I was wondering, what if Harry and Hermione had met before Hogwarts?
The first time Harry Potter met Hermione Granger, she was standing with her chin up and her hands on her hips a few paces from the old olive tree in the schoolyard, glaring into the far distance. The wind was trying to twist and buffet her hair into her face, but mostly it was just tangling cheerfully with itself.
Dudley and Piers were busy kicking all the other kids off the play structure, so Harry had retreated out into the grass. He stood a safe distance from the weird girl who was pretending to be a statue and thought wistfully of lunch.
“There’s a fallen bird’s nest,” the girl said in a rapid and certain tumble of syllables. “The boys knocked it out of the tree, but I chased them off and I’m hoping the mama bird comes back. I’m Hermione Granger. We just moved here.”
“Harry,” he said.
“How’d you get that scar?” she said.
“That’s a weird scar for a car accident.”
Harry shrugged. “It killed my parents.”
She blinked quickly at him and even at that distance he wished vaguely that she wore glasses, too, because her gaze was something that really felt like it should have some built-in bluntedness. “Mine are dentists. Mum’s taking me to the library after school, want to come?”
Before they went into Diagon Alley, Harry asked Hagrid if they could find a payphone. Hermione picked up on the first ring.
“Harry! Where have you been? I’ve been trying and trying to call–”
“Sorry, yeah. Um, so, I’m not coming back to school next year, I…” Harry drifted off, staring at Hagrid’s massive moleskin shoulders. The giant man saw him looking and gave him a tentatively cheerful little wave. “It’s been weird, Herm.” He pressed his forehead into the phone stand, but not too hard. “I think you’re the only thing I’m really going to miss.”
“Harry,” Hermione said and Harry started to frown, because that wasn’t her stern and startled voice. That was the voice that meant she was off down a charging war path of other thought and might not have heard him at all. “I’ve been reading.”
“Of course you’ve been reading,” he said. “I’ve been being forcibly hidden from a swarm of post office owls–”
“You’re in books,” she said in breathless delight, squeaking over the telephone line. “First thing we did, of course, after the professor explained, was get her to escort us to a bookstore– a whole bibliography, Harry, a whole world’s bibliography I haven’t even touched– how am I ever going to–” She took in a little calming breath, and murmured, “Different infinities, it’s okay, Hermione, okay.” A sharp exhale and then she tumbled right back into her rushing rivelet of a sentence. “And I picked up a good dozen, besides the school books, of course, and Harry, you’re in books, in Dark Wizardwork of This Century and A Modern Wizards’ History and October’s End: A Biography–”
“Hermione,” said Harry with slow enunciation. “Are you a wizard, too?”
“A witch, I think,” she said. “But I’m still reading up on the sociology of it all.”
Hagrid wouldn’t say Voldemort’s name, but Hermione would. She came over with a stack of books up to her chin, gave the Dursleys her normal pointed little stare that said she’d like to set them a little on fire, and curled up in his cupboard with him.
He supposed she probably could learn how to set them on fire, now, if she really wanted to.
She gave him passages and excerpts with his name in them, with his parents’ names, a home he hadn’t known. There were pictures of a ruined house with the smoke drifting in little curls of ink. There was his mother, smiling and waving in black and white. There was his mother, laid out on the floor, with a sober little caption below it. That picture was still, except for curtains fluttering in the window.
Hermione finally dragged her face far enough up from the pages to see Harry holding his own hand very tightly, and then she closed the book and reached for one about which magical creatures you should pet and which you shouldn’t.
“Sorry,” she said.
“I wanted to know.”
“I’m still sorry.”
The Grangers drove Harry, Hermione, Hedwig, and their trunks to King’s Cross Station. Mrs. Granger kissed the top of Hermione’s head while Mr. Granger mussed Harry’s mop of dark hair affectionately, and then they swapped children and repeated the treatment. Hermione pushed her hair back out of her face and marched them all to Platform 9 ¾, the entrance mechanism of which she had read all about.
“Before you go,” Mrs. Granger said, “let’s buy you some sandwiches? I don’t know what sort of food they’ll have past that–”
“There’s a trolley,” Hermione said, but her parents dragged them off to a snack kiosk anyway, Harry happily in tow.
As they were on Hermione’s tight schedule, there were plenty of compartments open, and they took one all to themselves– well, to themselves, Hedwig, and Hermione’s books, which took up two seats. (Harry would wheedle Hagrid into taking him to Diagon Alley for Christmas shopping that year, where he would get Hermione a carry-all bag for her small personal library.)
Hermione took a long preparatory breath while Harry unwrapped his sandwich. “Harry? What if I go and sit down under the Hat and I just sit and sit there, and then it says I’m not a witch at all?” Hermione said, the words getting more squashed together and higher-pitched as she went. “I’m not magic, it just got confused, and they send me home? Harry, I don’t want to be a dentist. Other people’s mouths are disgusting–”
“You’re not going to get kicked out,” Harry said, chewing amiably on his sandwich. It was not good, but the Dursleys hadn’t bothered with any breakfast for him and he hadn’t wanted to bother the Grangers about it either. It was a bit dry on the way down, but it settled warmly in his belly.
