bright bold beautiful

Drowned in moonlight, strangled by her own bra.

The thing that is getting to me the most about news of Carrie Fisher’s autopsy report is not the results themselves, but the way the media is handling it. Like it’s a Gotcha moment—like somehow we were tricked into thinking she was a better person than she actually was.

And that is profoundly bullshit.

Carrie was open about being an addict. Her opening line from her iconic stand up show (and book by the same name) “Wishful Drinking” was quite literally, “Hi, I’m Carrie Fisher, and I’m an alcoholic.”

She talked at length and in often brutal depth about her problems with substance abuse, her compulsive self destructive tendencies, and her dependencies to both illegal and prescription drugs. She wrote about it in her books, she talked about it on talk shows. She made an entire comedic stand up performance out of it, detailing the lengths she went to in order to try and regain some semblance of safety and normalcy in her life. 

She was brutally honest that every single day was a struggle for sanity after years and years of attempting to self medicate a mental illness that for most of her life was mistaken for feckless lack of self control. 

You know how they way “Religion is the opiate of the masses?” Well I took masses of opiates religiously! -Wishful Drinking

She was bright, and beautiful and bold about it. And she didn’t have to be.

Carrie Fisher didn’t have to stand there and take the shitstorm of criticism people launched at her for decades, let alone turn it into humor. She didn’t. She didn’t owe anyone outwith her immediate family an explanation for her erratic behavior over the years, nor the flack she caught for it. (Think of all the male actors in Hollywood who are in and out of rehab centers so quickly they could harness the revolving doors as a wind turbine. Then tell me the media press about her life and now her death are fair.)

But she did it anyway, because she knew it was important. And she took those bright lights of Hollywood shining down on her like a ruthless, malevolent child holding a magnifying glass under the sun—and she turned that merciless heat and pointed it at things that mattered, often at the expense of herself, opening herself up to ridicule and the severe cruelty of others who lambasted her for everything, ranging from her weight, her mental illness or her audacity to simply grow old.

Is it tragic that her addiction likely cost her her life? Yes, of course it is. Does it invalidate any of her achievements? The strength and vibrancy with which she lived her life and touched the lives of millions around her for the better? 

“I call people sometimes hoping not only that they’ll verify the fact that I’m alive but that they’ll also, however indirectly, convince me that being alive is an appropriate state for me to be in. Because sometimes I don’t think it’s such a bright idea. Is it worth the trouble it takes trying to live life so that someday you get something worthwhile out of it, instead of it almost always taking worthwhile things out of you?” 

-The Princess Diarist

Carrie Fisher mattered, her voice mattered. The things that she said and did, mattered. They still matter. And they are no less true and poignant in the light of these revelations.

Addiction is a disease. It’s a dysfunction of the brain’s reward system which requires constant management and care and often goes hand in hand with other mental health disorders. It is not simply a question of willpower or the perceived lack thereof. And while sobriety is to be praised and encouraged—of course it is, of course it absolutely unquestionably is—you cannot possibly know what may cause a person to slip or to feel like they can’t cope without that crutch. And shame on anyone who says it was therefore deserved. 

Shame and my heartfelt wishes that you never go through the things that can lead to serious addiction. Or that you are ever abandoned, derided and regarded as less than human because of it and your death turned into a smear campaign against your memory for the sake of a sensationalist headline.

Yes. Carrie Fisher was an addict, she had drug dependency problems related to her mental health. There was a time she kept it hidden, but after she made the decision to come out about it, she stuck by that decision and became a champion, for herself and everyone like her who struggles. Because she never wanted anyone to suffer like she did in order to get help. And she did it with as much grace and humility as she could manage—and a whole lot more indignity, immodesty, crass humor and love as well. Because that’s who she was and she cared. 

And that’s a hell of a lot more than can be said for those crowing over her death like it’s just deserts.

Fuck you.

People do not exist to stand up to your demands of a perfect ideal of humanity. You do not get to place that burden on the shoulders of someone then tear them apart when they fall under that weight—famous or otherwise.

Fuck you and your whole pretense at moral piety and the horse you rode in on.

Carrie Fisher was not your unproblematic fave. She was in fact extremely problematic, and no one knew that better than she did. 

“I heard someone say once that many of us only seem able to find heaven by backing away from hell. And while the place that I’ve arrived at in my life may not precisely be everyone’s idea of heaven, I could swear sometimes—if I’m quiet enough—I can hear the angels sing. Either that or I fucked up my medication again.” 

