Moony about Padfoot @moony-stars - Tumblr Blog

I have a folder called Time is a Flat Circle in which I collect evidence of humanity. Here is most of them.

Okayokayokayokaybut "My hand will wear out but the inscription will remain" is kind of a power line BEFORE you factor in that it is, in fact, over a thousand years old.

lichen-thr0pe

livebloggingmydescentintomadness

a collection of underrated tweets, part 6

(the series)

4kywis

The floor is having a peaceful school year

grapefruitmimosa

i can’t believe i used to think people my age were adults

97luftballons-deactivated201712

the older you are reading this post the funnier it is

saddest-cat-hours

Damn, save some for the rest of us

space-owl

This is like the opposite of that dude sliding down a snowy hill with classical music

dont-offend-the-bees

unstoppable force vs immovable object

benegesserwitch

starcrossed lovers

cosmic-aria

a challenger approaches:

haircutwizard

these men represent 3 different facets of the physiology of human beings

gas station dude: raw physical power

classical music guy sliding down a snowy hill without skis: polished intellect

scooter man: unstoppable libido

thetoxiczombie

how can you forget

the-emblematic

So we have raw physical power, polished intellect, unstoppable libido,

and now prefect etiquette

turnon

every time i see a stingray i’m like fuck that guy…. not after what you did to steve jobs

turnon

steve jobs…

jbirdoftheriverlands-deactivate

Emoji spell for extreme good luck for the next two months

🍀🌰🌒🌓🌔🌕🌠⭐⚡☀⚡⭐🌠🌕🌔🌓🌒🌰⭐🌱🌿🍀🎆🌋🎇🌠🔮🔔💰💰💰💰💸💸💸💸💳💳💳💳💸💸💸💸💸💸💸💸💰💰💰🍀🌿🍀🌿🍀🌿🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🍀🌋🌊🌈🎆🎇🎉🎊🔓🔆🔓💰💸💳🔅📈🏁🍚⬆⬇↕🔄✳✴🌊🌈🌒🌓🌔🌕🌠⭐⚡🌋🎆🎇🎆🎉🎊🎍💸💸💸✴✳✳✳✳↕↕↕↕🎆🎇🌋✴✳🐇🐸🍀🌰🌱🌼🍀🍀🍀🌻🌺🍀🍀🌿🍀🌰🌱🌿🍀

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ink-splotch

What if Harry Potter, the chosen one, had turned out to be a squib, how do you think history would have turned out differently?

It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily… strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

Keep reading

incorrect-marauders

Remus: We have a swear jar now. If you say one, you'll be fined.

Sirius: Heck.

Remus: You're on thin fucking ice.

Remus: Oh no.

atalienart

just-shower-thoughts

The fact that we can accidentally bite the insides of our cheeks has to be the biggest design flaw of the human body.

slightlyfrumiousbandersnatch-de

NO SORRY IT’S THE FACT THAT OUR TRACHEA AND ESOPHAGUS CROSS AND BRIEFLY OCCUPY THE SAME HOLE DOLPHINS DON’T HAVE THIS PROBLEM.

churchyardgrim

WE ONLY GET ONE SET OF ADULT TEETH THAT ARE DESIGNED TO LAST MAYBE HALF OUR EXPECTED LIFESPAN

OUR LOWER BACKS ARE STRUCTURALLY FUCKED FROM MAKING A SHITTY TRANSITION TO BEING BIPEDS

INTELLIGENT DESIGN MY ASS, BUT AT THE VERY LEAST WE’RE NOT HORSES

stephendann

“In conclusion, the humans were extremely angry until they saw the horse, and then thought ‘Well, that bastard’s got it rough, this ain’t so bad’“

gin-draws

31 October, 1977

messrsmemoirs

The only reason Remus was never Quidditch commentator is because the games weren’t designed to handle that level of smart, sarcastic commentary.

wizardtowizard-blog

Also, he said “Fuck” way too often for McGonagall to sanction it.

messrsmemoirs

“Sorry, Professor.”

wizardtowizard-blog

Remus: Ever Fucking Merlin above, great catch by James Fleamont Potter–

McGonagall: Mr. Lupin!

Remus: Sorry, Professor. Anyway, Slytherin’s got the Quaffle now, because some people feel like snogging instead of going to practice – I’m looking at you Frank Longbottom. And… yes! Avery is practically knocked into the next century by a bludger artfully aimed by Beater Shacklebolt. See, Longbottom? That’s what dedication and practice do for you.

McGonagall: Less personal grudges, more game commentary, Mr. Lupin.

Remus: Sorry, Professor. And is that…? Yes! Seeker McKinnon goes into a dive! She’s brilliant! She’s perfect! She’s… a lump on the ground. Apparently she can see the snitch from the other side of the pitch, but she can’t see the ground right in front of her fucking face.

McGonagall: Alright, you’re out.