potions riddle

anonymous asked:

hey would you ever do a "what if harry potter had been a girl" story? or a trans girl? i don't know how much gender would change things except other people's perceptions but...

Hermione went to the library, when Harry first confided in her. Whatever the faculty, the administration, or the Ministry believed or didn’t believe, the Hogwarts library gave the children what they needed and always would.

Hermione came back with books and books on gender in wizarding history, on the spells and words wizards had used for centuries or decades or mere years, and she and Harry bent their heads together and figured out what words Harry felt best told her story. From her hometown library, after that first summer, Hermione brought back memoirs and brightly-colored pamphlets that Harry read through instead of finishing her Potions homework.

When Harry looked in the Mirror of Erised, she still saw her mother, her father, all her gathered, lost kin. The specter of her father gathered up her hands in his. Her mother pushed back the long dark hair Petunia had always made her cut short and she called her beautiful.

When she looked into it again, after Devil’s Snare and winged keys, giant chess and Ron lying prone on the floor, Hermione wringing her eleven year old hands in the potion riddle room– When Harry looked into the Mirror again, she saw herself, just herself. The girl in the mirror winked and smiled and slipped the Stone in Harry’s pocket. No matter what other wishes and want laid on her narrow shoulders, at the end of the day the thing Harry wanted most was to help. Harry brushed one hand over the lump of rock in her robe pocket, and then brushed her other over her mess of hair, which was feet shorter than the girl in the mirror’s.

She woke up in the hospital wing, bedside table piled high with candy.

Once Harry and Hermione had sussed out between them what the words were for what was going on here, they had explained it to Ron. Harry didn’t come out to anyone else until partway through second year, though, at the height of the Heir of Slytherin nonsense.

She was fed up, then. She just wanted to be left alone, and this wouldn’t help with that, but they were all already staring. Keeping this to herself felt like a vice around her chest. Hogwarts was supposed to be better.

After, Ron came almost to blows with anyone who goggled or sniffed or rolled their eyes. Seamas learned to swallow his tongue. Draco Malfoy didn’t. Hermione wrote up an explanatory note about appropriate pronouns in her best penmanship and then copied it with flicks of her wand. With Harry’s embarrassed permission, she gave it to every professor Harry had or would ever have.

Colin Creevey stopped her in the Great Hall with a tug on her sleeve. She turned, shoulders rising, and the kid said in his piping voice, “You’re still my hero.”

That was better than it could have been, but she wasn’t sure she liked the “still.”

Peeves, though he was nasty about everything else–ickle firsties and orphan girls–got it immediately. For all six years of her Hogwarts tenure, he dropped water balloons on the heads of anyone who misgendered her. Professor Binns never quite figured it out, but he didn’t know any student’s name. Nearly Headless Nick gallantly and somewhat awkwardly called her lady and tried to hold open doors for her, despite the fact that he couldn’t open them.

Snape called Harry “Mr. Potter” for all seven years that he was in Harry’s life. Around year three, Ron stopped counting the detentions he got for his increasingly sarcastic responses to this.

The whispers about the Heir of Slytherin grew louder and louder, keeping pace with “Uh, I thought it was the Boy Who Lived?” Fred and George Weasley took it upon themselves to walk Harry to and from class when they could, talking loudly enough to drown everything out.

Then Hermione got Petrified and the Heir whispers stopped abruptly. Harry, if she hadn’t been busy with Ron trading off reading their assigned textbooks aloud to Hermione in the infirmary, might have felt gratified that the whole school knew how much this bushy-haired kid meant to her. Alright, so they thought she might murder Muggleborns with a mysterious monster, or sic a snake on her opponent in a dueling club? But they knew she wouldn’t hurt Hermione for anything.

In the Chamber, she met Tom Riddle. He was supposed to be her mirror, though she didn’t quite know that yet. He was supposed to be her shadow, the chain around her ankle, the other half (or another eighth) of her story and his soul.

Ginny had been trying to speak for months– to tell someone, to open the diary and the bag under her bed full of chicken-blood-stained robes and to thrust them into the light. But Percy had shushed her, all his assumptions orbiting his own importance to her story. The teachers had patted her on the head. She had been frightened, eleven years old with Tom whispering in her ear, guiding her hands.

Harry had been trying to speak for years– to explain to someone the way she did not feel like Dudley, like Vernon, like the boys in the locker room at school. Hermione had listened. Hermione had given her books and books of people who felt like her. Ron had listened, and taught her wizard’s chess, and kicked Draco in the shins.

But here Harry was, standing alone– a red-haired lump at her feet, dark robes sodden with moldy water. Hermione was frozen. Ron was trapped behind a rock fall and Tom was pacing, gloating, glowing. Ginny was breathing. Ginny had to be breathing. Harry was going to save her. She had to, because no one had listened to the kid, not even Harry.

The phoenix tears left no scars on Harry’s arm. Riddle, the Chamber, the life going out of her, everything that had happened in that long year– none of it left scars on Ginny, or at least none that anyone could see.

When Harry got back to 4 Privet Drive that summer, she suffered through Aunt Petunia’s annual hair cut and then she curled up with Hedwig and wrote a letter. She wrote about the Muggle candies she missed when at Hogwarts, and how her cousin thought she was weird for being excited about summer homework. She asked Ginny how she was.

Ginny wrote back after a long week. She didn’t answer the question, but she wrote about helping Dad on the car, about the apple harvest coming, and Fred and George playing pranks on the ghoul in the attic.

