bartholomew john

The story behind the dishes picture dated March 1975.

“The Year was 1974. I was an elementary school teacher who had temporarily left my teaching career to return to the University of Utah to earn a Master of Education Degree. I began attending church in a “student branch” (a congregation of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, comprised of unmarried college students.)  It was there that I met four young men who shared an apartment not far from my home : Wynn Bartholomew, John Homer, Larry Anderson, and Barry Kraus. Wynn was attending law school at the University of Utah. The apartment where these four men lived was quite large, and became the “social center” or “gathering place” for many of the members of our branch : We went there often for parties.

John Homer and Larry Anderson were “stake missionaries” at the time. One day Wynn told John and Larry about a student at the Law School who was possibly a potential convert and who might be interested in having religious discussions with them; his name was Ted Bundy. John and Larry began giving religious lessons to Ted at their apartment. They invited Ted to come to church and meet the rest of the congregation;  Ted was always invited to the apartment for social gatherings as well.

Eventually Ted committed to being baptized. Many members of the student branch attended the baptism to show their support. Our branch president, Michael Preece, interviewed Ted prior to baptism… John Homer performed the baptism and his missionary companion, Larry Anderson, pronounced the confirmation. Little did anyone know what dark secrets Ted was hiding!

The ratio of women to men in our student branch was about 4 to 1, so new men coming to our branch were always of interest, and Ted was no exception. He was polite, courteous, intelligent, and attractive. Many of the young women wanted to date Ted; he became quite popular in our group. Ted attended some of our social gatherings, and afterwards, Wynn remembered that to him, Ted seemed quiet and mysterious; at social gatherings he would sit in the background and just watch people silently.

In March 1975, I organized a birthday party for one of our branch members, Sam Green; the party was held at Wynn’s apartment. I was busy washing dishes when Ted walked over and stood beside me. “You look like you could use some help” he offered. I was flattered that he would notice me, and hoped that perhaps he would ask me out on a date. My camera was sitting nearby, and I handed it to Wynn and asked, “Wynn, take my picture with Ted!” Ted pointed a rinsing gun at me as we posed together. It was one of the few pictures taken of Ted outside a courtroom or jail.” - Carol Hall Bartholomew

Complicated (Prt5) - Barry Allen x Reader

Complicated (Part 5) - Barry Allen x Reader

A/N: ahhh srry

Summary: After waking up from a two year coma & catching up with Barry, the reader has a little chat with her brother, Oliver Queen. Except, everyone seems to be acting oddly, what could they be hiding?

Disclaimer: I’ve never actually watched Arrow, I apologize for that.

Warnings: suggestive themes ? swearing

Word count: 1,300 ish

Keep reading

Capable of Change - 5 (Savitar!Barry/Reader)

Imagine, remnant Barry getting asked out by you and he decided to say yes…

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Originally posted by rawrfreak

“That is not true!” He smiled as you stood up holding a dvd in your hand.

“I can’t help that Monty Python is over quoted and over done.” He told you.

“But this is the Holy Grail. Everyone likes the Holy Grail.”  You shook the dvd case in front of him.

“I’m not everyone.” He smirked.

“Fine, what movie is the best to you?” You crossed your arms. He opened his mouth to speak but the sound of someone at the door stopped him. You moved to go answer it but his legs stayed stretched out resting on the table in the way, “Dude…”

“Pay the toll.” He smirked as you nudged his legs again.

“There’s someone at my door. Move.” You smiled at him.

“Pay…the toll.” He said slowly his face not changing as you rolled your eyes, “They’re going to be waiting a really long time…”

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.” You leaned down giving him a kiss. He let you pass walking for the door.

He leaned his head back watching you. After a few days of getting somethings in order for his plan to work, he’d taken you to dinner. He had concluded that he was a god, he should be able to get what he wanted.

He felt happier than he had in many years. In the cage, he had been so consumed…He shook it off when he heard you speak, “Dad? Hi! What are you doing here? Did I miss a call?”

He watched you hug an older gentleman as he stood up listening, “Oh I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to catch up, but I see I’m interrupting.”

“Right…no you’re fine. I actually…I want you to meet him.” You smiled looking over to Allen, “Dad, this is…uh…well this Bartholomew Allen, and this is my dad, John.”

“Bartholomew, don’t hear of many of those.” John reached out his hand to him.

“And that’s why everyone calls me Allen.” Allen took his hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah…You must be the mystery guy she’s mentioned, but never reveals.” John smirked and it was then that he could see the resemblance.

