heritage was well-hidden. First behind his handsome nonmagical father’s face, then behind the mutations and corrupting magic of the Horcruxes.
He shouldn’t have tried to get rid of most of his “Muggleness” when he resurrected himself, if he had wanted to keep a human appearance. The faint scales of scales on his skin and slits of his eyes are entirely his own fault – the ancient naga blood wasn’t enough to create something less unnatural and ill-suited to exist. Voldemort was always cold, wherever he went.
“Purity” of magic and of witches and wizards, my friends, is such a laughable thing. “Pure blood”? Goodness gracious, what a joke.
Brinens and Things 