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Liar 7/? (Tom Riddle Jr/Voldemort Imagine)

“Tom, my boy,” Slughorn called merrily, “Please, come right up front.” He waved away two students and they gaped at him before gathering their things and moving, glaring at the two of you as you approached. “Come, come, come,” he beckoned and you stopped shy.

Awkwardly looking around for a spare table, you felt the sudden urge to cry as you realized there were none. “Y/N, up front please.” Slughorn commanded, and you turned without a word, taking your place by Tom’s side.

You could cut the tension with a knife it was so thick and every time you took a breath you felt like you were swallowing it. The class began with a presentation by Professor Slughorn and you forced yourself to concentrate, pretending only you were there - this was your very own personal lesson and no one else existed.

Tapping your fingers impatiently, desperate to begin your lesson so that you could feel distracted, Slughorn explained your practical lesson to you. “Does anyone know what a Shrinking Solution is?”

Slughorn asked the class, but his eyes went straight to Riddle as if expecting him to answer, and so he did. “A Shrinking Solution is a potion that allows the size of a creature’s age to decrease, essentially shrinking. If brewed incorrectly, it can be very poisonous.”

You scowled at Riddle’s pompous tone and gripped the edge of your table, waiting for the next question. If he was going to be such a know-it-all you were going to make sure he knew it all.

“Very good, Tom,” Professor Slughorn praised, “And does anyone know the inventor of this elixer?”

Riddle opened his mouth to respond but you quickly cut in, “Zygmunt Budge.”

Both Riddle and Slughorn turned to you and you couldn’t help the smug smirk that made it’s way onto your face. “That’s right, Y/N. Very good indeed.”

Blinking for a moment and hesitantly facing the class, Slughorn clapped his hands together and motioned for the cauldrons on the size of the room. “Everyone, get your necessary equipment and turn to page 423 of your textbooks.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Riddle waved his wand in the direction of his cauldron and it raised into the air, gliding over and sitting neatly on the centre of the table. You grumbled and opened your textbook, licking your finger and swiping through the pages until you found the correct one.

“Ingredients,” you hummed, “I’ll gather the ingredients.”

Tom said nothing and you quickly read through the text on the page, “We need two shrivelfigs, four daisy roots, five caterpillars, wormwood, four leeches, a rat speen and a little bit of cowbane - in that order.”

You quickly swept through the crowd of students that gathered to the left of the class where the ingredients lay neatly stacked on a long table. Gathering each ingredient and grimacing at the live creatures in their jars, you turned back to your shared table and glared as you watched Riddle read over the ingredients. He was double-checking.

“Taking a look for yourself, Riddle?” You scowled at him and set each ingredient onto the table next to the cauldron. Riddle raised his eyes to them and gathered the jars, positioning them in a neat line on the edge of the table.

When you gave him a questionable look, he let out an impatient breath through his nose, “Don’t put the jars so close to the cauldron, they’ll get hot and the glass will break.”

Looking away bashfully, you snatched your textbook out of his hands and skimmed through the steps as Tom heated up the cauldron. Inhaling slowly, you turned your attention to each glass jar and grimaced at the sight of all the wriggly creatures inside them.

You cleared your throat and reached across the table, your arm brushing against Tom’s as you grabbed two ripe shrivelfigs without a word. You gripped the kitchen knife and held the first shrivelfig securely between your hand, about to cut it when your partner’s hand shot out to grip your wrist. “What are you doing?”

Narrow eyes glared down at you, and you glared back challengingly, “I’m juicing the figs, what are you doing?”

“That isn’t how you juice shrivelfigs. Give it to me.” He commanded, and you scoffed, “I know how to juice a damn fig, Riddle,” the brunette’s eyes darkened and he tightened his grip on you for a moment before sensing Slughorn’s eyes on him - releasing you.

“Let me show you a more efficient way of juicing them.” Tom’s irritated demeanor changed abruptly and it took you a moment to catch up. You were flattered for about half a second before you realized this wasn’t him trying to be nice to you, this was him putting up a front for prying eyes.

Shoulders slumped, you slowly nodded, “Fine.” The Slytherin’s fingers slid beneath yours to take the shrivelfig and you quickly flinched away, shoving your hand into your robe pocket and suppressing a scream.

A soft prickly creature that you had completely forgotten about wriggled about in your pocket, clutching onto your finger immediately as you tried to raise it back up. The sneaky little leaf-bug gave you two options, either leave your hand in your pocket with it, or pull your hand out and reveal him to all.

“Y/N, pay attention.” Tom ordered and you smiled broadly at him, “Go on.”

The brunette raised a brow at you before he began peeling the shrivelfig, taking away dead skin and exposing the wet, ripe insides of the revolting fruit. You grimaced at the putrid smell and watched as Tom raised the fruit above the cauldron.

“Hold on,” you kicked yourself for speaking but now that Tom was looking your way, you had to continue, “Here.”

Quickly shaking off the Bowtruckle on your hand, you leaned forward and rolled up Tom’s sleeves, folding them securely around his elbows before leaning back, noting the purple tint on his hands. Riddle watched you with dark eyes for a moment longer before squeezing the fig juice into the cauldron.

“Watch the color, Y/N,” Tom ordered and you leaned over the table to inspect the change the liquids within, a dark brownish purple.

Craning your head to the open book, you reached into your robes again, quickly pulling out your wand and pushing the little critter off of it with your finger. It squeaked in protest as you shoved him back into your pocket and you prayed that it wouldn’t emerge.

