description

A bit bizarre and always hiding around the corner.
Occasionally doubles as an X Fuuma roleplay blog.

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thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs
potter, please.
you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.
weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.
and really, potter, are you actually that dense
can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you
are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs

potter, please.

you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.

weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.

and really, potter, are you actually that dense

can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you

are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault they’re dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your significant other is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault they’re dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your significant other is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

zodiaccity:

Taurus has the worst time coping with = feeling manipulated/taken advantage of, being financially unstable and loving hard and it failing

zodiaccity:

Taurus has the worst time coping with = feeling manipulated/taken advantage of, being financially unstable and loving hard and it failing