“Dad…” You blushed a little shutting the door.

“What? I gotta embarrass you when I can. You’re always so busy now.” He walked over to one of the bar stools in the kitchen taking a seat.

“I find it hard to believe that Y/N gets embarrassed.” Allen crossed his arms smirking at you.

“Please don’t get him started….” You whispered scratching your forehead.

“You know I might be old.” Your father looked at you both, “But I still can hear.”

The next few hours were spent in good conversation and laughter. He’d gotten you to laugh before but the way your father made your eyes crinkle, it was something special. The more time he spent with you them more he realized how much he’d forgotten how to live.

“I love you peanut.” John whispered kissing your head as you lingered holding onto him.

“I love you too dad.” You smiled letting go finally.

“It was really good to meet you sir.” Allen held out his hand.

John took his hand firmly, “You seem alright Allen…take good care of my girl.”

“I’ll do my best.” Allen smiled stepping closer to you noticing your cheeks flush.

“You two have a good night.” John turned to the door opening, “Oh and Allen…”

“Yes sir?” He stood up straight as John looked back at him.

“It’s the Holy Grail…” John smiled a little, “Sometimes watching it with the right person gives you a better perspective. Have a good night.”

Allen looked at you smirking at him, “So I take it…”

“We are totally watching that movie.” You laughed wrapping your arms around his neck, “Thanks for not running away.”

“He’s your dad, it was bound to happen. Though I do wish I would have had a little prep time.” He said placing his hands on your hips as you leaned up kissing him.

“Well you did great.” You moved your hands to his chest give him a pat, “You get comfy, I’m gonna make some popcorn.”

He pulled you back to him as you stepped away. When you looked to his face you saw him biting his lower lip in a mischievous way, “So I know of a few places that I can get comfy here, you’re going to have to get more specific.”

“Oh well…I mean…we could go about anywhere you want.” He smirked drawing closer to him, “Did you have a favorite place in mind?”

You yelped as he scooped you up into his arms heading for the stairs, “I do.”

You smiled a while later you moved resting your chin on his chest staring up at his face. He smiled at you before reaching over brushing hair from your face, “You are so beautiful.”

“Thanks.” You blushed a little leaning into his hands, “You know, I could get real used to this.”

“To what?” He asked letting his thumb rub against your cheek absently.

“Waking up next to you.” You watched him smile more. You moved to your knees looking at him for a moment before swinging your legs off the bed.

“Where you going?” He moved with you letting his hand trail up your bare back as you searched for something to put on from the floor.

“I am going to make us something to eat. We never had dinner.” You looked back him.

“It’s midnight…stay in bed.” He stared at him.

“3.”

“What?”

“2.”

“Y/N?”

“1.”

His stomach let out a loud low rumble, “Uh…”

“I’ll be back.” You pulled on your robe before leaning down giving him a kiss, “Just relax.”

Relax. He sighed watching you disappear from view letting his head rest against the pillows. Yeah…he could get used of this too.

You came back with some hefty looking sandwiches. He took his as you set yours on the bed walking over to the small tv, “No…really?”

You looked back at the whining man, “This movie is happening…even if we fall asleep watching it.”

He sighed before taking a bite thinking back to what your father had said to him, which got him thinking about her father in general, “Hey can I ask you something?”

“Of course you can.” You sat down picking up your sandwich.

“Your dad…” He looked at you as the movie started in the background, “He’s…sick?”

You took in a breath nodding slowly, “Yeah…cancer.”

“I’m sorry…” You looked at him as he put his sandwich on the bedside table, “It’s bad isn’t it?”

“He’s doing okay, but…doctors aren’t hopeful.” You told him frowning, “You could tell?”

“I’ve been around sick people…” He told you, “He seems like a healthy guy…is it genetic?”

“Uh actually no.” You picked at your sandwich, “You’re right he’s really healthy…was…but three years ago he was at work and that …thing blew up. You know the science thing STAR Labs.”

He listened as you went on, “He was affected like those special people, but…instead of getting fast or…cool powers. His genes mutate too fast I guess. The doctors have tried radiation, surgeries…it always comes back.”

He shut his eyes frowning, “Y/N…I don’t…”

“It’s okay.” You looked at him, “My brother and I we’ve come to terms and so has my dad. Doesn’t make it much easier but…well…you can’t change it.”

“Y/N…you know if you need anything…ever.” He trailed off.

