beanies and baseball caps, stuck-out tongues, sass battles, hipster headphones and retro walkmans, hanging out in local libraries, decorating bedrooms with glow-in-the-dark stars, always looking out for each other, milkshakes, rolled-up denim, sitting on concrete steps, being forever ready to fight, making up weird meals, shoeboxes of childhood collections,
conversations from different rooms. (requested by anonymous)
Once, Courfeyrac drew a penis on who he TOUGHT was a sleeping Bahorel but ended up being another buff dude who didn’t look as friendly as Bahorel so he just sat there in awe (read: fear) watching this person leave the Corinthe with a huge dick in the back of his arm.
Special one today because it’s my fiftieth drawing (woohoo!)
Here’s a fun fact:
As of now, Javert is the character I’ve received the most requests to draw as a cat. I’ve only received just one request each for every single other character on this blog, but I’ve received four requests for Javert. I’ve already drawn him twice (here and here, though I dislike every drawing I did any longer than 2 minutes ago) and if no one had requested him, I still would’ve drawn him again….my point is….what a weird trend??? Why is this???? Why do so many people want to see Javert as a floofy cat??????
Ohhhhhhh my god. All I need in my life is some more boggart headcanons if you the time! Maybe jehanparnasse?
Jehan hardly had an issue with boggarts. Their fears were so surreal and strange that even they- often with one foot out of reality- could accept that they were so far beyond the realm of possibility that they could be defeated with a simple spell.
They’d always liked Defence Against the Dark Arts, but they liked it even more now that it was their fifth year, and they were sharing the class with the slytherins. Admittedly they liked it for one slytherin in particular.
Owls were coming up, so their class was revising almost every spell and creature they’d ever learnt in their last 5 years at Hogwarts. They were quite looking forward to today’s class. The professor had warned to be prepared for Boggarts, Werewolves and Trolls. Which meant their morbid curiosity regarding their classmates fears (and prejudices) would be thoroughly entertained.
Walking into the class however, they immediately noticed a missing head of black hair.
Jehan had recently made a habit to be fashionably late to any class Montparnasse was in. They didn’t know if it was the subconscious thrill of seeing his head raise as the door opened and for a brief second having his eyes lock with theirs, or whether Courfeyrac’s influence of loving all things dramatic was finally rubbing off on them.
“Prouvaire.” The professor scolded, peering over her glasses. “You’re late again.”
“Actually, I’m not feeling too well professor.” They found themselves inventing. “Could I please be excused?”
The professor gave a curt nod, her warnings of studying deaf to their ears as they ran down the halls. Their feet were taking them on instinct, and they followed without hesitation to the room of Requirement.
I need the place Montparnasse is hiding, I need the place Montparnasse is hiding, I need the place Montparnasse is hiding.
The doors appeared beautifully and wonderfully for them, like they always did. He opened them and stepped inside, causing a very surprised Montparnasse to jump slightly as he turned around. Jehan made sure to close the doors behind them, and faced Montparnasse, unsure of how to proceed. So they had found him, now what? A love confession? A halfhearted excuse that this is where they go when they skip classes and they didn’t expect anybody else to be here? Jehan didn’t want to lie, but currently they were completely lost for words.
Usually so cool and nonchalant looking, it was strange to see Montparnasse looking startled. “What are you doing here?” He asked them, suspiciously yet not unkindly, and Jehan was relieved that he had taken the initiative to break the silence. Yet he was still at a loss for an explanation.
“I could ask you the same thing.” Jehan replied cooly, surprised at the calm in his own voice.
“Tch.” Montparnasse replied with an easy smile, and just like that he was relaxed once more, and Jehan felt butterlies in their stomach. “I didn’t take you for somebody who breaks the rules, Prouvaire.”
“Well clearly you don’t know me very well.” Jehan replied easily, smiling fondly at the memories of detention, a place where they’d met half the friends they had now.