With the flick of your wrist, the wooden spoon in front of you trembled before clumsily dunking itself into the cauldron and began stirring. Riddle turned up the heat and you patted the text on the page.

“Next we need four daisy roots.” You took the kitchen knife and untied the thread that held the daisy roots together, lining them up and cutting them into fine pieces and dropping them into the cauldron.

Somehow, knowing Riddle’s eyes were on you the whole time made you swell with pride. He hadn’t tried to stop you, he hadn’t said a word - you were doing it right.

You hesitated as you read the next step and contemplated asking Tom to take care of it, but you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction - you didn’t want him to turn on you the second you asked something of him, like last time.

Your heart clenched at the memory, you’d been distracted, so distracted that you had forgotten what Tom had said to you that very morning. Reaching over to grab the jar of caterpillars, you unscrewed the lid and counted them, there were eight.

Cringing, you reached into the jar and picked out the first wriggly, hairy creature you encountered, examining it as it writhed between your index finger and thumb. “Sorry, buddy,”

You dropped one after another into the cauldron, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you watched them sit on the surface of the water before slowly sinking away into the murky depths.

“They’re just worms, Y/N.” Riddle said condescendingly, “They’re not just worms. I bet if I tossed you into a boiling pot of water you’d probably change your mind then.”

The Slytherin prefect’s jaw flexed and he nodded towards the book, “Next is wormwood leafs, correct?” You hummed as you read through the steps and nodded, “Correct.”

Tom motioned for you to take them and you crossed your arms, “Your turn. I just did the caterpillars.”

“My hands are covered in fig juice. I need to clean them.” Tom countered, and you glared at him before swiping up the dry, green herbs and rolling them between your palms above the cauldron.

Little flakes danced across the surface of your brewing potion and your wand increased it’s speed. Tom approached the front desk and muttered something to Slughorn before turning and leaving the classroom. You gave him an inquisitive look but he simply ignored you as he passed and you sighed. Of course he’d ignore you.

You looked over the instructions one more time and your face turned green. Juice four leeches and add to the mixture.

Turning your gaze slowly to the line of jars, you nearly gagged at the sight. How had you not noticed those dark, blood-red creatures wriggling around among themselves?

You unscrewed the lid and stared into the jar, lip trembling with disgust. “Come on, Y/N. You can do this.” Closing your eyes, you shoved your hand into the jar and picked out the first leech you felt.

It took a few pinches of the tool before you caught it and you started stomping your feet as it wriggled. “Practicing your dance moves, Y/N?” Malfoy called from the row behind you, “That’ll do, Mister Malfoy.” Slughorn scolded and you opened one eye to watch the blonde’s face fall, smirking lightly.

Raising the tweezers and inspecting the leech with squinted eyes, you nearly shrieked as something cold and wet slipped down your back, latching onto your flesh. Looking up at your teacher with wide eyes, you suddenly felt all too light, swaying on your feet - so light that you didn’t even notice Riddle’s return.

“Have you completed the next step?” He inquired and you felt your mouth dry up as he lifted the jar, inspecting its contents. “Apparently not.”

“Riddle,” you started as he picked up the pair of tweezers that you’d dropped. He ignored you as he leaned over, reading the instructions. “Riddle.”

“I’m busy at the moment, Y/N.” The brunette said impatiently and you felt your head swimming. Once more you called to him in a soft whisper, “Tom.”

You caught his attention just as your knees buckled and you fell into him, head hitting him with a hard thud. “Professor,” Riddle called as his arms instinctively opened to catch you.

Classmates crowded around you just as they had the night you’d been hexed and as Tom lowered himself to the ground with you, Slughorn rushed to your side. “Y/N? What’s happened, child?”

“Looks like they faint every time they’re around Tom. Right, Y/N?” Abraxas taunted, arms crossed over his chest. “You want him to catch you?”

“That’s enough, Malfoy.” Slughorn barked, and large hands pulled you into a sitting position, where your head lolled to your front. That’s when they noticed it, a dark, slimy trail that started from the nape of your neck and continued down into your robes.

“Professor, look,” Tom pulled the collar of your shirt away and the potion master’s face paled. “Off with it boy, hurry!” Riddle tore your robe from you and raised your shirt over your back, eyes scanning over several blotches covering your skin and the creatures responsible. Leeches covered your entire back and they swelled with your blood.

Swiping them all away, Slughorn paled as they dropped off of you before standing up with probably the angriest face he’d ever worn.

“I demand to know who is responsible for this!” He bellowed, eyes darting between snickering students. “This is no game - none of you will leave until the perpetrator steps forward!” The man threatened, eyes softening at the sight of his favourite student lifted you, your arm slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll take them to the hospital wing, sir.”

“Let me help.” Offered Malfoy and despite his prior behaviour toward you, Slughorn didn’t protest as the blonde took your other arm and wrapped it around him. With a nod from his gullible Professor, the boys were off and no one saw the proud smirk on Abraxas’ face.

No one but Tom.

I don’t think about Harry Potter a whole lot, typically, but today I saw a video that featured Harry wearing some cool shades and I started wondering: what if Voldemort’s killing curse had struck Harry just a little lower? What if, on the first of November, 1981, the Dursleys had discovered on the doorstep their infant nephew - not with a conspicuous jagged scar, but instead with eyes the colour of electricity? How would blind Harry Potter’s life differ from the story we already know?