You smiled scooting closer to him looking at the tv, “I know…”

He put his arm around you. The pair of you fell silent watching the film. He smiled every time you started to mutter some line.

Your dad was right…sometimes perspective can change with the people you’re around.

Complicated (Prt2) - Barry Allen x Reader

Complicated (Part 2) - Barry Allen x Reader

A/N: this part is longer cause I couldn’t make it any shorter and make it fit whoops 👀.

Summary: Reader, from Starling city, Oliver’s sister, goes back with Barry to Central City to see particle accelerator turn on & gets a lot more than what they bargained for.

Disclaimer: I’ve never actually watched Arrow, I apologize for that.

Warnings: suggestive themes ig ? swearing

Word count: ‘bout 2,000

Keep reading

AHS: Hotel theory

Okay, so we all know that the Countess has a type: she’s dated Tristan and Dono, she’s marrying Will, and she’s “closely tied” to James March (maybe she was his wife. We don’t know for sure yet). When she saw John at the fashion show and said he was attractive, Dono said “you sure have a type”.
And when she was doing Tristan’s makeup we can remember she muttered “bellissimo…” and then said “you just remind me of someone”. Then, when he asked who turned her, she said it was someone who was even more beautiful than he.
To add to this, Finn Wittrock, when commenting on the photo comparing all the male actors’ faces in AHS said that there may be a small reason as to why they all look similar.
So what do Tristan, Dono, Will, (March maybe) and John all have in common? Dark hair, light skin, attractive features. This may be the Countess’ type.
Hear me out on this yo because this is where it gets kinda strange. What famous vampire with dark hair and light skin could have turned the Countess and caused her to fall in love so deeply that (almost) all her relationships are just attempts to mimic it?
I think maybe Dracula turned the Countess.
I don’t have any proof at all, but I just thought it was a cool theory. He’s a Count, she’s a Countess, and we all know AHS loves incorporating real life or legendary figures into the show (Marie Laveau, Papa Legba, the Black Dahlia, all the murderers on Devil’s Night, etc.). I think it would be cool to see if Ryan Murphy put his spin on the Dracula legend. There was no for-certain cause of Vlad the Impaler’s (the Romanian dude who Dracula was based off of) death, so there’s kind of an open-ended question.
Don’t look too hard for loopholes because there totally are some. The only way I can tie Dracula and the “Bellissimo” line together is that some people think Vlad the Impaler’s tomb was found in Italy. So there’s that.
But time will tell : ) Thanks for reading!!!

The Fire Watcher

The thick darkness of the bitter autumn night was broken by a modest fire, revealing a trio of weary travellers set about the task of not pondering the miles that lay before them the next day. It was late in the year, so the three men lay close to the fickle heat of the burning twigs at their centre. Around them on three sides sat the crumbled ruins of an old farm house. The walls were thick with creeping plants reaching for the now absent roof, and all about the floor lay a dense carpet of wild grass. The three were likely the only living men to have stayed within the walls in living memory.

One man had propped his head against the mossy surface of a fallen piece of masonry. He was staring at the flames, watching the delicate fingers dance around one moment and then vanish in the next. Fascinated, he never broke his gaze. The other two were content to lie on their backs, wishing for sleep that never seemed to arrive.

The fire watcher became overwhelmed by his fascination and reached out his hand. The faintest whisper of a flame reached out a finger-like tendril towards the palm of his hand, separating from the body of the fire. The disembodied flame began to trace circles around the man’s fingers, tracing slow and beautiful shapes in the air. The man pulled his hand close to his face. The flame sat neatly on the palm of his gloved hand, and he continued to stare into the orange glow. His eyes were illuminated, revealing mismatched irises of brilliant blue and deep emerald green. He was unshaven, with a fair face showing only a neutral expression. With a twist of the bare fingers poking through the ends of his leather gloves the flame grew in intensity, but always kept its delicate and controlled shape.

A voice revealed that he had gained an audience.

“Who are you Bartholomew?”

He closed his fist, and the ember was extinguished instantly.

“A lunatic.” The fire watcher responded. “With the knowledge of the sanest of wise men.”

Sir Edmund sat up from his place on the floor.

“I’ve heard of the old saints.” He said, his voice as soft as the flames before him. “I’ve heard of what they could do. They told us all about it back when I was training, they gave be a tome the thickness of the length of my thumb and made me study it until my eyes grew stale. It was incredible really, what they could do. But you. I’ve never heard of you, yet what you can do is beyond anything I have ever read about.”