“But what if I do?”
“I’ll stage a protest,” said Harry. “Refuse to do my homework til they reinstate you.”
“You’re not going to do your homework anyway.”
“See how dedicated I am to you.”
She made a dismissive little noise at him, wringing her hands in her lap.
“Hermione,” he said, and she lifted her bush of hair to look at him. “You’re the most magical person I know. It’s gonna be alright.”
She gave a long slow blink but whatever she might have said was interrupted by an uneven knock at the door. “Um,” said the pudgy boy standing there. “I’ve lost my toad.”
Hermione leapt to her feet. “Where did you see him last?”
Harry followed in the wake of her forward charge, but he brought the rest of his sandwich with him.
(Harry did not know this and would not know this until Mrs. Granger mentioned it casually over a Christmas dinner years and years later– but she and Mr. Granger reported the Dursleys for child abuse and neglect, over and over.
The reports got lost– minds scrubbed down, papers vanished– but they kept calling in reports. They considered kidnapping. They couldn’t imagine why the wizarding world might want to keep their chosen one somewhere so toxic, why they might want to keep this underfed child and his messy hair with those people.
“My mother left me a blood protection spell,” said Harry, whose scar had not ached in years. He poked at his mashed potatoes under the focused attention of Mrs. Granger’s stern little forehead wrinkle. “I had to live with family, blood family.”
“Then they should have made them treat you right,” Mrs. Granger said, as though it was that simple.
Mr. Granger gave Harry another helping of peas.)
On the steps of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy thrust out his hand to the Boy Who Lived, who surveyed the open palm with amusement. “Thanks,” said Harry. “But I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself.”
The redheaded, freckly, hand-me-down clothes boy Malfoy had been bothering snorted. Harry slipped his hands into his pockets.
“You’re the kid with the rat from the train,” Hermione said. “And the spell that didn’t work.”
“It was a cool rhyme anyway, though,” Harry said. “Hi, I’m Harry, this is Hermione.”
“Yeah, she said, then. I’m Ron– uh, Ron Weasley.”
“Yeah, he said,” Harry said, rolling his eyes Malfoy’s direction. “Come on, you wanna stand with us? Hermione will tell you about the ceiling.”
“It’s enchanted!” said Hermione.
When Hermione founded SPHEW, Harry was not surprised. He had spent too many schoolyard days escorting spiders to safe spaces, keeping vigil over fallen bird’s nests, and watching Hermione stand up on her desk chair in heated pitched verbal battles with teachers. She’d driven at least two teachers to tears and taught most of them at least a few new vocabulary words.
Over summers and holidays, Harry and Hermione took Ron to the movies, to the seashore, to Hermione’s top three favorite libraries. Hermione’s Aunt Meg taught them how to whittle under a cloud of cigarette smoke that clung to Harry’s hair until he washed it out.
In this life, there were things in the Muggle world that Harry missed, that he wanted to see again. He loved Hogwarts, and he nominally went home to the Dursleys each summer, but he knew he always had a bed at the Grangers’. He knew the weird system they used to organize the books on their shelves. He’d pass Mrs. Granger the marmalade in mornings before she had to ask. He got free dental check-ups all his life, which was good because the Dursleys rarely bothered taking him into the dentist.
The whole Granger family tore apart newspapers every morning, calling article excerpts across the table and pointing each other to their favorite journalists. Before Hermione even first stepped onto Hogwarts grounds she got a subscription to the Daily Prophet. During Harry’s fourth year, Mr. and Mrs. Granger got Arthur Weasley to buy them an owl and then began an unending campaign of furious letters to the editor that never got published.
In a crumbling boat shed, Severus Snape died, but first he pressed a shining bundle of memory into Harry’s hands.
The fight was still going– Neville newly broad and certain; Luna whipping out quiet, barbed little curses; Ginny charging like an army in and of herself. Hermione had her arms full of basilisk fangs. Ron was moving people like bishops and knights. But Harry had a long damp walk before him, so he had time to wade through that life not his own.
Severus had been a lot of things– one of them was in love. Harry dragged his feet through forest mulch, seeing a little redheaded girl in sunlight, hands not his own offering her transformed flowers. It had been just them for so long. For Severus, for so long, there had been no one but him and Lily.
Even in Hogwarts, Severus had drifted through the classrooms and common room and library. He had believed in magic, in the cool slide of good knives through dried roots, and in Lily– always, always in Lily– Lily in sunlight, Lily chewing on her thumbnail over Transfiguration homework, Lily flicking soapsuds at him in her kitchen at home over summer, Lily pig-tailed and seven, wide-eyed as he showed her the first magic she’d ever seen, a leaf to a flower, a bit of sunlight to a bit of fire.
He had loved, and it had been a real thing. He had fucked up, and it had been a real thing, that heartbreak, that regret.
When Harry turned the Stone in his hand and saw his mother step into pseudo-life in that forest clearing, he thought I wish I’d known you. He thought about how she was in sepia and gray, here, just like in the pictures in the pages of Hermione’s books.