The first divergences are small and predictable. On his eleventh birthday, Harry’s letter from Hogwarts is written in delicate braille and the signature of Minerva McGonagall is elegantly embossed. At the Hut-on-the-Rock, the newly-revealed wizard boy is impressed not by Hagrid’s size but by the unusual depth of his voice.

Arriving at Hogwarts, we get no description of Draco Malfoy’s appearance, but instead learn the self-important scuffing sound of his footsteps, plus the fact that Crabbe and Goyle smell of old oatmeal, too much candy, and something that reminds Harry of grumpy toads.

Instead of learning “Lumos”, our blind Harry learns spells like “Oros” - which makes books and letters whisper their contents to him in their papery voices - as well as “Divinus”, which causes his wand to hum like a tuning fork the closer it gets to the object he’s thinking of.

One very notable thing has changed, however. In this world, no-one will ever tell Harry that he has his mother’s eyes. It’s hard to tell how much this changes Harry’s story; perhaps, without Lily’s eyes to stir up such emotion, Professor Snape won’t inflict Harry with the sadistic cruelty of a jealous lover - though he still treats the Potter boy with the same distance and hostility he felt towards Harry’s father, James (this, plus the acrid fumes and addling, humid vapours of the potions classrooms, continues to make the subject one of Harry’s least favourite).

With eyes that mark him as “The Boy who Lived” he may not be able to see the reflection of his desires in the Mirror of Erised, but upon placing his hand on the mirror’s cool surface Harry’s head is filled with the murmurs of familiar and comforting voices - his uncles, grandmothers, great-aunts and second cousins - and he is taken by an overwhelming sense of belonging, of being home.

Our sighted Harry always relied on the help of his friends to overcome challenges, and this remains true through the challenges to reach the Philosopher’s Stone. Hermione will still fend off the devil’s snare and solve the potion riddle, while Ron’s command over the chess board will still get the trio through the fourth chamber. Unable to see, Harry may yet be able to capture the winged key in the third chamber; instead of chasing the key like a daring snitch-seeker, he rises cautiously on his broom into the middle of the whirling, fluttering cloud and waits patiently until his keen ears distinguish the slow and clumsy flapping of the injured old key, grabbing it cleanly out of the air as it lumbers past him.

In his second year, Harry’s blindness is if anything an advantage in the fight against the basilisk, making him immune to the serpent’s petrifying gaze as he follows the sound of Fawkes’ voice to rend it through its head. (Incidentally, the repercussions of Dobby’s meddling this year will be slightly lessened, as who could blame a blind twelve-year-old for knocking over a sugared violet pudding - although the Dursleys will try - or bumping into a wall at Central Cross station?)

Professor Trelawney’s classes in third year could only be incredibly tedious for Harry, being unable to read tea leaves or see into crystal balls. What’s more, the Divination professor makes near-constant references to “blind prophets” and “third eyes”, which Harry can’t help but feel is somewhat offensive. Hermione will be very patient with Harry when they sit down to practice their astrology readings and Harry has to ask “Where are the stars, Hermione? The stars? Is Mars in the house of Jove right now? What’s the moon doing?”

With all the talk of The Grim this year, all Harry notices is the lingering ‘shaggy dog smell’ that seems to follow him around whenever he’s outside the castle.

Will a blind boy be allowed to participate in the Triwizard Tournament? Of course he will! Wizards don’t understand ‘safety’. Our Harry may not be a confident flyer, but he still has command of the Accio charm, as well as an entire stash of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products under his bed in his dormitory. Even a Hungarian Horntail can’t see you through Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, not can it smell you once you’ve detonated a few dung bombs. After being tricked into devouring an entire case of Skiving Snackboxes, any dragon is going to feel like taking the day off.

Harry doesn’t recognise Hermione at first when she attends the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum: her improved posture changes the sound of her footsteps, and her voice has taken on a new lilt and clarity after Madam Pomfrey shrunk her teeth to undo Malfoy’s hex. Masking her characteristic smells of library books and toothpaste, she carries with her the flowery scent of the cosmetic potion she put in her hair.

Harry will be incapable of seeing thestrals, even at the start of his fifth year; after hearing the clopping of hooves from his carriage and remarking that “regular, horse-drawn transport seems rather mundane for Hogwarts”, he will be drawn into a very awkward and illuminating conversation with Luna Lovegood about the nature of death.

Umbrige will be described to us not as “toad-like”, but in terms of her voice “like an indignant budgerigar stuck in an expensive vase”. Her classroom smells strongly to Harry of talcum powder and too-sweet tea, with an undertone of vinegar and hints of nightshade.

With a fragment of Tom Riddle’s soul trapped within his eyes, Harry’s visions of Voldemort are stronger than ever, and he rushes as always to confront the Death Eaters - a group of determined friends by his side - at the Ministry of Magic.

Of course this Harry will succeed in hunting down the remaining Horcruxes and tracing the paths of the Deathly Hallows. How could he not, with his magical talents, his powerful capacity for empathy and love, and the endless help of his his allies and friends?

Coming to in a spectral representation of King’s Cross Station, Harry recoils from the whimpering fragment of Voldemort’s should before being greeted by the figure of Albus Dumbledore, whom Harry recognises from his distinguished voice - like a grand old oak tree, its branches bowed under the weight of a thousand stars. Harry’s figment of Dumbledore smells like soap and gold wire, like ink, polished wood and lemon sherbets, and very faintly of kind and humble tears. Occasional wisps of the old man’s expansive beard brush past.