-Carrie Fisher, Wishful Drinking.

Roses and rubies grow from your
eyes, bright and bold and
beautiful like you, and
every single time you
call me sweetheart, my red heart
could burst. I think I’ll
always be yours, my scarlet girl.
—  Rebecca // L.H
Josh Dun Imagine

this was kinda a request, I just elaborated and added a bit more.  Idk how I feel about this one, but I hope you guys like it!!

The Man Across The Street

The sun shone heavily on your back causing warmth to spread through your entire body.  It felt nice after spending eight hours in your air conditioned office space on the twelfth floor.  You gripped your briefcase tightly in one hand and stretched your neck side to side before settling in a consistent stride.  

You focused on the ground in front of you, watching as your shadow mimicked your poor posture and flat feet, until something else caught your eye.  

The man across the street walked at an almost identical pace.  You recognized him immediately as the guy who held the elevator door for you just minutes prior.  You’d seen him around the building other times, as well; in the hallways, on the stairs, by the coffee bar on the main floor. That bright pink hair was painstakingly recognizable.  

You pretended to ignore him the entire way home, only throwing glances out of the corner of your eye, until you stopped in front of your building.  You watched for a moment as he continued down the street, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a beige bag, never looking up from his feet.  

- - - - - -

The cool autumn air gave rise to goosebumps all over your body.  You wrapped your sweater around yourself tighter and continued down the cobblestone sidewalk.  You kept your head up, marveling at the infinite shades of golds and reds that had taken over the city.  

Leaves crunched under your flats, making an auditory note of every step you took. It covered up the sound of your breathing, which had grown heavier from the cold air shocking your system.

The man across the street paid no attention to the crunching leaves beneath his feet.  You watched briefly as he kicked a few of them around before continuing on his way.

His hair matched the pink sunset overhead, bright and bold and beautiful.  

It was the last thing you noticed before walking into your apartment for the night.

- - - - - -

Heavy snow fell from the sky.  The street lamps lit up the sidewalk, illuminating the thousands of large flakes around you.  You made a mental note to start wearing heavier boots to work for nights like this.  

You tucked your gloved hands underneath each of your armpits and trudged home, trying to pay attention to each step you took so as not to fall.

The man across the street had a scarf, hat, and mittens on.  You were jealous of how prepared he seemed to be for this snow storm.  You made another mental note for yourself to start checking the weather before leaving for work each morning.

The man walked faster than you.  His winter boots clearly had better traction than your dressy ones.  As he got further ahead, you noticed the back of his hair poking out.  Except, it wasn’t pink, it was yellow.  

You trudged on and used it as your guiding light through the storm the whole way home.

- - - - - -

Spring had always been your least favorite season.  Snow and ice melted with no boundaries, leaving traces of mud all over the sidewalk.  You stomped your bulky boots through scummy puddles and tried not to splash remnants of it everywhere.  

It wasn’t dark yet, which made you feel hopeful that this dirty weather wouldn’t be around for long.  

The man across the street walked without a hat for the first time in months.  You smiled seeing his yellow hair in full for the first time.  It was bright and flashy.  The kind of thing that demanded attention.  It reminded you of blooming flowers and sunshine, infinite growth and beauty.  

You walked home, your strides aligned once again.  And as the sound of snow melting from building tops covered up the sound of your boot’s heavy stomps, you couldn’t help but notice his bright hair out of the corner of your eye the entire way home.  

- - - - - -

The first thing you noticed upon leaving work was how freeing it felt to be outside once again without a heavy jacket weighing you down.  You had brought one, just in case, but it lingered in your arms, unneeded and more of a burden than anything as you started your walk home.  Summer was just visible in the horizon, but the weather still fluctuated between sunny and warm and breezy and cool, so it was impossible to ever be fully prepared.

The second thing you noticed upon leaving work was that the man across the street wasn’t there.

He’d been particularly easy to spot in the last few months with his yellow hair, but as you scanned the other side of the road, up and down, he was no where to be found.  Your heart sunk a little, which surprised you.  But you justified your disappointment as normal.  He had become a part of your routine, just like eating a peanut butter and fluff sandwich everyday was.  Your heart would sink if you opened your lunchbox to bologna, just as it did in the man’s absence.  Nothing strange or unusual about being effected by a disrupted routine.  

