Use Your Imagination

ppyajunebug:

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 s/he’s 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 boy/girlfriend 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.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

ppyajunebug:

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 s/he’s 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 boy/girlfriend 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.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

(via tardismyoldgirl)

theyreoutofcontrol:

Interviewer: “so where do you see yourself in five years?”
Me: “I’m shaking hands with Dumbledore I’ve won the house cup”

(via geniusbee)

giraffegaffe:

knightof-hope:

vanishedschism:

theatretroubles:

enasnivolz:

ealperin:

reading-thoughts:

edwardspoonhands:

Not Iambic….Do Not Accept…

These tags I’ll pop, and boast in rhyming versethat what I wear puts swagger in my gait;though twenty shillings have I in my purse,my self-esteem and manhood both inflatewhen lofty furs I purchase for a cent.Thy grandpa’s clothes are worthy salvage, thoughthey smell a trifle musty. Still, I spentmuch less to dress myself from head to toe.
To save or not to save? The question’s moot.I’ll never give my coin to high-street crooks.These dusty shelves will yield their hidden lootto those, like me, more frugal in their looks.Like ancient coins washed up on distant shores,I’ll find my treasures in these thrifty stores.      - Macklemore, “Thrift Shoppe”

*Crying with laughter*

ITS IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER. SWEET JESUS THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE THING.

THIS IS THE MOST BRILLIANT POSY I HAVE EVER SEEN.

Guys, that’s not only Iambic, that’s a fucking sonnet. *claps*

Grammatically correct for the period and a couple of references to Shakespeare’s actual works.

I’m sincerely impressed.

kingespurr

giraffegaffe:

knightof-hope:

vanishedschism:

theatretroubles:

enasnivolz:

ealperin:

reading-thoughts:

edwardspoonhands:

Not Iambic….Do Not Accept…

These tags I’ll pop, and boast in rhyming verse
that what I wear puts swagger in my gait;
though twenty shillings have I in my purse,
my self-esteem and manhood both inflate
when lofty furs I purchase for a cent.
Thy grandpa’s clothes are worthy salvage, though
they smell a trifle musty. Still, I spent
much less to dress myself from head to toe.

To save or not to save? The question’s moot.
I’ll never give my coin to high-street crooks.
These dusty shelves will yield their hidden loot
to those, like me, more frugal in their looks.
Like ancient coins washed up on distant shores,
I’ll find my treasures in these thrifty stores.
     - Macklemore, “Thrift Shoppe”

*Crying with laughter*

ITS IN IAMBIC PENTAMETER. SWEET JESUS THIS IS MY NEW FAVORITE THING.

THIS IS THE MOST BRILLIANT POSY I HAVE EVER SEEN.

Guys, that’s not only Iambic, that’s a fucking sonnet. *claps*

Grammatically correct for the period and a couple of references to Shakespeare’s actual works.

I’m sincerely impressed.

kingespurr

(Source: humortrain, via acmpereira)

thankscomics:

Time for some classic Deadpool with a Spidey-Deadpool team up.

Scans from Deadpool volume 3, issue 10

(via avengerennerson)

calibornsmainsqueeze:

ember-light:

unicornamber:

elenaflutterby:

Tangled comparisons - concept art to the final film. 

why the fuck is the concept art so much better

Actually they were going to do crazy cool animation that would make the film a “living oil painting” but it just proved to be too expensive to mass produce

they got cheap n lazy its disney 

(via avengerennerson)

tamorapierce:

greenekangaroo:

violette-reverie:

whowasntthere:

azephirin:

I am a woman. I am a practicing attorney. I am the only woman in my office over the age of 35 who doesn’t color her hair. I have some gray, but not a lot yet, and I never seriously considered coloring my hair until this job. I don’t want to: it’s expensive and a pain in the ass to keep up. About a year ago, I was in court, and a female attorney walked in with curly, bobbed, naturally gray hair, and her mere act of publicly displaying her natural hair color seemed not just unusual but defiant. Meanwhile many men in my office and in the courts have gray hair, and I doubt anyone thinks twice about it.

What a beautiful photoset of women. Women we don’t often see portrayed in the media, but these are, indeed, women — just as grey-haired men are men.

I can’t wait for grey. I hope it’s more on the white side.

Who’s going white? 

Roo is going white! 

I’m going white very slowly, but my hair is fair enough that people seldom notice.  Stealth white!  I am never going to color it—why start now?

(Source: violenceandscience, via bumbleshark)