But he was also thinking about Severus. He was remembering Lily in sunlight, remembering her walking away, remembering her in that same cold photographed sprawl but in color–in grief–in bruised knees and heaving gasps.
Severus had been the first to find Lily’s body and it had felt like someone had cut the sunlight out of him. Harry was living through that grief, but he was also living through the wail of the child crying unacknowledged. His tiny pudgy hands were wrapped around the guardrail of his crib.
Harry was thinking about a girl standing in a field like a statue, hands on hips. He was thinking about Hermione’s raised hand ignored in Potions, or the way Snape had sneered that he didn’t see a difference in her cursed teeth. Love had made him brave, perhaps. It had killed him, but it had not made Severus good.
Harry wondered if his mother would have escorted spiders to safe places, if she would have stood guard over fallen bird’s nests, if she had worried herself to pieces that first time on the Hogwarts Express about the Hat telling her she didn’t really belong.
“I wish I’d known you,” he told the specter of Lily Potter. He held his own hands tight.
For Harry, for so long, there had been no one but him and Hermione. Even in Hogwarts, there were things only she would understand– parking meters, the cobweb ceiling of his cupboard, the silence of marmalade at breakfast. Harry believed in magic and he believed Hermione Granger was the most magical thing he knew.
“They’ll be alright,” he said. “I’ll be alright. I was alright, mum. I wish I’d known you– but I wasn’t alone.” He squeezed his hands tighter– Hermione showing him her favorite spots in her favorite libraries; Ron shyly showing them the Burrow like it was anything less than a magnificent masterpiece of warm rooms and patchwork architecture; Hermione standing in the field like a statue, bushy-haired and seven years old, jaw set. “She wasn’t alone, either,” he said. “And she’ll be alright. Ron will be alright. I have to do this, don’t I?”
“We are so proud of you,” Lily said.
“Thanks,” said Harry. “Sorry,” said Harry, and wondered if Hermione was going to be able to read the little passages and excerpts with his name in them, with those un-moving pictures and the sober captions underneath.
He dropped the Stone.
When Harry Potter died for the first time, crumpled in forest mulch, he didn’t go to a squeaky clean King’s Cross Station. There were no crescent moon glasses to twinkle kindly at him.
He stood under an old olive tree and a little girl looked up at him with those eyes that needed shielding, needed blunting, needed a manufacturer’s warning. “A wind’s coming,” she said. “You can just go. It will be easy.”
He stood outside Diagon Alley, a Muggle payphone tucked between his shoulder and ear. “You’re in books,” she said, with a breathlessness he’d barely heard for years. There had been too much weight on his shoulders, on hers. “You’re done,” she said. “You’ve done enough. Go on, tap three bricks up and two to the left.”
He stood in Godric’s Hollow, in the snow, holding her hand, looking at the ruined house. “You should have had this,” she said. She was seven and small, not nineteen and weary like she had been in life. The sky was overcast but there was sunlight glinting in her hair. “You can still have this. You can have everything.”
“You’re not real,” Harry said.
“But you are,” she said. “There’s a wind coming. It will be easy.”
“You’ve never done anything easy in your life,” he said.
She took both his hands– hers were so small against his grown fingers, his broad palms, and how had they done everything with hands that small? Basilisks and werewolves; shouting down teachers from atop desk chairs.
Harry was sitting in his cupboard in the light of its single bulb and he was too big for this space, his shoulders curling forward, his head bowing. She was standing there with sunlight still in her hair and her arms piled high with books. “You don’t belong here,” she said. “It will hurt. You won’t fit, if you go back. Everything can be easy. Everything can be fine. It doesn’t have to hurt, ever again.”
“Hermione,” he said and leaned forward, put his hands on her hands where they were gripping her books. “It’ll be alright.” He smiled and she was staring at him with those eyes, those goddamn eyes. “We never fit, remember?”
“We tried,” she said and Harry squeezed her small hands gently.
“Send me back,” he said. “I want to go home.”
After the battle, as Hogwarts rang with frantic healing, crushing grief, and raging celebration, the three of them retreated to the library. Hermione hauled them down narrow aisles until she found her favorite tucked-away nook and they all collapsed on sagging sofas that seemed to not have been touched at all by the war.
“Well,” said Hermione. “What now?”
Ron let his head flop back against the seat, hair tumbling all over his pale forehead. “I’m going to nap,” he said. “For a month.”
“That’s not physiologically possible,” said Hermione. “Or if it is, then it’d be a coma.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Ron said, then: “no, wait, a hyperbole.” Hermione beamed at him. He blushed a little and elbowed her gently.
“After this, you’ll be in books, you know,” Harry told her.
“Not– I mean–” Hermione rubbed at her nose furiously. Ron laughed enough to wake up and sit up, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
While Ron came up with outlandish titles for Hermione’s eventual many biographies, Harry pulled his feet up onto the sofa. He watched the candles float quietly between the shelves.
“none of us is hiding sirius black under our cloaks,” remus said when professor mcgonagall stopped him and peter in the hall after a dung bomb incident, struggling to keep a straight face while james was hiding himself and sirius under his invisibility cloak just feet away from them.