You frowned slightly before deciding it was time to head home.  You walked for less than a minute before you heard rapid footsteps behind you and felt someone grip your elbow.

“Hi honey, how was your day?” A man’s voice asked.

You instinctively tried to jerk your arm away, but the grip was too strong.  When you turned to look at who was grabbing you, you were shocked to see the man with yellow hair.  

He leans down, close enough so that you can smell him, and whispers in your ear, “Someone’s following you.”

Once he’s confident you’re not going to shove him away, the man loops his arm with yours, leading you down the road en route to your apartment.   He casts a couple glances over his shoulder, subtly trying to see if the person following you had gone.  On his second glance, he sighs a breathe of relief and loosens his grip on your arm.

“He turned around.”

You automatically let go of his arm.

“Who was it?” you ask.

“I didn’t recognize him, which is what made me nervous… I’d never seen him before.”

You nod, exhaling the anxiety that had been building up inside of you.  “Well, thanks. I appreciate it”

You were relieved to see you apartment building just over the hill.  You didn’t feel much like walking alone the rest of the night.

The man nodded and extended his hand, “I’m Josh, by the way.”

You smiled, taking his hand in yours and shaking it, “Y/N.” you introduced.  

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he grinned.  

You thought about his comment later that night as you laid in bed.  You found yourself wondering if Josh had noticed your presence on the opposite side of the street as much as you’d noticed his.  

- - - - - -

You felt slightly paranoid walking home the next day.  You immediately noticed Josh across the way, which felt increasingly comforting, but you couldn’t help feel like someone was lingering behind you as you made your walk down the sidewalk.  

You kept casting glances towards Josh.  You found yourself wondering things about him, like which floor he worked on or what his inspiration for his sporadic hair colors were.  Every time you would gaze for too long, he’d glance over and you’d quickly look away in response.  You really had to work on your staring problem.  

After three different occasions of awkward eye contact with Josh, you watched out of the corner of your eye as he looked both ways, then started jogging across the street.  

“Hey,” he called, as he hurried to catch up to you.  You stopped, of course, baffled and unsure as to whether or not he was talking to you.  “Mind if I walk with you?”

You froze then, wondering immediately if the same person was following you again.  

Josh noticed the fear on your face and put his hands up, “It’s okay to say no…” he says.

You lower your voice and try to whisper loud enough for just him to hear, “Are they following me again?”

“What?” Josh asks, confused momentarily before understanding what you were referencing, “Oh… no! No, no.  I just thought maybe we could walk together tonight.”

You sigh a breathe of relief before smiling, “Yeah, that would be really nice.  I’d like that.”

The two of you walked, side-by-side, step-by-step, all the way home.  

You asked about his hair.  The burning thought that had been on your mind for so long was finally set free.  It turns out, Josh was bored by routines, but his hair was one thing he could be spontaneous about.  The pink was an after-effect of a wild red.  The yellow brightened his gloomy winter.

“What color is next?” you had asked.  

“Only time will tell,” he says, his eyes shimmering.

Josh walked you right up to your apartment door before saying goodbye.  You were so intrigued by everything he had to say, and had to admit you were disappointed to be at your doorstep.  It was the first time you’d ever wished your walk home was longer.  

- - - - - -

Every day in the weeks to follow, Josh was waiting outside of the building by the time you got out of work.  His face always breaks into the same, huge smile when he sees you walking through the double doors, and you can never help but reciprocate.  

You talk the entire way home, learning about each other.  Likes, dislikes, pet peeves, funny childhood stories.  Josh was a man of infinite laughter and curiosity.  You looked forward to walking home with him daily.  It was, often times, what got you through until five o’clock.  

“How was work?” he asks, one evening, extending his arm for you to take.

You’re surprised by his gesture, but ultimately flattered.  You latch on, and start walking with him down the cobblestone.

“It was long,” you respond. “How was yours?”

“Also long, equally boring.  Why do we work these jobs?” he asks.

You shrug, “Gotta pay rent I guess.”

“I’m serious though— I mean.  I hate my job, I don’t get why I do it.”  

He’s silent for a moment, like he’s thinking hard.  “What would you do—“ he finally says, “if you didn’t have to worry about rent or bills?  If you could do anything?”

You furrow your brow, thinking about his question, “I suppose I’d travel.”

“Where?”

“Europe, I think.”

“Have you ever been?”

You shake your head.  “No, I mean, I have work…”

“I think that’s a crime.”

