harry t stone

3

They were standing on the edge of a huge chessboard, behind the black chessmen, which were all taller than they were and carved from what looked like black stone. Facing them, way across the chamber, were white pieces — the towering white chessmen had no faces.

twenty years.

Twenty years.

Twenty years since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of Number 4 Privet Drive could claim that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.

Twenty years since Harry opened his eyes in a cupboard under the stairs.

Twenty years since the post arrived on a Sunday.

Twenty years since we visited Diagon Alley for the first time. 

Twenty years since we were taken to Hogwarts, our home.

Twenty years since we began Transfiguration, Potions, Charms and History of Magic.

Twenty years since we flew over Hogwarts grounds and Oliver taught us all about Quidditch.

Twenty years since a troll was found in the dungeon.

Twenty years since we let the Golden Trio lead us on our first adventure.

Twenty years since we first had tea with Hagrid.

Twenty years since we put Fluffy to sleep. 

Twenty years since we outshined the Devil’s Snare.

Twenty years since the Winged keys and the giant game of chess. 

Twenty years since the troll, the potion and a Mirror. 

Twenty years since the first time we faced Voldemort. 

Twenty years since we first won. 

Twenty years and it still feels like just yesterday that we saved the Stone.

Twenty years.

youtube

In celebration of Warner Bros. Television’s 60th anniversary, here’s a clip from Night Court, season 5 episode 7, “Who Was That Masked Man?” with special guest star, a young Teri Hatcher!

Note: This was 6 years before Hatcher starred on WBTV’s Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman.

Copyright © 1987 Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Produced by Starry Night Productions in association with Warner Bros. Television.

anonymous asked:

HI THIS IS SO IMPORTANTTTT like- Louis is very drunk (tipsy according to him) and when he gets back to the house he gets into his pyjamas (Harry's Rolling Stones t-shirt with all the stupid rips- which, most were made my Louis. But not the point) and lays out on his bed and he's just scrolling through his phone, giggling at the pictures from that night, favouriting one of him and Lottie to Instagram tomorrow- he's trying to send it to his stupid Dunkirk fake solider boyfriend but his (1) cont..

phone isn’t working (he is drunker than he thought) and somehow he ends up with a grumpy morning voice Harry on his screen- so he giggles and whispered a happy little “wicked my phone is granting my wishes” before the Harry on the screen moves and Louis freaks before he realising he’s face timing his boy- which shit. “Helllooooo” he sings drunkly, rolling onto his tummy, his hair a proper mess as he looks at the phone screen. “You’re looking pretty damn cute” he mumbles to Harry because he is and he should know. The world should know- tomorrow Louis vows to tell everyone how great his harry is, not now thought because he’s not too sure where his pants are and in his opinion pants are key to be taken seriously. He tells Harry as much, to which he agrees and expands on Louis’s point- and God this is why he loves him so much. They face time until Louis is too sleepy to hold up his phone any longer- a bit tired for re-enacting his dancing at the club for Harry, breathless and pink cheeked as he falls asleep mushed between a pile of pillows or his “replacement Harry because his one fucked off to God knows where and left him sexless and sad” in Louis’s druken over the top ramblings. Harry loves him so much he doesn’t hang up the call till he is at work and called out to film a scene, happy to have the presence of his boy sleeping sound and happy (4) end xxx 

Kiss Me Like Movie Stars Kiss

By Ki Russell

Dear Young Folks,

Do not let anyone tell you that your curiosity is the cause of your downfall.

Do not let anyone say you asked for something bad because you wouldn’t stop asking questions or displaying your curiosity. And never let someone minimize your suffering and pain by saying, “oh, but it could have been worse.” Suffering is not a competitive sport.

I was a child intensely fascinated by sex. I do not remember ever asking, “what is sex?” or “where do babies come from?” because I do not remember ever not knowing these things. I do remember being about six years old and asking my mother “what does sex feel like?” as she juggled a gallon of milk, a bag of groceries, her gargantuan purse, and her keys, unlocking the front door one evening. She sputtered and then gave a fairly decent answer: “that isn’t a question I can properly answer right now. Sex can feel amazing or it can feel awful. It just depends on the circumstances.” Of course, this answer made no sense to me, but I could sense that I’d crossed some boundary so I let it drop. I hated making my mother uncomfortable or adding to her stress-load.

I remember asking my dad if he would kiss me like movie stars kissed. I was about four. He said no because “daddies do not kiss their daughters this way.”

I remember my step-dad asking me if I wanted to learn how to kiss so “you won’t feel stupid on your first date when you’re older and you don’t know what to do.” I was ten.

Of course I agreed to these “lessons” with my step-dad. He phrased it all as something that would help me.

My mother taught evening courses, so twice a week, my step-dad, Mike, and I were alone for about 4-5 hours. He made me dinner, and he seasoned food more skillfully than my mother, so this was great. Also, he allowed meals like “just mashed potatoes, nothing else.”

After dinner we would watch television.

I’d sit on his lap. I missed sitting on my dad’s lap. My dad was truck-driving, so visitation had gone from reliable to intermittent.

He was always more fidgety than my dad. He would make me sit more in the center of his lap instead of out near the knee, where I sat on my dad.

His hands always seemed to accidentally brush over my nipples, yet my dad’s never did.

My dad sent my mom some pageant brochures. He and she discussed it over the phone—whether or not this was something to pursue. I was over the moon that they thought I was pretty enough to consider it. (Eventually they decided the costs involved would be impractical.)

Mike asked one night if I wanted to practice for being in a pageant someday. He informed me that girls who won did so because they made the judges happy. He explained that offering the judges extra looks during the swimsuit competition was one way to make them happy. “Just tug your top here with your thumb, like it’s an accident.”

