This has to be an AU already right? I’ve never seen it. I’m doing it. My city now
The angst potential alone haunts me. How long do you think he waited for Ford?? When did it start to sink in that nobody was coming to save him, that nobody would miss him? Would anybody even want him back? How long did it take for his anger, his heartbreak, his grief to turn into acceptance and a belief that this was divine retribution? How long did he work, how many jobs did he take, how much wealth did he accrue, how many brushes with death did he have until he believed he’d “earned” the right to go home and see his brother?? Many such questions. I need to go deeper
a lot of people tended to say that sirius and regulus looked alike, but the marauders and their friends never quite believed it. they looked much to different with one brother being so expressive with his facial features and the other wearing a mask that never slips.
it wasn’t until one day when barty had managed to convince regulus to pull a cute little joke on evan which then led to evan chasing them down the halls of hogwarts with nothing but murder on his mind. while running they managed to run into the posse of gryffindors as well as dorcas who was with them, and while passing, the group (bar dorcas) had to do a double take because the boy that had just passed them with a mischievous smile plastered on his face looked just like sirius.
he bites your friends James. Not in the nice way. He has chomped down on my arm so hard he took skin with him. I am concerned for his mental health. Get him therapy.
he bites your friends James. Not in the nice way. He has chomped down on my arm so hard he took skin with him. I am concerned for his mental health. Get him therapy.
The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.
The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger.
“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?”
Mary didn’t mind.
“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”
Mary had not.
“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”
The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.
…
The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all.
Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.
She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong.
…
Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.
She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.
“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”
Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.
She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too.
She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty.
“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”
Mary wished it was true.
But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t.
…
She forgot the star.
She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.
She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.
And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.
…
She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole.
“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”
Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.
“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”
Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk.
“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”
Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together.
Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.
Just as friends.
Just once.
“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”
Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.
“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”
…
She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget.
…
The forgetting came quicker after that.
She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.
She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.
She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat.
She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind.
She forgot Halloween.
…
She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.
“I loved—”
“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”
…
The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look.
She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too.
She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path.
He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything.
“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”
Of course he could.
“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”
Of course he would.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”
he bites your friends James. Not in the nice way. He has chomped down on my arm so hard he took skin with him. I am concerned for his mental health. Get him therapy.
(Ooc: read the following text in the voice of trump and this becomes a billion times funnier.)
Liar. That has not happened. We have not kissed. Not even in annyyy universe have we ever ever ever kissed. Maybe once when we were young, but that is irrelevant-
(Ooc: read the following text in the voice of trump and this becomes a billion times funnier.)
Liar. That has not happened. We have not kissed. Not even in annyyy universe have we ever ever ever kissed. Maybe once when we were young, but that is irrelevant-
Jame. (Your new name hehe.) I also have a question. Did you happen to be at the quidditch field with Marlene, Lily, Dorcas, Remus, and Sirius at 2am last night? (Don't lie. I already know.) 😠😠😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬😤😤😤😤😤😤😤🤬🤬🤬🤬🤬😠😠😠😠😡😡😠🤬😠😡😡🤬😡🤬😠🤬🙄🙄🙄🙄😒😒😒😒😒😒
"You're just like the nazis if you ship jegulus / if you like Regulus / Barty / Evan / any character that was a death eater"
What the fuck is wrong with you all??? That's not a good take you think it is.
My great grandparents were literally in concentration camps. How dare you make such an awful comparison? Comparing FICTIONAL CHARACTERS to real life events is actually very sick of you. To call someone a nazi or nazi sympathizers just because they enjoy exploring FICTION makes you a very gross person.
I don't care if you think you're superior for liking a different ship or for hating certain characters. You are not. You're actually well bellow everyone else for making such horrible comparisons. You are playing limbo with the underground with how terrible you are.
☆Peter Pettigrew☆ @theofficialp3t3r - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