“none of us is hiding sirius black under our cloaks,” remus said when the dementor came gliding into the compartment, struggling to keep a straight face while the ghost of sirius’ muffled giggles rang through his head and james potter’s son was sat just feet away from him.
This works for film/TV as well as for a checklist for an entire novel chapter. Decided to make this because I used to have a lot of trouble figuring out how to structure a scene.
Introduce the scene’s characters, situation, time, and place. Basically, let us know how the setting has changed since the last scene (if at all).
This shouldn’t be too long or drawn out (unless you have good reason to). This is just to orientate the audience. And if the scene/story calls for it, you don’t have to orientate them to all four; characters, situation, time, and place. In a mystery, you may not let the audience know everyone who is present, what time it takes place, where, etc. Only do what’s necessary for them to not be too disoriented.
Complication of the situation; intensify or complicate the main conflict; introduce a new conflict. This is the gist of scene, which takes up the most word count/screen time.
Situation/conflict of the scene is directly addressed or confronted. This is what the gist of the scene has been building up to; the highest moment.
Often times this is the shortest part of the scene since it is a single moment.
Conflict either appeased, put off, or ended; hint of new conflict/situation. Unless this is the final scene, I like to think of this as the SET UP for the next respective scene/chapter.
Rise of new conflict/situation. Usually, the next scene’s conflict is clearly stated in the conclusion, or at least overtly hinted at.
EXAMPLE SCENE: Airplane ride through a storm.
Milo and Alisha are on a passenger plane, headed through the Bermuda Triangle.
This could be stated in one sentence: “Milo shoved Alisha’s carry-on bag into the overhead compartment, taking care not to squash their lunch.”
Milo is nervous about planes, and it is no help that there is supposed to be a storm. Alisha assures him they’ll be alright.
This is the gist of the scene and can carry on for several pages as they talk about his anxiety, what they’re going to do when they land, etc.
The plane hits severe turbulence due to an intense downburst.
As I said before, stating the climax doesn’t take very long at all since it is, in fact, only a single moment: “The plane lurched downward and the emergency masks dropped with it.”
The pilots lose control; oxygen masks deploy; panic ensues in the cabin.
This could take some time, but usually doesn’t. Once the climax is reached, you’ve now begun setting up for the next scene.
The plane crashes on a strange island.
You could end a scene like this right as they crash; you could end it a bit after the crash as they bear witness to the aftermath. Personally, and for the most part, I would end the scene at the impact, or just after, and save the aftermath for the next scene.
If this seems really simplified, that’s because it is. It may seem like it’ll make your scene short and choppy, but trust—it won’t. These are simply beats in your scene that you need to hit for the scene to seem plausible; and it isn’t even necessary to have them in this order. You could cleverly state in the beginning that the plane is going to crash, putting the conclusion in the beginning, and then build up to it. It’s all up to you. But these are the beats that make a scene or even a chapter (though some chapters may have more than one scene in them–but even with multiple scenes in a chapter, the chapter will still have these five beats overall)
i have a prompt for you: what if snape hadn't called lily 'mudblood' that day. what if their friendship had stayed strong, unbreakable. would he have grown to be a better person? would lily have loved him, rather than james? would harry just have another godfather? would james and lily have survived?
Okay you have successfully convinced me to write a Snape thing, which is a possibility I have audibly forsworn many times to my loved ones. But I’m a sucker for concepts like “Harry gets another godfather,” so, here we go.
When Severus was seven, he fell in love with the girl down the street. She had long red hair and dirty knees and she offered him half her candy bar one drizzly afternoon, waiting outside the school for her parents to come pick her up.
His parents weren’t coming— dad working late and mum at the pub recounting old Hogwarts glory stories, talking of years when her life was magical– but he didn’t tell Lily that. He was just waiting for the older bully boys who lurked in the empty lot on his way home to get bored and leave.
He ate the candy slowly in neat little bites while she grinned and told him about her big sister’s feud with the science teacher, like her Tuney was some sort of hero in a political espionage drama. She talked with her hands, narrow little things with freckled backs. He watched her wave from the back window of her mother’s car and then he started the long walk home.
When Severus was fifteen, James Potter dangled him upside down in the quad and laughed. Severus landed on elbows and knees. The bruises would stay for a week. The memories would not die with them— James’s cocky grin, the laughter in the spring air, the long whip of Lily’s red hair.
He felt small, bug-like, his knees pressing into the grass. His mother would come home some nights, kick the threadbare carpet, rattle the battered old pans in the cupboard, curse a Ministry that hated purebloods, that sucked up to halfbreeds and Mudbloods, that left the true wizards to rot in filth. He would curl up, make himself small, bug-like, imagine a chitinous shield growing over his shoulders, his spine, the softness of his kidneys. Some days, his father slept through this. Some days he screamed back.
After Severus met Lily, he would curl up under his covers, small, bug-like, and read through the comics she’d lent him with his hands pressed up over his ears. He wanted Professor X to come take him away. He wanted to be someone special, someone saved. He wanted a giant to burst through his door and frighten his mother and offer him a squashed birthday cake and a way out.
