There might not be any meaning in this fight. There might not be any meaning in winning or losing. Even so, I thought that I had to go through with it. Because right now the only one who can accept Kacchan’s feelings is me.
Everything about him was beautiful.
His hair, his eyes, his smile, his skin.
Even his back was beautiful.
But on the night he walked away
was the last image
and it was
the worst thing
to be seen.
Sometimes when I’m sad I like to imagine what would happen in a crossover universe between Discworld and Harry Potter, and what Granny Weatherwax would make of their style of magic.
But then I think about more important things, like what would have happened if Granny Weatherwax ever met Albus Dumbledore, and I can’t help but feel a whole lot of shit could have been avoided if he’d had a good clip round the ear and a strong talking to about the whole “my hands are tied” bullshit that enabled years of abuse and suffering at the hands of adults in a position of authority over young, vulnerable people.
Like oh, this spell requires the bond of blood to keep him safe, all right. So that just means we’re not going to hold these adults accountable for their torment and abuse? I think the entire fuck not, Albus.
Snape is a double agent who is actually working for the greater good. All right, but that doesn’t stop him from being an absolute fucking shit weasel who shouldn’t be around children until he learns to control himself and works out his issues in a safe and sane manner, what the fuck, Albus.
You have an entire school system that ascribes to ideas of inherent morality when in fact this is a thing that needs to be taught? Well no wonder there’s one house in particular that keeps going off the rails, you keep telling them they’re evil. Tell people something for long enough they’ll start to believe you. There’s nothing wrong with being selfish and cunning, sometimes that’s what it takes to survive. Teach them how to use those traits for good. As strength. My land, my home, my people (not my daughter, you bitch) how dare you try to hurt them. Teach them, Albus, you have to bloody teach them and realize that evil isn’t born. It’s made. In a thousand small deplorable ways. And it starts with treating people like things and I cannot be having with this.
Of course there’s also the other flipside to this thought process, which is imagining Gytha “Nanny” Ogg shouting “watcher Molly” as she thumps Bellatrix Lestrange on the back of the head with a cauldron, and drops her like a fucking stone. Later they’ll sit together and grieve, later there will be time to pick up the pieces and mourn. But for now there are things to fight for, people to keep alive. And people to keep from doing what they shouldn’t ever have to do, so you find a way to do it for them, by hook, crook or blunt force trauma.
And because my head wont let go of this thought:
“You always was a right little miss,” she said, taking a puff from her pipe and resettling her weight with a hefty bounce as the younger witch struggled to get out from under Nanny’s considerable girth. “Giving yourself airs and graces and such. Pretending you was too good to scrub a pot. Well, let me tell you something, Mistress Lestrange, you ain’t fit for nothing no more except maybe a noose. And if I had my way that might be the end of it. But we don’t do things like that no more, we don’t rule by blood.”
“Then you’re weak,” Lestrange shot back, still struggling to claw her way free. “A weak, old woman with nothing left but tricks up your fat sleeve.”
Nanny puffed in silence for a few more moments, then reached up her sleeve. “And your wand, dearie. Walnut is it? With a dragon heartstring core? Very nice, painting it black was a bit much, but you always were fond of your dramatics.”
She pulled out her own wand, holding it out under Bellatrix’s nose, whose face went cross eyed and then wide with panic.
“You know, I’ve only ever heard of Priori Incantatem,” she said, puffing on the end of her pipe until the pit glowed cherry red then white hot and she exhaled smoke like a dragon, “but I wasn’t about to risk it, not in front of all those kiddies. But I reckon now might be a good time…”
Everyone’s always saying that ghosts are “Evil, malevolent beings” but homie, I guarantee if some bitch-ass suburban family walked right into your house and started redecorating your shit, you’d be pretty pissed off too
It’s so easy to say you’re over someone when your paths no longer intertwine, when you never see that person. “I don’t love him anymore,” you’ll say to your best friend. “I don’t miss him,” you tell your mother when she finds you in a bad mood. “I don’t want him back”, you keep telling yourself.
And then you see him again, four months and eight days after he grabbed your heart and closed his fist around it, squeezing until stars burst in front of your eyes and your face turned blue like the ocean. And it takes courage to look at him then, to admit that you’re not over him at all because you feel how he knocks the air out of your chest with one glance. But maybe you’ll remember how much he hurt you, how being with him didn’t make you happy but shattered you into pieces, so you can finally tell yourself “I’m not over him and that’s okay. But I’ll get there. And this is not what I want anymore.”
evening thoughts #25
you’re not over it yet and that’s okay
I’m so insecure that if you call me and say “hey I’m off tonight let’s go for a drink? ” I’ll think “wow he wants to see me as soon as he gets free time! ” but a second later a voice in my head will start whispering that you probably called all of the contacts in your phone before calling me, that none of them was free tonight and that you just didn’t want to be on your own.
That’s what fucked up past relationships leave you with