You frown, “What do you mean?”

“That’s your dream, right?  To go to Europe.   And you’ve never been because of some dumb job you don’t even like.”

“Yeah,” you agree, “But I have responsibilities.  I’m committed to my job.  People count on me.”

“To what? Fax papers for them?  It doesn’t really mean anything.  Neither of our jobs do.”

You frown at Josh’s remark, offended by his blunt tone.

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at,” you say honestly.

He shakes his head, “Nothing.  I’m just… bored.”

The two of you walk the rest of the way in silence.

- - - - - -

Josh isn’t waiting for you the next day.  He’s not across the street either.  

You walk the entirety of the way home without any pinks or yellows to brighten your day.

You hate how much it bothers you.

- - - - - -

You accept Josh’s outstretched arm, “Where were you yesterday?” you ask.

“Just a personal day,” he says.  “Stayed home.”

“Oh… Well, I missed you.”

“Aw, you flatter me.”

“I mean it!” you say, “Walking home with you is my favorite part of the day.”

Josh stiffens beside you.  You try to gage what he’s thinking by his face, but it’s too stoic.  

“See?” he says, “How pathetic is it that a walk home with me is the highlight of your day?”

That was definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.  You let go of his arm and step away from him.  

You can’t really think of a response or defense, but it was clear that Josh didn’t feel the same way.  

“Your life is boring.  Just admit it!  It has no meaning behind it.  No passion.  You do the same thing everyday, hoping that eventually, you’ll be happy.  Or satisfied, or whatever it is.  But you’re lying to yourself.”

“You don’t know anything about my life,” you say back sharply.  “I like my job, and I like my life, just the way it is.  Not all of us need radical hair colors and spontaneous life choices to be happy.  Get off your high horse and don’t pretend like you know what’s good for me.”  

Josh bites his lip, but has no response, so instead, you shake your head before picking up your pace, leaving him behind.

You ignore him as he calls after you.

- - - - - -

You make an effort to rush out of the building the next day, hopeful that you won’t run into Josh.  Luckily, you’re out a solid ten minutes quicker than usual, and by the time you’re turning the corner on the cobblestone steps, he’s nowhere to be seen.  


You walk the whole way home alone.  

- - - - - -

This pattern continues until Friday when you’re forced to stay until five o’clock on the dot.  You try not to think about seeing Josh outside as you ride the elevator down to the main floor, but as soon as you push through the double doors and look to the street, you see him.  If he hadn’t been standing right by the lamp pole, you probably wouldn’t have recognized him.  His hair was no longer bright or flashy.  Instead, it was dulled down to an off-brown color.  It didn’t catch your attention by any means and you frowned at the sight of it.  

You almost skipped right over to him, before you remembered that you were mad for insulting your “boring life”.  You huffed a little before walking down the steps and turning the corner, hoping to avoid his attention.

You should be so lucky,

“Hey!” he calls, rushing up behind you.

You ignore him and keep walking.

“Wait up!” he hollers.  “Y/N, stop!”

“What do you want, Josh?” you snap, whipping around to face him.

He stops dead in his tracks, clearly taken aback by your harsh tone.  The look on his face makes you feel slightly guilty for being to abrupt, but you hold your ground.

He scratches the back of his neck, looking anxious.  He takes a deep breath before speaking.

“I just wanted to say goodbye.”

Your angry frown turns to confusion as his words sink in.

“Goodbye?” you ask, your tone civil again.

“Yeah, I quit.”

“You what?” you gasp.

“I quit my job.  Just now actually.”

“Wh— what?  Why?” you sputter.

“The only thing keeping me going, was the idea that everyone else was just as miserable as I was doing what I did.  But not you.  You’re happy.  And you were right… I shouldn’t have judged you.  I was wrong to assume that everyone was as depressed as me.  But… I just.. It made me realize that I needed to get the hell out of here.”

You listen to his words, letting it sink in that he truly meant it.  He was leaving.  You shouldn’t be as upset as you were.  Selfishly, you were mourning the infinite number of walks you thought the two of you had in the future.  But hearing Josh admit to his misery made you logically ignore the voice in your head begging him to stay and instead ask him a question.

“What happened to your hair?”

He smiles, looking up to his forehead, as if he could see it in his peripherals.

“I don’t need interesting hair anymore, cause I’m going to have an interesting life.”