Harry has the same conversation with Dumbledore about life and death, about his own plans and foils, and about Voldemort. Harry is offered the same choice: to go back to the land of the living or to board a train into the beyond. Harry still chooses to return to Voldemort’s camp in the Forbidden Forest, for the sake of his friends, whom he knows and loves by sound and smell and touch.

Harry - The Boy Who Lived - the boy with eyes like lightning, duels Voldemort without ever seeing his snake-like features or the contempt and malice in his red-ringed pupils, and defeats the dark lord just as he does in the original story, because the sum of one’s strength is more than any one sense, just like a community’s strength is greater than that of any one person. Beside the skinny boy with the dark glasses held together by Spell-o-tape stand a frizzy-haired muggle girl who has read every book, two of redhead siblings from a huge and loving family, a forgetful boy raised by grandmother, a girl who still carries around a battered pair of Spectre Specs, and countless other witches and wizards who know that love, acceptance and cooperation are the most powerful magics of all.

Like I Would (Tom)

Requested- 1) an imagine about young Tom Riddle? 2) a tom riddle one where you`re his only friend and he kinda likes you more than just friends?

Song: ZAYN - Like I Would
‘He won’t do you right’

- - -

“You won’t believe what happened in Potions today.”

Tom Riddle, a very charming yet manipulative best friend of yours, replies. “We were in the same classroom, though.” You glare at him. He chuckles ever so gently, “fine, try me.”

“I dropped a whole bottle of unicorn hair into my mixture, but, I was smart enough to get away and find another empty cauldron to start new. I may have told Slughorn that the messed up potion belongs to somebody else,” you state, placing a strand of your hair behind your ear. That habit of yours is something you do quite often, as Tom has noticed over time.

“I do think—” He speaks, but is interrupted by another person’s voice.

“Y/n, here you are.” Your boyfriend, Hyde, greets loudly as if he is cutting Tom off on purpose. He glances at your best friend, “Riddle.”

“Kurstin,” Tom glares at Hyde in return. “Gracing us with your undesired appearance, as always.” Hyde lunges forward, trying to get to Tom, but the later dodges easily. “Trust me, you won’t want me sending you spells.”

“That’s enough, Hyde! Just go. Stop talking to him like that.” You move past the boys and leave. You can hear Hyde calling your name and catching up to you, but you don’t turn around. This happens almost every other day. 

Well, this time, it’s a little different.

“Y/n y/l/n! You stop right there! Right now!” Hyde shouts, making you freeze in your tracks. You know he can be a bit emotional sometimes, but you’re surprised to hear him this mad. He catches up to you and grabs you by the arms. “How dare you walk away from me, you bitch!”

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It Just Happened (Tom Riddle Jr/Voldemort Imagine)

(A/N: Request for Tom Riddle angst! Female reader!)

You couldn’t remember how it started, just that you suddenly saw him one day - it just happened. You’d always found Tom Riddle to be handsome and like every other girl at Hogwarts you’d steal glances at him from the corner of your eye, but that meant little to you - he was just pleasing to look at.

Speaking to the boy was about as interesting as speaking to a windowpane. He was utterly dull and you’d find yourself making excuses to leave as soon as you couldn’t bare to pretend to be interested in the conversation anymore. Long story short, Tom Riddle was boring.

You hated boring.

But then one morning you woke up, dressed yourself, chatted with your roommates on the way to the Great Hall, taking your usual spot next to your closest friends, halfway up the table - and then it happened.

“Y/N, you’ll never guess who’s looking at you right now.” Your girlfriends huddled together and leaned forward, whispering to you, their eyes darting from you to something behind you.

Turning your head in the direction of their shared gaze, your eyes met with the most beautiful brown orbs you’d ever seen. Shaped by thick, long lashes that fluttered lightly as his stare intensified, you felt a painful burst of adoration for him explode within you.

“Tom Riddle is looking at you, Y/N!” You couldn’t look away, you couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t blink, you could only stare back at the handsome Slytherin who had somehow after years of going unthought of captured you entirely. The rest of the morning your heart furiously pounded in your chest, refusing to calm as you came to your only shared class with the Slytherin - or lack thereof. A free period that you knew he used to study in the library, a place you rarely went to.

Breaths coming out in short pants, you felt sweat begin to form on your brow and lower back and hoped it wasn’t prominent. You were almost sprinting through corridors, up stairs and past paintings that scolded you for running inside. You didn’t care, all that was on your mind was finding Tom Riddle. His face was the only thing you could see and his name was the only thing you could hear.

Tom Riddle, Tom Riddle, Tom Marvolo Riddle, Tom, Tom, Tom.

“Tom!” You shouted as you burst into the library, eyes darting about as you rushed past book sections, frantically searching for the boy.

Practically sobbing, your heart threw itself around violently from beneath your rib cage and as you entered the far end of the library, there he was. Sitting with one leg folded over the other in his wooden desk chair, his eyes scanned over the pages of the book he held in his long, slender fingers.

What you did next was so unlike you, something your friends and family would absolutely not believe. You rushed to Tom, his name on your lips and your arms outstretched. Hands spread and gliding over his shoulders and gripping at the expanse of his broad chest. Your hands roamed all over Tom’s chest and stomach before coming up to cup his cheeks, pulling him into a desperate kiss you’d never needed before this day. As if expecting it, Riddle hummed approvingly into your mouth, book falling to the floor as his fingers wrapped around your wrists, thumbs brushing against the fabric of your robes.