He also explained that sometimes judges liked girls who would come and visit them privately. Then he took my hand and put it on his penis and said, “they like girls who know how to pet them here.” When I jerked my hand away, he said, “judges don’t like stuck up girls who react like babies. If you want to be a winning girl, you’ll need to know how to do this.”

Some nights we did not practice for the pageant. Some nights we pretended to be a model seeking an agent. Another night I was a young actress auditioning for her first part before a skeptical director. Costumes might include a man’s undershirt worn as a dress—nothing under it.

Anytime we saw a movie or even a preview with a female lead, he would mention that the actress had obviously done these sorts of favors for the director and/or producer.

 On some level, I knew this was wrong. My twisty-feeling stomach was one clue. But I mostly told myself it was just the reek of generic beer and menthol cigarettes that made me feel so ill.

Or, maybe it was the beer he sometimes let me drink—the faster I could chug it, the louder he’d cheer. And sometimes if I chugged fast enough, he’d be impressed enough to give me a dollar.

Whenever I asked if this was okay, I had an authority figure explaining that it was okay because we were just pretending.

Also, some nights he brought out my mother’s make-up—totally forbidden—and helped me paint my face like a grown lady. And he bought me my very own garter belt!

But I knew I had to keep this all a secret. There were two reasons:

  1. Because you will stress out your mother, and surely you don’t want to do that.
  2. Because you will get in so much trouble when your mother finds out you’ve used her mascara and are wearing things meant for grown women.

Holy Thursday (we were Catholic-ish) of 1992. I was thrilled to be allowed to stay up late enough to watch Night Court when the reruns came on at 10. This was allowed because I had no school the next day. Mom had to teach. She would be home at around 10:30 that night.

Mike and I played several of our usual scenarios. We played a strange, new game as well where he exposed his erect penis and I attempted to hit it with a Koosh ball from across the room. Hitting the head dead-on was worth bonus points. But to earn those points, I had to pull aside my panties and let him attempt to hit my clitoris with the ball. This game made me feel sick, even before he earned any points. I quickly ended it.

To end it, I had to agree to another “proper kissing lesson.”

Once Night Court’s opening music began, though, I thought all of the uncomfortable, stomach-twisting moments were over. Mom would be home by the end of the program, and he always wanted to wrap games well before Mom got back.

I was curled up on the floor with my sleeping bag in front of the television. I wanted to feel cozy when Judge Harry T. Stone presided.

I heard Mike moving around behind me, but I figured he was just fidgeting again. Then I heard the sofa cushion springs bounce and knew he was getting up. I figured it was time for another beer (he drank a 12-pack minimum on his nights off).

But then I felt an arm come around my shoulders. He asked if we could cuddle while we watched. So we spooned, which felt very wrong, but I didn’t know why it felt so wrong.

He kept inhaling my hair too deeply. I felt weird because I hadn’t washed it recently, so I knew it couldn’t smell as good as he kept mumbling it did.

Soon after the opening scene, he apologized for interrupting the show, but said he needed to have a serious talk with me. I sat up and faced him. He sat up as well.

We sat cross legged, facing each other. Body-language wise, we were in the perfect positions for the rom-com heart-to-heart.

He said, “Ki, I need to tell you something difficult to admit. I am in love with you. I think about you so much. I’ve never met any woman who is as amazing as you already are.”

I stared at him and squeaked out, “But you love Mom.”

“I love both of you.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“I want to know if you feel this way too. I want to know if you love our games as much as I do.”

“I don’t know.”

“I also want to know if you are willing to take our games to another level.”

“I will not put it in my mouth.” (When I was nine, he tried to request this and I freaked out so much that it was quickly dropped.)

“No, not that.” He took a deep breath. “I’d like to know if you’ll ever have sex—all the way sex—with me.”

I shook my head furiously. “No, I can’t do that until I’m married anyway.”

He laughed a little. “Everyone says to wait until you’re married, but no one does. Maybe you’re just afraid. Are you afraid it will be too big for your body?”

I leaped on this. “Yes. Yes. Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, it’s too big.”

He stroked my shoulder. “But if we try, you might be surprised.”

I pulled away. “No. I can tell. It won’t work.”

He said, “Maybe when you are older we can discuss this again.”

“Maybe someday,” I agreed. Then he went back to the sofa.

“Don’t tell your mother about this,” he reminded me. “She will be so angry and jealous that you will never have any peace.”

I did tell my mother. I told her the very next day about all of what had been going on. But that is another long, complicated story. But once I told her, I was no longer the “amazing” girl. I was the “untrustworthy little bitch.” House rules were made that we could not be left alone together. So he would find ways to grope me while I was getting something from the fridge and the door blocked us just enough. Sometimes he would even mumble, “Are you going to tell your mommy about this too?”

Whenever stories of children who were raped by parents came across our radar, my mom would jump on them. She would hold up to me so I would admit that I was lucky because I had not been raped by Mike. Also, I was lucky because “at least it isn’t your real father. Imagine growing up with that.”

But I was not lucky. Competitive suffering is not a worthwhile pursuit. Some girls had far more horrific experiences than I did. Some had milder ones than mine. But not one of us was “lucky.”

She told me that I should not have asked so many questions about sex at such a young age, that she had always worried about me because of this.

Curiosity is not a sin. Curiosity about sex is not unusual or unnatural. You are not asking for an adult to do sexual things to you when you ask sexual questions.

She kept asking me if I had enjoyed all of the attention, though. I loved the attention at first. But that did not make it my fault.

I was a child. He was an adult.

What adults do to you during childhood is their fault, never yours.

- Ki Russell, age 32