Bartholomew looked over at Edmund. From the dismal light he could tell he had the Knight’s fullest attention.

“I like my anonymity.” He said. “That way I stay my own man, and not the pawn of anyone looking to use me for any cause that isn’t my own.”

“But Miracles, by their very nature, are no easy feat.” Edmund pressed on. “Back at Haven, I saw some of the monks, most of them over a century old, heal the wounds of the injured in just a few days. I can make the steel of my armour, already a formidable shell, damned near close to unbreakable when I concentrate, and on a good day I might be able to get a small fire going without any flint. But you. There seems to be no limit to what you can do.”

“I have my limits.”

“You don’t seem to. You can do anything it seems to me. I mean, Hell, the first time I met you I stabbed you through the heart, and within a few minutes you were walking around again.”

Bartholomew didn’t speak for a few minutes. He was stuck in thought, pondering how best to respond to a question to which he didn’t truly know the answer. He continued to stare into the flames, perhaps searching for his answer then. When he spoke, he did so calmly and slowly, thinking over each word as he uttered it.

“Have you ever heard of the Holy Wars?” He asked.

“Every young boy grows up hearing the stories of the Old Knights, and how they fought all those centuries ago carrying The Lord’s banner, rather than their own heraldry.” The speaker was John, Edmund’s largely mute squire. He was a youthful yet tenacious man with fire in his past.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of chivalry, of the gracious Knights conducting gentlemanly war. The Holy Wars were different. They have been remembered as war in the name of religion and reverence to Christ, but at the time, they were far from that.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, skewing his head slightly to the side.

“Initially, the wars were no more about ideology than any other war. Sure, there was the added level of antagonism that was conflicting methods of worship, but it was still no more than an attempt to increase the power of the very mortal lords that left from France. The ideology was merely a means of bringing their followers with them.”

“This is touching, Bartholomew, but what does this have to do with anything?” John was obviously irritated with having his beliefs about history being rewritten.

“Let me speak and then I’ll tell you.” Bartholomew shot John a look of equal irritation. “There was, however, a serious turning point for the warriors out in the lands far to the East. One group, led by the living legend that was Bohemond, Prince of Taranto, reached the ancient city of Antioch. The idea was to capture the city on their way to their ultimate goal that was of course the Holy city of Jerusalem. When they arrived, however, it became immediately clear that the Christians were too few to break into the walls of the city, and those within were too few to rid themselves of the Christian invaders. Months passed, and the food ran out. The Christians resorted to the worst possible measure in order to simply survive. People died in their thousands of starvation. The rich could afford to eat, but the poor. Well, they survived however they could.

Then Christmas came, and Christians did what would have seemed absolute insanity to anyone else. They fasted.”

“What?” John exclaimed.

“They cured endemic starvation by fasting?” Edmund was equally sceptical.

“Not directly.” Bartholomew replied. “But in the days of fasting everyone became equal. They marched around the camp, shaving their heads and wearing sack cloth. Priests stood and delivered sermons every hour of every day. They cast out all the whores, they hanged all of those that had done even the slightest wrong in the eyes of God and men alike. All of their time was dedicated to reverence and prayer. They prayed with the righteous temperament of the most dedicated of followers, and at the end of it all they redistributed their resources. Everyone had shared in their torment, but everyone had shared in their rebirth, a rebirth that was fuelled by worship. They cried out to God to beg forgiveness from all their past deeds and swore to dedicate themselves to the task of liberating the Holy Land.

And then, everything changed. Against all odds, the Christians stormed the walls and for the first time in months, they had stone walls around them rather than the exposed plains of the desert landscape.

Within a few days, however, reinforcements arrived at the city, intent of slaughtering every last Christian that had stepped foot on their lands. The Christians were outnumbered, chronically malnourished and almost completely without any horses or equipment. The day was surely lost, were it not for the astonishing Miracle performed by a common priest in their midst.

You see, even in Christ’s lifetime Antioch was an ancient city. After his death, it was widely rumoured that the lance used to pierce his side after he expired on the cross was carried to Antioch. As it happened, a priest found this legendary weapon. At first the warriors of Christ didn’t believe him, so he gave them a demonstration. Clutching the lance in his hand, he walked across a roaring path of fire, braving the inferno with nought but the cloth robes of a monk to protect him. Yet when he emerged, he did so completely untouched by flames. Then the men knew in their hearts that Christ was with them.