“Tom,” you whimpered and the brunette chuckled, pulling away from you and watching your face carefully. “What’s gotten into you, Y/N? You’ve never been all too interested in me before.”

He was right, there was absolutely nothing natural about your sudden recognition of the boy you’d never cared for in your six years of knowing him - or knowing of him. “Of course I have!” You lied, hands shaking violently as tears welled in your eyes, you couldn’t control yourself.

“Please Tom, please,” you begged, tilting your head to kiss him again. Tom didn’t protest but he didn’t respond either and this made you panic. “I think I love you.”

Your lips trailed from his to his jawline where you whispered against his flesh. “I love you, Tom.” To your surprise, you felt the mysterious boy’s head tilt and you blushed wildly as a soft sigh left him. Pride swelled within you and you sucked dark blotches into his neck, knees quaking anxiously as you hovered above him.

“Do you love me, Y/N? Truly?” Tom asked softly and you unlatched yourself from him to meet his eyes, stroking his hair affectionately. “So, so much.” After your declaration of love to the Slytherin, you were rarely seen apart.

Hand-in-hand, the two of you went everywhere together and you even began spending time with his group of friends. You were so intent on pleasing him that you hardly noticed that you were spending less and less time with your own, not noticing their mourning of you.

“Y/N,” Tom called softly, fingertips tracing against the rosy flesh of your cheek, “I’ll return to you soon.” Crying softly, you threw yourself into your husband’s embrace. His long arms wrapped around you and his fingers ran though your hair.

“Will you long for me, dear?” You nodded furiously, sniffing as you sobbed into his vest. “Of course, my love. I long for you always.”

Tilting your head with his hand, Tom kissed you passionately and your fingers tangled into his thick waves. You continued to cry as you kissed him, lips pressing desperately into his. Your crying only ceased when you felt large hands slide up your blouse and over your swollen belly, fingers barely grazing your protruding belly button.

“I’ll definitely be here for our child,” he promised, “I simply cannot wait to meet him.” You scoffed, “It’ll be a girl.” Tom let out a low chuckle at your constant debate on your baby’s gender, he said boy, you said girl and it was a constant but playful battle. Hesitantly releasing you into the protection of the followers he’d accumulated since graduation, your husband Apparated from your sight, leaving you and your unborn baby alone in the old manor he’d claimed for himself after the murder of his muggle father and grandparents.

Weeks passed without word of Tom’s whereabouts in Albania and just as you were about to go in search for him despite his followers’ specific instructions to keep you within the manor, he returned. Face pale and eyes sunken in, Tom returned to you safely but somehow different and it troubled you deeply.

Standing in one of the many kitchens, preparing yourself a meal that would revolt anyone else, but your pregnant self demanded, you argued aggressively with the man who’s arms were lazily draped around you. “I feel fine, dear,” Tom said, “better than I’ve felt in years.”

“I know when you lie, Riddle. Don’t you know how worried I am about you? This quest of yours is getting out of hand,” you cut aggressively into your hideous sandwich and continued your rant on deaf ears. “You forget that we’re married, lovely.” The brunette teased and you scoffed, “What of it?”

Tom nuzzled into your neck and breathed in your scent, sighing deeply and squeezing you closer and you let out a low groan. “You’re so manipulati - ” Your handsome lover raised a brow at your unfinished sentence but only became alert when the dish you’d been holding slipped from your shaking hands and his eyes fell to the ground.

A puddle surrounded your shaking form and Tom wrapped himself around you, Apparating to an upstairs bedroom and carrying you to your shared bed. You shivered wordlessly there and didn’t protest when several others appeared into the room, men and women. The next eight hours were the most painful you’d ever experienced and no amount of magic could dull your agony.

You screamed, cried and begged for it to stop until your voice gave and even Tom’s usually calm demeanor was shaken. His hands cupped yours and you squeezed, screaming as you were commanded to push over and over and over.

You felt as if your body was about to break or split and despite all the tears flooding your eyes and the sweat running down your face, with one final heave you caught a glimpse of a writhing pair of legs. Head falling back, your eyes fluttered closed and the sound of a crying babe lulled you to sleep. You did it, you’d had your baby.

“Mother,” a soft voice called, “mother, I’m hungry.” You moaned softly, rubbing your lids roughly as you stirred in Tom’s arms.

Reaching out and pulling back the covers, you wriggles from your fleshy cage and slipped on your gown and slippers, smiling as your son’s hand slipped into yours. “What would you like, darling?”

Looking down at your five year old, you noted just how much he looked like his father. Dark brown hair framed his pale face and you felt your heart flutter every time those familiar brown eyes looked up at you. He was utterly gorgeous, just like his father - his father who was looking less and less like himself every day. You spent most of your time tending to your son and in return he was a well behaved, obedient boy.

And then one day, just as abruptly it had come, your love and devotion to your husband, the father of your beautiful baby boy, was gone. You packed your suitcase in the dead of night, gathering as many of your belongings as you could before waking your son, promising him you were going to take him somewhere wonderful. He gleefully accepted and you held him close, wand at the ready. You pulled off the dark ring Tom had given to you as your engagement ring and placed it on the bedside table.

You Apparated away. Far, far away in search for your long forgotten family with your son at your side, the feeling of being absolutely free and your own overwhelming you. You weren’t sure what happened, why you woke in a panic and the need to escape took over, but you knew it was right. Somehow you knew it was meant to be this way despite not knowing why.