When Severus was fifteen, he slammed to his knees on the green Hogwarts quad. Laughter burrowed into his ears, like curses, like the nights his father screamed back, and when Lily stepped toward him he snapped, “I don’t need help from a Mudblood.”
When Severus slouched up to her door that summer, Lily didn’t invite him in. She leaned on the open frame of the door, arms crossed. He had so rarely seen Lily neither smiling or incandescent with rage, but she watched him with snakeskin eyes and a set mouth, still.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t–”
She twitched a strand of hair over her shoulder, the irritation the closest thing to an emotion he could spot on her. He was watching, desperate– this was Lily, she gave things away. She talked with her hands. He never felt lost, with her. “But why,” said Lily. “Why are you sorry? Because I’m upset, or because what you did was wrong?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You did, and it’s not the point. I don’t care if it’s the part you care about, Sev, it’s not the part that matters. That was an awful thing to say– to say to anyone. You were cruel because you were scared and embarrassed, but Sev I could really care less. You were cruel.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Sorry’s not enough, Sev. Be fucking better.”
He jerked back and tried to turn it into some kind of laugh. “Language, careful, your mum might hear.”
She shrugged, and stepped back through the open door, and shut it in his face.
He spent the summer reading comic books, haunting the local library, then the local park once it’d closed, and then sneaking home when he was hopeful his parents would be asleep. He tried to think about bravery, but sometimes he just thought about Lily’s hair, the way it went more golden in summer. He tried to think about nobility, ethics and grace, but the clouds chased each other, fat and white, across the sky and he wasn’t sure what any of this had to do with him.
His father took him fishing by a dreary brown creek and they sat in silence. Severus could hear every creak of the rods, every lap of the water, every inhale and movement his father made. He thought maybe if he just said nothing, nothing ever, he’d never say anything again that made Lily’s face go so flat and distant. If he said nothing, maybe nothing would hurt.
His father reached back for a beer can in a swift movement and Severus froze himself unflinching. He sat in that silence afterward, slowing his heartbeat, picking apart the sudden rigid shell of his shoulders. His father hummed, cracking the can open like a gunshot.
He sat alone on the Hogwarts Express that year, stuffed in a compartment with a handful of second years who gave him half the seats while they giggled among themselves about the haircut of someone named Gertrude. Every summer’s end, for five years, he and Lily had boarded the train together, pressed their noses to the window glass, and watched the land rush by.
For the first month of school, Severus practiced pausing before he spoke, for seconds, minutes if he needed them. Sometimes he’d add an answer after the conversation had already moved on, bent over his mashed potatoes, weighing words as carefully as he weighed salamander eyes and mandrake root.
(If you crushed firedrake seeds with the flat of your blade, instead of cutting them, they made a more potent potion. The textbooks told you to stir six times counterclockwise to make Sleeping Draught, but he knew–because he had thought, and tried, and tried again–that if you did five counterclockwise and two clockwise the draught would turn that perfect turquoise and the sleep would be dreamless and sweet and deep. He kept notes in his textbook’s margins, because it helped to remember.)
In the second month, he tried to listen. People were starting to think about life after school, a big yawning chasm they were supposed to fill with themselves. People were starting to fall in love, puppyish and petty. People were starting to believe in the war, whispering, dreaming, fearing.
In the common room, one of the kids said something about Mudbloods and Severus’s head snapped up. He tried to imagine a shell growing into his shoulders, over his spine, covering all the soft parts of him. He wanted his covers, he wanted to shrink, he wanted Lily’s boxfuls of comics, but he rose to his feet and snapped back. Sometimes saying nothing hurt people, too. A small Muggleborn in green and silver ducked away to her dorm, clutching quietly at her sleeves.
For the third month, he tried to watch– not for warning sneers or cocky grins, clenched fists and broad shoulders, all the things he’d been watching for since before he could name them– but for the way shoulders might go rigid, the way fists might clench but hide, wishing for something to shield every soft part of them.
Severus was bony and pimply, sixteen years old and graceless in it, but he could be an interruption. He could mock with the best of them, flicking his brows and twisting his nose, and asking pointed questions. He could talk, smart-mouthed and snide, until the focus turned to him, and then he could survive anything they handed out. He could give as good as he got. The pauses were shorter, these days, before he spoke, but they would always be there, an echo offset from the shout, an avalanche that struck late and terrible.
When kids cried in bathrooms or empty classrooms or the library, he didn’t move to comfort them, though he heard them. He didn’t know how. He wrote his own curses, out in the forest where he could scar the trees in experiment, and they all turned out bloody. He loved few things, even Lily, as much as he loved pouring all of himself into his work, until something new and his own grew out of it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever invented something kind.
He didn’t try to find Lily, but he came back from the Forest once and almost tripped over her, half-napping in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. He stumbled back into a gargantuan gourd while she pushed hair out of her face and peered up at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a pause that rumbled and roiled in his gut, that he clung to with both hands, breathing into it and letting his shoulders go soft. “I’m sorry I said it. I’m sorry I made you feel small because I was feeling– small.”