The next day, the reinforcements were utterly defeated, leaving the Christians as the absolute victors and conquerors of Antioch. They were outnumbered, outclassed and outmatched in every way except one; their minds.”

Silence fell over their campsite. Edmund shuffled for a moment, John scratched the back of his head.

“It’s a nice story Bartholomew.” John said. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to explain it to me.”

“Scripture makes a very fine point of saying that Christ was killed by crucifixion at the hands of the Roman soldiers, and that the man who stabbed him was a Roman Centurion. Roman’s didn’t use lances as we know them today. They were shorter, and used as javelins. The points were long and weak so they could not have been thrown back by their enemies. The shaft would have long since rotted away and even if the tip had survived, all that would have been left was a thin piece of steel that would have been weathered by over a thousand years of exposure. Whatever the priest found was not the Holy Lance. It was just some spear, probably very common in its design so as to sell the myth. As for the fire, the priest was a known mystic back in France. It would have been difficult, but certainly not impossible using illusionary tactics to make it seem as if he were travelling unscathed through the inferno.

But those soldiers. They did fight against certifiably impossible odds. They fought, and they died, but when the dust had settled and the day was done they stood tall. Because, John, in that moment, everything had come together from the last few months to create the perfect scenario for them. Belief is the very essence of power, and at that moment their power was far greater than anything they had ever experienced before. In that perfect moment, they simply could not have lost, because they had all of the power that they could have possibly wanted and more.”

The trio fell silent once again. It was quiet without their speech, with only the lightest breeze flowing over them soft and gentle as a whisper. The fire had become somewhat dim, making it next to impossible to see each other’s faces.

“You’re saying that your power comes from your belief? But not belief in Christ, you’ve made it clear you are no orthodox follower of his. Your power comes from your simple belief in the fact that you are capable of performing whatever Miracle you choose?” Asked Edmund.

“I believe it is, and so it is.” Bartholomew replied.

“That’s an interesting theory.” The Knight replied.

“How does soldiers winning a battle equate to you being able to cast Miracles?” Asked John.

“The difference is the fact that where once we could only perform Miracles, now we can cast them at will, under the right circumstances. Nothing has changed in their mechanics, it’s just that now belief is more…” He paused for a moment. “…Literal.”

“The priest.” Said Edmund. “The one who supposedly found the Holy Lance. What was his name?”

Bartholomew smiled. The others couldn’t see it through the darkness, yet somehow they could hear that he was smiling through the tone of his voice.

“Peter Bartholomew.”

talysalankil  asked:

I take it you read the new pottermore story. Is it as bad as your tags make it sound?

If you mean the Salem witch trials story–yes, it’s that bad. This is what she had to say about the Salem witch trials:

“The last, and probably the most dangerous problem encountered by wizards newly arrived in North America were the Scourers. As the wizarding community in America was small, scattered and secretive, it had as yet no law enforcement mechanism of its own. This left a vacuum that was filled by an unscrupulous band of wizarding mercenaries of many foreign nationalities, who formed a much-feared and brutal taskforce committed to hunting down not only known criminals, but anyone who might be worth some gold. As time went on, the Scourers became increasingly corrupt. Far away from the jurisdiction of their native magical governments, many indulged a love of authority and cruelty unjustified by their mission. Such Scourers enjoyed bloodshed and torture, and even went so far as trafficking their fellow wizards. The numbers of Scourers multiplied across America in the late seventeenth century and there is evidence that they were not above passing off innocent No-Majs as wizards, to collect rewards from gullible non-magic members of the community.”

“The famous Salem Witch Trials of 1692-93 were a tragedy for the wizarding community. Wizarding historians agree that among the so-called Puritan judges were at least two known Scourers, who were paying off feuds that had developed while in America. A number of the dead were indeed witches, though utterly innocent of the crimes for which they had been arrested. Others were merely No-Majs who had the misfortune to be caught up in the general hysteria and bloodlust.”

This version fucks up several things:

1) The A good number of judges of the Salem witch trials were NOT native to Salem. All  Many of them were brought in from outside the community, and they did not know the people of Salem before coming there. That would seem to make “paying off feuds” a little difficult. 

