a breeze ruffled the neat hedges of privet drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. harry potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up. one small hand closed on the letter beside him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by mrs. dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by his cousin dudley…he couldn’t know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “to harry potter ⏤ the boy who lived!”
I’m hungover enough to out and say it without really giving a fuck: Eleanor’s not even pretty, she’s just a skinny girl with long hair.
Add to that she’s willingly involved herself in this shitshow for a second time, all of the horrible things she’s said about Harry during the first go round and about Louis after their ‘break up’ and the fact that Louis always looks fucking miserable and dead in the eyes around her, she can go CHOKE.
I’m actively vengeful enough to say that I hope all of her “social media influencer” agreements get cancelled, her pointless blog gets deleted and in order to support herself, she has to spend the rest of her life working as a change room attendant for the Primark on Oxford Street, having to be polite to hoardes of customers and hanging up other people’s discarded fast-fashion and 5 or 6 times a day having to deal with teenagers asking her if she’s that bitch who deliberately tried to use Louis Tomlinson’s closet to make money.