Lily sat up a bit, in the little semi circle she’d built herself of books and scrolls and gobstones and snacks. She had built fairy circles like that, when they were children, of the flowers he’d transfigured for her.
“I’m sorry anyone has to feel that way, ever,” he said. “They shouldn’t. I’m angry anyone has to feel that way.”
“Me, too,” she said, and, fishing around in the detritus that surrounded her, handed him half a candy bar. “C'mon, you want some tea? Hagrid said he’d put a kettle on for me if I finished my Arithmancy.”
When Severus was in sixth year, Remus Lupin almost killed him on a moonlit night.
Severus had wanted answers, had wanted to get them in trouble, had wanted something a bit like vengeance, and Sirius had told him about the Whomping Willow. Sirius had grinned when he’d done it, small and bitter, and Severus had wondered if he was fighting with James again, wondering why else he’d sell out his friends.
“I didn’t think–” Sirius tried, the morning after, watching Remus across dry toast and cocoa, big juicy bowls of melon.
“You never do,” Remus snapped. (A bare handful of years later, standing in the smoldering ruins of James and Lily’s house, Remus would think about Sirius’s erratic gaze, the sharp edge of his voice, his last name, and wonder if he should have seen it coming. What here was premeditated? What was mischief? Sirius had once almost painted Remus’s own hands with red blood.)
But for now, Remus was sixteen and angry; he was sixteen and guilty of things that might have happened. He didn’t speak to Sirius for a month.
James refused to speak with Sirius, too, but he only lasted a week. Moony was sulking and Peter was busy studying his little heart out, and James got twitchy without proper and regular socialization.
“I’ll punch him in the nose,” said Lily, when Severus told her. She shifted where she sat cross-legged on the library table, like she might go off and hunt him down that second.
“Black doesn’t deserve the attention,” said Severus.
“Getting his ass kicked by a girl? That type of attention?”
“Getting his ass kicked by Lily Evans,” Severus said. “It’d be an honor and you know it.”
Reports of violence outside Hogwarts got worse. People were disappearing. People were whispering, fearing. The papers were ignoring the important things, and feeding off the fearmongering, or so Lily announced in the library while Severus was trying to study.
Alice and Lily had spent years sharing hissed rants in humid greenhouses. Over an undulating bed of luminescent deadly nightshade, Alice bent her head close to Lily’s and asked, “Have you heard of the Order of the Phoenix?”
Over the course of the books, characters display a variety of reactions to hearing Harry’s name. Even Ron and Hermione are a little awkward at first.
But Molly Weasley’s reaction is very different from any of the other reactions we see, and hints at the role she’ll play in Harry’s life in later books
If you recall, Fred tells Mrs. Weasley that the black-haired boy they had met on the other side of the platform was Harry Potter. At this point, Harry is on the train, so Mrs. Weasley has no idea Harry can hear her through the compartment window.
But instead of the awe, dislike, or curiosity expressed by other characters, Mrs. Weasley’s first reaction is sympathy and concern.
She refers to him as “poor dear” and “poor boy,” and tells Ginny that Harry “isn’t something you goggle at in a zoo.”
When Fred wonders whether Harry remembers what You-Know-Who looks like, Mrs. Weasley becomes “extremely stern” and forbids Fred from asking Harry about You-Know-Who, saying that Harry doesn’t need to be reminded of something like that on his first day of school.
While the rest of the wizarding world views Harry as the almost mythical boy-who-lived, Mrs. Weasley has always seen Harry as an orphan in need of homemade fudge, hand-knitted jumpers, and a loving family.