[ETA on March 12, 2016: I should add that there were three courts, not one; the second court, known as the Special Court of Oyez and Terminer, was the one that condemned nineteen people to hang. The Chief Judge was Lieutenant Governor William Stoughton, and he was appointed by the Royal Governor, William Phips. The associate judges, also appointed by Phips were: Thomas Danforth of Boston, Bartholomew Gedney of Salem, John Hathorne of Salem, John Richards of Boston, Nathaniel Saltonstall of Haverhill, Peter Sargent of Boston, Samuel Sewall of Salem, and Wait Winthrop of Boston. When Nathaniel Saltonstall resigned from the court upon being told that spectral evidence would be admissible, he was replaced by Jonathan Corwin of Salem. So there were four Salemites on the court that condemned people.  

However, the only truly believable Scourer in the group is Hathorne, who was also on the first witch court with Jonathan Corwin, vehemently hated witches and who acted more like an angry prosecutor than a judge. Although Gedney appears to have been easily swayed–he believed that his friend John Alden was guilty after seeing the afflicted girls in action–both he and Corwin only attended the trials of the second court sporadically.  And Samuel Sewall issued a public confession in 1698 expressing his remorse and accepting “blame and shame” for his actions against innocent people…the only judge on any Salem court to do so.]

2) Rowling cannot say that some of the dead were witches but were “innocent of the crimes for which they had been arrested”, because the crime for which they had been arrested was witchcraft. A witch, by definition, would be guilty of witchcraft.

(I think that she was trying to say that the accused witches and wizards had not hexed anyone’s animals, made anyone sick, etc. But those were not separate crimes. They all came under the umbrella of witchcraft. This fact is well-known to students of that era and to legal scholars, which makes the “wizarding historians” that she cites look ignorant by comparison. If you’re writing fake history, you need to make it convincing.)

3) Rowling’s version places the blame on the judges, saying that they were Scourers out to destroy witches and wizards. This completely ignores the fact that everything started because of the “afflicted girls”–girls and young women ranging in age from 9 (Betty Parris) to 25 (Sarah Churchill). If the girls had not started accusing their neighbors (both slave and free) of witchcraft, no one would have sent for the judges.  There would have been no need.

4) The Salem witch trials were not the only witch trials in America.  The earliest arraignment involving colonists was in 1622 Jamestown; the accused was Goodwife Joan Wright. The first execution in the colonies of a suspected witch was Alys Young, who was hanged in Hartford, Connecticut in 1647. There was also a witch hunt in Hartford, Connecticut in 1662. The wizarding historians make it sound as if Salem was the one and only witch hunt, ignoring others in America and numerous witch hunts in Great Britain and on the continent.

5) Nor were the witch trials of 1692-93 the last witch trials in America, as Rowling’s account would suggest. Virginia, Connecticut, Maryland, New Jersey and New Mexico all had witch trials after that, to 1694 to some time after 1762.  And [i]n 1792 Winnsboro,  [South Carolina,] Mary Ingelman, who had a knowledge of “pharmacy…and simple cures,” and three others were found guilty after cattle got sick and people began acting possessed. Mary and the other three were flogged and the bottoms of their feet were beaten until they burst. There was another witchcraft trial in South Carolina in 1813 (the accused, Barbara Powers, was acquitted). And then there was the Ipswich witchcraft trial of 1878, in which Lucretia L. S. Brown, an adherent of the Christian Science religion, accused fellow Christian Scientist Daniel H. Spofford of attempting to harm her through his “mesmeric” mental powers. (The case was dismissed.)

6) If some of the dead were witches–which is by no means proven, but let us accept it hypothetically–then the following plotholes arise:

a) Why did none of them use Apparition to escape from jail or from the hangman’s noose? There were other cities, even other colonies, and some people who had advance warning that they were going to be arrested did flee by both land and sea.

b) People without magic did try to save the accused by means of petitions and pleas to the court.  Why did none of their magical friends or family try to save any of them by using, y’know, MAGIC? Because there is no mention of such attempts in this account.

c) Why did none of the accused use Imperio on the afflicted girls to make them admit that what they were saying was not true–or on the judges to force them to admit publicly that they were biased, out to get them, etc.? 

d) Why were some people spared if they confessed to witchcraft? If the Scourers were out to destroy all witches, surely there shouldn’t have been any survivors.

e) Given that most witches and wizards in America are not purebloods and that many have been born into non-magical families, why does this book dismiss the non-magical victims of the trials as “merely No-Majs who had the misfortune to be caught up in the general hysteria and bloodlust” as if their deaths did not matter?

And that’s without even getting into the issues of racism, classism and accusations for the sake of land grabs, which had a hell of a lot to do with who was accused.