It just happened.

Liar 8/? (Tom Riddle Jr/Voldemort Imagine)

The sound of shuffling was the first thing you remembered waking up, the second being the pain in your shoulders. Raising your head weakly, a soft grunt escaped your lips.

“Don’t move, Y/N.” You turned your eyes and blinked lazily at him - Riddle. “What are you doin’ to me?” You slurred softly.

“You fainted, again.” Stiffening up and clumsily standing on your own, you moaned, “Stop. I can walk.”

Dropping your arm as if it were ice-cold, Riddle straightened his robes. You turned to thank the other student who had assisted you but when your eyes met his blue ones, your gaze hardened. “What are you doing here?” You spat, shoulder leaning against the cobblestone wall.

“I’m helping you,” Abraxas smirked, “I think I deserve a little appreciation, don’t you?” Scoffing, you forced yourself to stand and waved the two off, “I feel fine, let’s just go back to class.”

“Your back was covered in leeches, Y/N. You most likely fainted from loss of blood and you need to see the matron.” Tom said, inspecting the wall behind you. “How many?” You paled, stomach flipping unpleasantly.

“At least ten.” Malfoy’s smirk widened, “They were full with your blood.” You whipped your head around and clenched your jaw, the blonde looked satisfied with your response and he stepped closer to you. “I wonder how they got there.”

Your face reddened with anger at his indirect confession and with shaky hands, you shoved him out of the way. “Y/N,” you heard him sing-song at you teasingly from afar and your breathing became labored.

Breaths became shorter and louder with every step you took and as you came to the doors of the hospital wing that familiar warm, wet sensation tickled your cheeks. You stood there and cried, fists balled up, face scrunched hideously and hair falling in your face. Quivering in your robes sorrowfully, clenching your eyes shut and raising a fist to wipe at your wet face, you focused on steadying your breathing - only to gasp in fright at the sound of a young girl.

“Why are you crying?” You whipped around, back against the door and wide-eyed, “What could you possibly be crying for? Nothing you’re going through could be worse than what I’m going through.” Blinking away tears, you examined the girl.

Pale skin with a broad face framed by thick, round rimmed glasses. Her dark brown hair was pulled into two ponytails and her blue and white tie did nothing to bring any attention to her. Had she not spoken to you, you’d have never noticed her at all - she practically faded into the walls behind her.

“I’m not crying,” you defended, “and I don’t think this should be a competition.“ The girl watched you carefully, arms crossed and eyes puffy, “I cry a lot.” You snorted, “Good for you.”

Turning to the door, you pushed against it weakly, stepping into the unfortunately familiar room. “Who’s there?” The woman called from behind a curtain. “Myrtle,” The Ravenclaw girl called and you shot her a glare, “Y/N.” You added bitterly.

“You two can’t stay away for long, can you.” She joked as she revealed herself, “Alright Y/N, what seems to be the problem?” The Ravenclaw, Myrtle, gawked at the two of you, “B-But what about me?”

The matron looked exasperated, “I’ll get to you in a moment, Miss Warren.” Myrtle huffed as she sat down on the end of a bed, folding one leg over the other and watching you with squinty eyes.

Brushing her off, you grabbed the curtain and pulled it across the bed, shielding yourself from the nosy girl. “I was in potions, ma'am,” you began undoing your tie and unbuttoned your white shirt which was dotted with blood.

Turning to expose your back, the matron gasped, “What happened, dear? Who did this?” She inspected your bruises flesh, “Is it bad?” You asked anxiously, “These look like bite marks.” Frowning, you hummed, “Someone put leeches down my back in class. I guess there were a lot.” The woman’s soft fingers traced your lower back and she tutted, “I fainted once I felt them moving but Riddle thought it might be due to blood loss, insisted I come here.”

“That boy really has kept an eye on you, hasn’t he? Such a sweet young man.” You grimaced at that but agreed reluctantly. “Am I going to be alright, ma'am?”

Tie in hands, you traced the stripes on them absentmindedly as you thought back to potions. “I think so, dear. Do you know who did this?”

“I do, ma'am.” You jumped as the top of a head full of silky brown hair revealed itself from above the curtain. “Tom!” Myrtle gushed and you watched the silhouettes moving behind the white material.

He towered over her and she stood closely to him, “What are you doing here? He admitted it?” You threw the curtain open without thinking and instantly regretted it. Eyes meeting with his, Tom narrowed his gaze for the briefest of moments before turning his head and clearing his throat.

Tossing it shut, you shook profusely and your entire body felt as if it were on fire. “She admitted it.” Trying your best to brush off your humiliating action, you lifted your shirt over you shoulders, buttoning it as you spoke. “She? Who?”

Myrtle huffed and you saw her pigtails sway as she turned, “Olive Hornby.” Riddle answered, paying no mind to the girl by his side. “Olive is always being mean to me!” The Ravenclaw declared. “Olive put the leeches down my robes? Are you sure?”

Grabbing the curtain and pulling it aside, Tom examined your surprised face, wide-eyed and lips parted. “But she wasn’t even - ”

“She was behind us, partnered with Abraxas.” Your eyes narrowed and you scoffed, “Of course she was. I’m so sick of him.”

Myrtle took a step forward, nose scrunched, “Sick of who?” Her tone was constantly whiny and every time she spoke you cringed. “None of your business.” You snapped and the girl flinched, bowing her head submissively. A moment of silence passed and your stomach welled with guilt.