Tony Stark is a goddamn fitness health nut with his chlorophyll smoothies and gluten free waffles. this bitch snacks on blueberries and where the fuck did he even get blueberries?? Shield?? Nah this idiot had a little compartment in his suit for fucking blueberries kill the idea that tony stark is unhealthy
Si te sentiste ofendido me disculpo, no es mi intención y nunca ha sido, pero es la realidad. Tu mismo siempre me has dicho que sea sincera contigo, y lo he sido siempre y soy, por que es como soy, digo las cosas como las siento sin ocultar nada, yo no sé mentir. Si no regresas quiero que te quede claro que si me voy es por el bien de ambos, no podemos seguir así, lastimándonos como el perro y el gato, tratando de prolongar algo que no esta dando resultado… esto no nos hace bien a ninguno de los dos. Tenía muy claro lo que quería, quería fuéramos algo así como la colisión entre las nubes de gas interestelar que al comprimirse entre si producen el colapso de las mismas formando miles de ✨estrellas 🌠 en una galaxia 🌌 . (Todo esto obviamente es lenguaje figurado, puede ser algo malo como bueno, pero me refiero a ello en el lado bueno, y hermoso) Prefiero que me odies por cuidar de nuestros corazones a que me odies por que nos destruimos mutuamente con las peleas. No tenemos la base principal, confianza, respeto y tiempo. Mas nos hemos deteriorado con las situaciones como se deteriora la capa de ozono con CFCs, lentamente pero podría ser perjudicial para ambos. Tal vez en otro momento mas adelante si no me guardas rencor y maduramos un poco mas, podremos ser buenísimos amigos y si te lo permites muchas cosas mas. Creo que ambos tenemos mucho que madurar aun. Quiero que entiendas que tengo claro en mi mente y corazón que a pesar de todo sigo pensando que eres una buena persona, divertido, ingenioso, encantador, inteligente, maravilloso, y un hermoso hombre, un muy buen partido solo que tal vez no eres para mi, o no es nuestro momento. Y al decir que eres un hermoso hombre no hablo solamente del físico, hablo más allá del físico donde solo el corazón ve. Habló de eso que solo el corazón interpreta y conoce. Te doy las gracias por los lindos momentos que me pudiste dar, porque en ellos me sentí libre, sentí amor, sentí tranquilidad. En ellos pude olvidarme de mi propio infierno cuando todo iba bien entre nosotros. Te doy las gracias por abrir mis sentimientos, tenía mucho tiempo que no sentía algo por alguien de esta magnitud y divinizacion. Pensé que estaba tan marcada que no volvería tener sentimientos y eso me atormentaba día y noche hasta que llegaste tú y mi alma volvió a sentir de nuevo. Por eso te doy las gracias por hacerme sentir amor, felicidad y tristeza, por sacarme de el agujero vacío y retumbante en el que me encontraba sentimental/emocionalmente. Tu me vez como si yo fuera “bastante perfecta” con una vida social normal pero no es así, mi vida no es tan linda como aparenta, y mi corazón ha sido mas dañado de lo que se ve. Te doy las gracias por ver muchas cosas buenas en mi, me llenó mucho ver la forma en la que al principio me veías, me sentía como una princesa, me sentía invencible, me llenaba tanto ver la persona que veías en mi que me hizo querer ser esa persona! Esa que en algún momento fui y los cantazos de la vida reprimieron. Por ende gracias también por ver muchas cosas en mi que tal vez yo me negaba en verlas de mi misma. De eso te estoy muy muy muy agradecida. Te doy las gracias por todas y cada una de las canciones que me dedicaste, jamás alguien me había dedicado tantas canciones como tu lo hiciste. Te doy las gracias por todos los poemas que me dedicaste ❤ me hiciste sentir como Dulcenea del Toboso quien era para los ojos de Don quijote una princesa 👑 aun cuando era una simple mujer de pueblecito (independientemente imaginaria) Te doy las gracias por el tiempo que me dedicaste y me disculpo por no conformarme con el que me dabas, me disculpo por querer mas de ti, por querer ser una prioridad en tu vida y por querer que me amaras como yo quería en vez de como tú podías, por esperar lo mejor de ti para mi. No te voy a bloquear por que si en algún momento, necesitas algo, necesitas con quien hablar, un consejo, una mano amiga quiero que sepas que me tienes aquí. Si los primeros días no respondo sera en lo que te sufra, por que puedo verme muy fría pero soy un mar de sentimientos y en cuanto me vaya mis demonios se revolcarán haciendo de mi una mierda. Podrás pensar de mi lo peor por tomar esta desicion, podrás odiarme pero yo se que en el fondo de toda esa necedad que flotará en ti cuando leas esto, muy en el fondo tu corazón sabe que te amé muchísimo, que estaba dispuesta a dar lo que fuera por ti y que te amo muchísimo y eres muy especial para mi y siempre lo serás. 🖤 Todas las veces que mire la pintura 🎨 que hice con mucho amor y ilusiones, me recodaré de ti. 💝
En este momento de mi vida, por lo que me encuentro atravesando, necesito paz, tranquilidad y estabilidad. Discúlpame si ya no me puedo permitir seguir con estas peleas, quiero que sepas también que hice lo posible e imposible por prolongarlo lo mas que mi cuerpo / mente puede aguantar. Estoy segura que me arrepentiré pero si de algo no carezco es de poder sostener las desiciones que tomo para un bien personal y de otros. TE AMO MUCHÍSIMO, muchas gracias por todo.
Original gouache and Watercolor drawing for Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes story “The Adventure of Silver Blaze”.
Grisaille with highlighting in white and pale ochre.
18 x 26 cm.
Published in the Strand Magazine, December 1892.
Esta fue una pregunta que me mandó una seguidora y pues, realicé una “investigación” en internet para que sepan qué significa cada planeta, espero que les guste.
El Sol - (El yo creativo)
En la astrología el emplazamiento del Sol revela la
cualidad básica de nuestra conciencia. Es el factor central de nuestra
personalidad, del mismo modo como el Sol es el centro de nuestra
galaxia. No cabe duda que el Sol es esencial para el estudio
astrológico, aunque es necesario recordar que es solo otra condición
El Sol simboliza la verdad y la integridad. Otorga al
nativo alegría, confianza y buena salud. Tiene una afinidad natural con
el signo Leo, el cual comparte muchas particularidades con el Sol.