- - - - - -

Summer fades fast and the warm, humid air is replaced by a brisk breeze.  You crossed your arms across your chest and shivered as the night set in.  You were grateful to be wearing a hat on top of your head and a scarf around your neck.  You let your eyes scan your surroundings, marveling at the infinite shades of golds and reds that had once again, taken over the city.  

Leaves fell, crunching and blowing every which way, as autumn swept through, clearing out the old and making room for the new.  

You stopped dead in your tracks at the turn with the cobblestone steps and gazed adoringly at the melted sunset in the horizon.  The pouring pinks and blistering yellows caught your eye, reminding you of the man across the street and being your guiding light all the way home.  

anonymous asked:

I wish you would write a fic where Hoopkins are at their first Pride Parade together

OMG I love this prompt! I’m going to my first pride this year too so <3 <3 <3 also on ao3 here


She breathes in the smell of face paint, feels her very chest vibrate with the music, hears Stella’s raucous chanting of “Every woman is a lesbian at heart” and laughs for the sheer joy of it. 

Molly Hooper is used to the assumptions. She’s heard it at school, and noticed how some labels try to follow her. Wallflower. Unnoticeable. 

And she always wondered why other labels stuck more than others, why some things were assumed, and why she could never challenge…

But now, she realises she can change that. Her eyes well up as Stella takes picture after picture of the floats and flags. This is Their Day. This is her day.

“Hooper!” Stella calls, jokingly using her work voice, before slipping back to a gleeful: “C’mon, Molly, don’t daydream, look!

Molly thinks of replying “I’m not daydreaming”. She thinks of telling Stella how much this means, everything she’s been thinking, she wants to gush, wants her to know all. Tonight, she decides.

For now, she holds Stella’s hand for the whole of London, for the whole world to see, holds it tight and proudly. This is who they are. And today they are bright and bold and beautiful. 


Send me an ask completing the sentence “I wish you would write a fic where…”

blue

@buzz-cat​ asked: Can I prompt Darcy x Tony with the soulmate AU, but with the idea that you can’t see whatever color their eyes are until you meet them? (ex. can’t tell what color the ocean is until you meet your blue-eyed soulmate)?

Here’s a different take on the soulmate au – not just with seeing color as the soulmate-indicator, but also with the writing style of this prompt being a little more introspective. A bit cheesy and fluffy, but it’s a nice break from the darkness of the previous prompt and all the angst that came before. Thanks for prompting!


When Tony made the Mark I of the Iron Man suit, he chose hot rod red and goldenrod yellow for the color scheme – flashy colors, bordering obnoxious, that he knew every single person could see. The point was to stand out, and when a good chunk of the world couldn’t see greens, or blues, or even browns – not that he’d ever choose those colors, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered – what use was there in picking those colors for his precious suit? 

Except… well, blues – he didn’t really know about blues. Pepper’s eyes were blue, but to Tony they looked a flat grey, odd against her bright hair and pale skin. To her, she couldn’t see browns, but Tony figured that there wasn’t much missed in a world like that. He was always more of a steel and glass kind of guy anyways, and since brown was likened to earth and wood most of the time, Tony always happily passed.

His own eyes were brown – dark brown, nearly black in fact, but he figured that his soulmate got the better end of the deal. He didn’t know what the sky, or the sea really looked like – all he saw were greys, shifting and sliding into purples and pinks and reds at dawn and dusk, and then into slate black at night. He’d asked Pepper to describe it  to him, but he couldn’t picture how a color could be both soothing and electric, or stormy and calm. It made no sense to him – if anything, blues sounded like they were the ultimate mood swing, with a spectrum broad enough to make anyone’s head spin.

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sky full of stars

summary: “You mean more to me than you’ll ever know. So how can I take the chance that I’ll lose that? What would I do if you know who I am underneath the mask doesn’t match up to how you think of Ladybug?” - Ladybug confesses her fears, Marinette spreads her wings, and the stage is under a canopy of stars winking down at them.
a/n: Oh look. A reveal fic. Because that’s never been done by anyone before. ^_^ Hope you enjoy!


Whisked away by the lull of Parisian nights, they leapt through the cobblestone streets and across the arched rooftops with a wild, reckless abandon. Not without rhyme or reason, of course, for the two of them were the eyes in the shadows, the angels in the skies that protected people from the literal nightmares. However, the way of good intentions came from youthful rebellion crafted and mended together with a welding purpose or cause.