“Is that an invitation to get to know you better? Because I don’t think anybody could resist that.” Jehan felt themselves blushing and was grateful that Montparnasse turned his attention back to the cupboard he’d been facing before they came in. “You, Jehan Prouvaire, are a mystery wrapped in an enigma.”
It was then that Jehan’s attention was directed to the slightly wobbling cupboard standing before him.
“What are you doing in here?” They asked him, more seriously this time.
“I asked you first.” Montparnasse replied with a grin, but Jehan did not return it.
“Montparnasse, is that a boggart?” Jehan asked as the cupboard gave a particularly violent shake. “You know we were supposed to do those in class today?”
“I know.” Montparnasse replied grimly. “Such a stupid thing to put on display to an entire classroom.”
Suddenly things began to click for Jehan; maybe the reason Montparnasse pretended to be so aloof and mysterious was because he was dedicated to not letting anybody know his demons.
“I could help you.” They volunteered before they could help themselves. “Once you practise the spell and remind yourself that it’s just a creature and not your actual fear, it’s really not that difficult.”
“Owls are in six weeks time, you shouldn’t waste your time.” Montparnasse replied. “Besides I can do this by myself.”
Jehan looked at him for a moment, Montparnasse was standing trying to look so proud and nonchalant, but Jehan saw past that, into the eyes of a frightened and defiant young man.
“It’s not a waste of time to help somebody and it’s not a weakness to ask for help.” Jehan replied simply, and with a swish of their coat they had left the room, and Montparnasse standing alone inside of it.
The next defence against the dark arts class, Jehan didn’t bother to be late. They sat down next to Feuilly and opened their textbook, taking out a quill, ready to begin the lesson, when an small piece of parchment floated down and landed before them.
Jehan looked over their shoulder, Montparnasse had taken a seat a few rows behind them, and was looking at them expectantly. Turning back to the note, they opened it with a fluttering heart and nervous fingers.
my main insecurity about learning french is that french-speakers will hate me if i butcher the accent. i know there's no single french accent and i know i'll never get it perfect (as well as there's nothing like practicing to improve confidence and skill!) but i still worry about it :/
wow, it’s like i wrote this to myself! i completely get this feeling, i feel so stupid when i say things in french sometimes 😩 in my head i have the “perfect” french accent but out loud it’s a mess! but we can only hope people won’t get offended when we actually build up the confidence to speak.
Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, known by his stage name Molière, –considered today as one of the greatest masters of comedy in Western literature– died on february 17, 1673. One of the most famous moments in his life was his last. Molière suffered from pulmonary tuberculosis possibly contracted when he was imprisoned for debt as a young man. In february 1673, while seriously ill and aged 51, he had premiered in a new play at his Théâtre du Palais-Royal. It was a joyous comedy with Molière as the title character, ironically about a severe hypochondriac fearing death, and named Le Malade Imaginaire (The Imaginary Invalid). A week later during the fourth performance, surrounded by whirling figures in outlandish doctors’ costumes, welcoming him into their brotherhood with a mock initiation ceremony, Molière collapsed on stage in a fit of coughing and hemorrhaging. He was so weak that his wife and friend Baron united in urging him to stop the performance. He refused and insisted on completing it. Afterwards he collapsed a second time with another larger bleeding and almost suffocated on stage, but the curtain finally went down. He was quickly taken home and died shortly later in his bed on 17 February 1673. Priests refused to take his confession, for actors had no social standing and had been excommunicated by the church. Nor would they permit him to be buried in holy ground. But the King Louis XIV interceded and he was finally buried under the cover of darkness. Molière is listed as the first entertainer to have died during a performance. The superstition that green brings bad luck to stage actors is said to originate from the colour of the clothing he was wearing in this play.
We were cut off from the comprehension of our surroundings; we glided past like phantoms, wondering and secretly appalled, as sane men would be before and enthusiastic outbreak in a madhouse. We could not understand because we were too far and could not remember, because we were travelling in the night of first ages, of those ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign–and no memories.