La Luna - (La actitud emocional)
La Luna representa la parte emocional del ser humano,
normalmente las variaciones en el humor de las personas está controlado
por la Luna; por tanto, representa la vida cotidiana, el diario
transcurrir, los hábitos, el refugio del hogar. Relacionada con el
instinto, la memoria, la protección, lo doméstico, el gusto por el
hogar, el papel como padre o madre, los sentimientos familiares, la
lealtad, la nutrición, la fertilidad. Asimismo, se encuentra conectada
con el universo de los sueños, el inconsciente, lo fantástico.
Las diferentes fases de la luna son reveladoras para la
interpretación astrológica. Por ejemplo, las personas nacidas en el
período de la Luna Nueva gozan de gran capacidad de concentración,
mientras que las nacidas bajo la influencia de la Luna Llena se
destacan por su objetividad y conciencia clara.
Mercurio - (La expresión Mental)
En la astrología, Mercurio simboliza nuestra capacidad de
comunicación, juicio y reflexión, nuestra inteligencia, nuestra
capacidad para los negocios, pensamiento práctico y nuestra astucia.
Como estrella rige al signo Géminis y como estrella del anochecer
gobierna al signo Virgo.
Venus - (La forma de amar)
En la astrología, Venus simboliza todo lo bello y
deseable. Su posición en la carta astral nos revela algo sobre nuestra
necesidad de armonía, nuestra vida amorosa y nuestra capacidad de
devoción. También las bellas artes y el canto, así como nuestro sentido
de la estética, se relacionan con Venus, que representa el poder del
hombre de dar, gracias a sus sentimientos, un valor y un sentido
esencial a sus experiencias. Como estrella matinal pertenece al signo
de Tauro, mientras que gobierna al signo Libra como la estrella del
Marte - (El atrevimiento de autoafirmación)
En la astrología, Marte representa la fuerza iniciadora,
el coraje, el entusiasmo, la ira y, también, el deseo sexual. Regente
del signo Aries y Escorpio, es el astro que representa el impulso a la
acción. Famoso por su valor y su ánimo, que mueve a irrumpir audazmente
grandes empresas y a afrontar los peligros. Pero Marte en sí no es ni
negativo ni positivo; simboliza nuestra energía que tiende a buscar la
exteriorización de nuestros deseos.
Júpiter - (El guía hacia un conocimiento superior)
En la astrología, Júpiter es (junto con Saturno) uno de
los dos llamados “planetas sociales”, ya que simboliza nuestra
expansión en el entorno exterior y también nuestra asimilación. Júpiter
representa el crecimiento en todos los sentidos: conocer más, aprender
más, llegar a ser más, tener más. La palabra “más” es una clave de
Júpiter, pero se la puede entender en dos sentidos paradójicos, uno
optimista: progresar, desarrollarse, cultivarse, expandir los propios
horizontes y los de los demás, disponerse para el futuro, abrirse para
las oportunidades que brinda el mundo. La sabiduría y la felicidad
verdadera. El otro sentido es el pesimista: crecer más allá de los
propios límites, querer constantemente más sin apreciar lo conseguido;
procurar ser mejor que los de más, sin poseer conocimientos serios;
engrandecimientos de todo tipo.
Saturno - (La necesidad de responsabilidad)
En astrología, Saturno representa lo estático, la
responsabilidad, lo conservador, el no cambio, las restricciones, la
rigidez, el tiempo, las limitaciones, la experiencia obtenida a través
de la experiencia y los años, angustia, melancolía. Se la llama el
planeta maestro. La función de Saturno es forjar en la austeridad, es
por ello que crea restricciones. Siempre concede las cosas pero después
de largos y grandes esfuerzos, de ahí que luego de las grandes pruebas
debamos preguntarnos el porqué de una experiencia y sacar fruto de
Otros aspectos de Saturno están relacionados con la
ambición, la auto preservación, la vejez, la lentitud, la reflexión, la
paciencia, la sabiduría, el prudencia, la madurez, la resistencia, la
perseverancia, la concentración mental, la responsabilidad, la
estabilidad, la integración, la precaución y la gente madura, seria. Es
el símbolo de los solitarios. Saturno produce el miedo a fallar.
Saturno representa el pasado, la tradición, el padre, la autoridad o
cualquier principio limitado y formador. La posición de este planeta en
la carta astral indica la esfera donde tenemos que solucionar viejos
problemas y superar inhibiciones y temores que provienen del pasado.
Urano - (El proceso de emancipación)
En astrología, Urano simboliza la independencia, ir más
allá de las reglas de la familia y de la sociedad para llegar a ser
verdaderas personas, fragmentando los esquemas y estructuras
También se interpreta como la necesidad de diferenciarse
de los demás como un ser único y incomparable con los demás. Se asocia
con ideales de verdad, justicia, libertad, fraternidad e igualdad, así
como en cualquier tendencia progresista colectiva que se enfrente con
lo establecido. Urano permanece en cada signo alrededor de siete años,
ya que tarda unos 84 años en completar una vuelta por el Zodiaco.
Por lo tanto, su posición por signo indica cualidades generacionales.