This particular night started as a race, then a gamble on each other’s pride. Hopping from point-a to stretch-b, surprising the other within the nooks and crannies of the streets with no names. The names blended together and splattered a new identity with mannerisms and characteristics, and Ladybug honestly couldn’t tell the difference without the smells or looks anymore. 

Eventually, they reached a respite. Chat Noir perched, concealed within a shadowed part of the Eiffel Tower’s infrastructure, whilst she took a step out into the city of light, and basked in the gentle hum of the cars below. 

“Are you tiring yet, my Lady? I think you should rest a while, even allow me the pleasure of carrying you. Maybe good luck doesn’t extend to natural talent after all?”

She turned to see that familiar smirk playing on those lips, and folded her arms. “You are sweet to offer, Chat. But they say cats are tricky to reveal the truth, and you’ve never laid anything out without there being another meaning. Perhaps it’s you that’s tired?”

A laugh escaped her lips, and their banter ends on a high.

Ladybug sighed as she sat down, dangling her legs in the open air. The cityscape breezes whistled around her feet, urging her to retreat to the safety of the inside, but she had never been one to listen to nature.

“It’s… been over a year now, hasn’t it?”

“Mm.” His gentle hum grew louder as he took a seat beside her.

Ladybug folded her hands in her lap. “Do you think we’re any closer to finding where these attacks are coming from? So we can…”

Go back to a normal life.

Keep reading

storm with skin » the delacour sisters

Fleur and Gabrielle, the two sisters that took southern France into a whirlwind.

Regardless of what other countries and wizarding schools thought about them, Beauxbatons did not produce many Veelas amongst them. More than other wizarding schools, yes — but even then, Veelas were also a rarity. The two sisters made heads turn in the corridors, Veela blood running through their veins, and they knew it.

Eleven years between them, they were hardly ever together around the school, yet people still referred to them as often as a pair. Gabrielle had only just started when Fleur was in her final years at Beauxbatons, and the news that not only one, but now two part-Veelas were living in the same walls as them… Well.

Still, the two were closer and loyal to each other than anyone would think. Alike in so many ways, it was hard for their personalities to clash. Same eyes, same long locks, same bone structure, same elegant nature. Rather, if they were the same age, they would have passed as twins.

Fleur Isabelle, born the eldest of the girls. She knew of her beauty from the day people payed her attention, and she wasn’t afraid to admit it at all. Blunt and harsh, it was easy for her to get away with it whilst growing up, as so little people decided to ever call her out on it. Even as she visited Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament year, and she saw the looks people gave her, she didn’t particularly care. Words travelled from people’s whispers to her ears and she knew what they were all saying — arrogant, rude, snobbish. And she heard the rumours, the lack of belief from everyone on whether or not she could win the Tournament. Underestimated, again and again, because she simply looked beautiful. Her nose in the air, she learnt from a young age not to let people get to her, however. She knew she was strong, she knew shed was brave, she knew she was loyal. And in the war? She was as good as another soldier.

The youngest daughter of their parents, Gabrielle Aurelia knew she could get away with almost anything. Spoilt by default, she quickly picked up that she could flash a charming smile and there would people willing to do her bidding. She positively idolised her older sister, who set her good examples after good examples, and defended Fleur with undying passion. She could be heard at almost every opportunity she could get telling classmates that that was her sister in the Tournament, representing the school. And, when she woke up, soaking wet from the Lake at Hogwarts, she could see her sister’s ashamed (yet worried) face and Harry Potter’s pale one both staring down at her. For the first time in a very long time, she was bashful as she developed a very childish crush on the Boy Who Lived, until she saw Fleur’s sister-in-law glaring at her only a few years later.

Remember that? The Delacour sisters… Bright, beautiful, bold. Those two girls could bring the world to its feet.

I am a storm,
Breaching waves crashing onto rocks,
Strong enough to carry you away.

I am the dirt on my hands and feet,
Telling of where I’ve been,
What I’ve done and what I’ve seen.

I am a sunset,
Bright and bold, beautiful,
Ever changing and everlasting.

I am the dark of night,
Isolating and silent,
Terrifying, empty yet full.

I will remind you of these things,
You left yet you cannot escape,
You will think of me with every,
Lightning strike,
Muddy puddle,
Sunny day,
Lonely night.

For I am more than you could handle,
I am Mother Nature herself.

I am a force to be reckoned with.

—  “Force of Nature” by Samantha Piel