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Molly Weasley watched her third oldest son turning his back to their family but never gave up on him.

Molly Weasley saw her husband at his weakest moment as he laid wounded in St. Mungo’s hospital. She never understood what muggles thought when they started praying to their god(s):                                                                         But that night as she sat at her husband’s hospital bed she couldn’t help but fold her hands, close her eyes and just hope that there was indeed a greater deity that could bring her husband back to her family.

Molly Weasley put a bandage around her fifth son’s head when he was bleeding onto her sofa, his ear ripped away. She did not let her heart and actions be ruled by panic and fear. She would not  risk her son’s life like that.

Molly Weasley saw her son that wasn’t her son dead in Hagrid’s arms and did not show how she broke inside. Instead, she gripped her wand a little tighter, bit her lip a little stronger and started to fight a lot grimmer.

Molly Weasley cried over her fourth son’s cold body, his last laugh still etched into his face. She witnessed her fifth son crumbling right then and there. She saw her family grieving and crying. She went through hell but reminded herself to keep going.

Molly Weasly got up and stared straight into the eyes of Narcissa Malfoy. 

Proud woman, blonde hair, pale skin.

Split lips, bloody cloak, sad eyes.

They did not exchange one word.

But one glance was enough.

Narcissa’s eyes darted to Fred, to Harry, then back to Molly. Her lean finger’s tightened indiscernibly around her son’s bony shoulder.

A nod.

The war had taken enough lifes. Enough children.

And as one mother to another, Molly Weasley nodded back.

The fallen

Some say that the trees whisper their names. That you can hear their fading laughter on the wind.

Footprints sometimes appear in the moist grass or mud and their steps echo through the halls.

The paintings on the wall tip their hats to the shadows dancing through the corridors and a cooling breeze gently caresses the curtains.

On photos you think you see a third person but they quickly disappear after a second look.

Sometimes the couch is still warm from someone else sitting on it , even though it’s three in the morning. And the house elves sometimes talk and wave at thin air.

The professors might call you by the wrong name and suddenly they have to blink tears away but can’t fight the small but sad smile that flickers over their face.

Countless cats and owls without an owner wander the school and sleep on the abandoned desks in empty class rooms. And sometimes, they freeze, lift their head and cry out. Whining until someone picks them up and reassures them.

Still opened books are gathering dust in the library. Nobody could ever bring themselves to store them away.
But sometimes a light winds picks up a page and will turn it ever so gently.

And every year on may 2nd , when the sunlight hits the surface of the lake, you can see the backs of fifty six people standing side by side. Facing the sun. They shimmer in the air and their feet don’t touch the ground.

One of them has red hair and the pupils could have sworn that they have seen someone who looked just like him when they were shopping in Diagon Alley.

Next to him, a married couple. You can tell by the way they are holding each others hands. The woman has bright pink hair and her husband seems to radiate warmth and kindness.

Then there is this younger kid. A vintage camera in his small hand. He always tries to take a picture of the sun, but he has never managed to catch the right moment yet.

Next to him stands a blonde, pale girl with a rose ribbon in her hair. She always lays a hand onto the boys bony shoulder and squeezes it gently.

They are surrounded by fifty other people.
The pupils can never actually see their faces. Only their backs. Like a wall of light and warmth they stand united at the lake. Enjoying the sun. Protecting what is left.

And there at the end of the line. There is a man, standing on his own. He is wearing all black. It suits him in a bizarre way. He is yellowish and pale and has black hair. He never looks at the sun. Instead, he stands in the shadow of a tree. Watching the others.

It took years. But after nineteen winters the married couple flowed towards him, took his hand and pulled him to join the others.
To stand together by the water. Between the wild and the school.

As guardians.
As patrons.
As a promise.

Not another child would die on this ground. Not here. History might be written with blood, but not at a place of ink. Not at this school.

Not at hogwarts.
Not at home.

Friendly reminder

That whilst Harry lost his parents, that day, Minerva MC Gonagall lost four of her students. One of them used to be a head girl the other the head boy and all of them were her dear friends. Who btw. where also part of the order. She hears that Sirius Black. **Sirius Black** , Potter’s best friend , killed him, his wife and Peter Pettigrew, also one of his closest mates. She learned that , without reason but only the order of a dark lord, he killed his friends and laughed at their corpses.

She learns that their lovely son will grow up without knowing his parents.
She hears that he will have to stay with the muggles who hate him and his kin. And don’t tell me she didn’t know that.

Then, 11 years later she meets the boy and he looks just like James. Except for his eyes. Of course. Don’t tell me she didn’t , just for a second, felt that thug in her stomach. The grief. Don’t tell me she didn’t want the very best for that boy so many people loved and lived and died for.
(Because I honestly don’t think Remus wanted to keep on going after he heard what happened)

Then, again, two years later it turns out that Black is actually innocent. Don’t you think she felt absolutely horrible and guilty for letting him being shipped off to azkaban when he was in fact innocent. FOR 12 BLOODY YEARS!!!

And then, in Harry ’s fifth year Black fucking dies?? I mean, bugger off arsehole! Sirius Black, finally free. And then? He falls into the bloody veil and leaves as well. He wasn’t even hit by the bloody avada kadavra! By that time she lost four of her former students!

And last but not least. Two years later. Remus Lupin dies. As the last of the mauraders, he dies with his wife’s hand clasped in his own.


DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT HOW AWFUL IT HAD TO BE FOR MINERVA BLOODY MC GONAGALL? A TEACHER THAT OUTLIVED HER OWN STUDENTS. THE STUDENTS THAT WERE THE VERY HEART AND SOUL TO HER HOUSE? WHO WERE ALWAYS JUMPING AROUND, PRANKING PEOPLE AND ALWAYS, I MEAN ABSOLUTELY ALWAYS FOUND A WAY TO CHEER OTHER PEOPLE UP?

and it didn’t even stop there. I mean, she had to watch her own pupils die once again during the battle of hogwarts. Just so she could then, later on, be the headmaster for their sons and daughters and brothers and sisters.

ALL I WANT TO SAY IS:

SHE NEVER GAVE UP. SHE NEVER LOST HOPE. SO, THANKS MINERVA MC GONAGALL FOR BEING SUCH A BADASS.

SO, SHOUT OUT TO
MINERVA MC GONAGALL

Angus McDonald normally wears his hair buzzed down pretty close to his scalp. It’s easier to manage that way. But in recent months he’s been very busy, with school and new cases and making sure to spend as much time as he can with all of his new family, and now it’s much longer.

Lup told him yesterday that she liked his little ‘fro, but Angus can’t shake the feeling that this particular hairstyle is not conduscive to inconspicuous detective work. He’s with Taako and Kravitz for the week, and is just about to buzz the whole thing off, when he hears the familiar tearing noise that means Kravitz is back, and gets another idea.

“There you are Angus, Taako told me you’d be here, I’m sorry I wasn’t around to welcome you home last night,” Kravitz says when Angus walks into the living room downstairs.

“It’s alright sir! But, umm, actually I was wondering if you could help me something? It’s alright if you can’t or don’t want to I imagine it takes a long time and lots of work and I know you’re probably tired and-“

“Angus,” Kravitz interrupts, “of course I’ll help you. What is it?”

“Um,” Angus tugs at his curls for a second or so before answering. “I was wondering if you could help me do my hair… so that it’s like yours…”

Kravitz blinks, and then smiles.

When Taako gets home he finds the pair of them in the living room, Kravitz is sitting on the couch with Angus between his knees on a little cushion. While Kravitz is carefully parting and twisting together Angus’ much shorter locs, Angus reads aloud from the newest Caleb Cleveland novel, squinting a bit without his glasses. It looks like they’re about halfway done. In the doorway of their little house, Taako’s heart swells (twice over, actually, when he spies the little pile of enchanted silver beads Kravitz is picking from every now and again).

They haven’t noticed him yet, and so Taako loudly clears his throat, and says, “I suppose this means you haven’t started dinner yet?”

They both look up and give almost identical sheepish grins and Taako is nearly floored by the domesticity of it all.

“Sorry Love,” Kravitz answers. “He asked for my help.”

“No, no it’s fine, I’ll just do everything around here like always,” Taako replies, strolling towards the kitchen to make those little personal pizzas that are Angus’ favorite, that he’d already been planning on making anyway.

Kravitz is a section away from being done with Angus’ hair by the time dinner is ready. When he’s finished, Angus darts up the stairs to the bathroom mirror and comes back down a minute later wearing a smile so big it looks like his face might split in two.

“Thank you so much Mr. Kravitz sir! I love it!”

If you celebrate Christmas:

Happy Christmas

If you don’t celebrate Christmas:

Have a Glorious Day Anyway Because You Are Great

If Christmas is hard on you because you have to be closeted or because you aren’t welcome home:

You Are Beautiful and Your Gender/Sexuality Is Valid and Real and I Love You

If Christmas is hard for other reasons:

I Love You and You Are Brilliant

Shrewd Slytherin

We are Slytherin.
We are green and silver.
We are the crushing of the waves.
We are shadows and currents.

We are the calm before a storm and suggestive smirks in class.
We are the legends that linger forever.
Sometimes our tounges are sharper than our knives.
Sometimes our smiles are more cruel than our revenge.
Our condolences.
We are the heroes that lived too long.
We are the Kings and Queens of Kings and Queens. And heavy weighs the crown.
We are the moon in the sky and the snow on the ground.
We are the ballet dancers that rock.
We are the northern lights in the polar night.
We are beautiful and sharp and crystal clear.

And breakable.

We embrace our shadows and keep our chin high.
And sometimes the dark comes seeping in.
Sometimes our own weapons turn against us.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep the head clear.
To focus.
Sometimes our control crumbles.
And is taken away.
Sometimes it’s impossible to hold on.

Sometimes I realise my mistake.
And sometimes I ponder if I am one.
And then they are there.
Screaming:
Yes.
Yes, you are…
Someone who can’t even do this simple task.

Sometimes I hide from them.
In my room.
I can hear them scream and yell downstairs.
Upstairs.
On the other side of the door.
And sometimes I am happy that I am so lonely.
Because at least I don’t have to listen to them.
And sometimes I think:
Why bother?
At all?

But then there you are:
The calm after the storm.
The boulder in the stream.
My rock.
And your voice is soft:

“Want to feel alive?”

And I chuckle.
Because you have come to know me so well.
And you take my hand and lead me away from them.

And we conquer the world.
We hoist our colours and take a gulp of freedom.
We are the snake with its cunning and wisdom.
We are the sea.
A roaring and a calm.
And we will write history and prophecies.

Because we want to.

{However, please, don’t push me.}