Sighing, you yielded and slumped onto the bed, “Malfoy,” you started, “We’ve hated each other for years and he’s always going out of his way to mess with me.” The brown haired girl’s eyes softened and her arms unfolded, “Isn’t he your friend, Tom?”

You clenched your fists, you’d completely forgotten the two were associated. Seeing them together at the front of Slytherin table was one thing but Abraxas actually followed Tom around like his own shadow.

“We’re acquainted, yes.” He admitted, “I just stopped by to tell you that Hornby is going to be punished by the Headmaster personally, so I’ll be going now.”

You nodded, heart dropping at the thought of him leaving. “What about our grade on that practical lesson?” The brunette raised a brow at you, “We’ll have to do it again, we were pardoned temporarily. We’ll finish that while you serve your detention after classes today.” Your heart dropped even lower and you blinked up at your classmate, who stared back at you blankly before his lips curled into a faint smirk, “You didn’t forget did you, Y/N?”

You wanted to protest, to complain or somehow weasel your way out of it, but you knew the sooner you went the sooner you’d be able to go to your room and just sleep the day off. You simply didn’t have the energy to argue.

Okay, so I’ve seen a lot of people get angry at Dumbledore for making the traps protecting the stone so easy that three first years could get past them. But let’s sit back and think about this for a moment…

They were supposedly set to keep out adults. You can’t expect some random witch or wizard to have skills in everything. Only people like Albus, Tom, and even Severus would have the skills necessary to make it past every trap on their own. 

Trap #1 Cerberus. Hagrid. Going by the book. A lot of people wouldn’t know how to fend off one without killing it. A lot wouldn’t be smart enough to check its feet to see a trap door. The three heads business would be enough to terrify the intelligence from most.

Hagrid accidentally gave Harry, Hermione, and Ron a way to get past him. Pure luck for three first years.

Trap #2 Devil’s Snare. Sprout. Going by the book. They drop through the door and land on a tentacle like plant that begins constricting around them and squeezing them to death. Harry and Ron don’t know what it is. Devil’s Snare was taught at the end of the year in Herbology without a physical demonstration and since neither care much enough to check up on it, they didn’t know. Hermione however, did. If she didn’t know what it was and how to stop it, they would have been dead. Simple.

Trap #3 Flying Keys. Hooch and Flitwick. Going by the book. Hermione’s spell didn’t work on the door, so they have to resort to something else. Harry has the natural skill at flying that neither Ron or Hermione have. He is also a Seeker and is able to spot the correct key, among the hundred of others, whereas the other two couldn’t. Hermione didn’t seem to do well on a broom and nothing about Ron’s skill was mentioned. Therefore, it is up to Harry to get the key down. He then has to out-fly enchanted keys bent on doing him harm, the moment he touches the broom.

Trap #4 Chessboard. McGonagall. Going by the book. Ron has been playing chess for years and is rather good at it. Hermione thinks it’s barbaric and useless and Harry is just really bad at it. Someone is needed to play the game so that they may advance. Ron steps up and ensures that Harry checkmates the other king. Ron is sacrificed in essence. 

Trap #5 Mountain Troll. Quirrell. Going by the book. Luckily it had already been dispatched by Quirrellmort, so Hermione and Harry did not have to fight it. Pure luck.

Trap #6 Potion Riddle. Snape. Going by the book. Harry and Hermione are now trapped in a room with 7 vials of ‘potions’. I honestly don’t understand the riddle. To this day, I and my mother are at a loss. Three bottles of poison, two bottles of wine, one to go forward, and one to go behind.(<— I rhymed!) Hermione revealed logic to be in play and admitted that, 'A lot of the greatest witches and wizards haven’t got an ounce of logic, they’d be stuck in here forever.’ She solved it for Harry in under ten minutes.

Trap #7 (<— Magic number!) Mirror of Erised. Dumbledore. Going by the book. Harry was tasked with getting the stone which was in the mirror somehow. Only a person who wanted to find the stone, but not use it, would retrieve it. Add on the threat of Quirellmort - a wizard with much more 'skill’ than him - and Harry is in great danger.

However, Harry did not do much. He got the stone, told a measly lie, and defended his parents to Voldemort’s 'face’. It was Lily’s protection that saved Harry and the stone in the end.

So let’s recount…

How many singular first years are going to think to look at a three headed, massive dog’s feet? When it is growling at them and ready to attack?

How many would know to play music to make it sleep?

How many would remember what Devil’s Snare is and know the proper charm required to defeat it?

How many would have the skill necessary to fly on a broom in order to get the proper key, while dodging all other keys?

How many would have the skill to play a live game of chess with themselves as a player, and win?

How many could defeat a Mountain Troll on their own?

How many would have the intelligence and understanding of logic that Hermione had in order to solve the potion riddle? 

How many would be able to ignore the fact that they are looking for a stone that can make them either extremely wealthy or immortal? To be able to put aside such things? To face a Dark Lord feared by most and deny the chance of helping him even when he offers to revive the parents you never had the chance to know(even though it was a lie) in exchange for giving him the stone?

How many would have that sort of chivalry?

Harry, Hermione, and Ron each had an important part to play in retrieving the stone. They each had a particular skill that got them forward and onto the next task. Of course three first years would manage to make it. Traps #1 and #5 were already taken care of. Pure luck. Trap #2 was all Hermione. Trap #3 was all Harry. Trap #4 was all Ron. Trap #6 was all Hermione(again). Trap #7 was all Harry(again). Hermione doesn’t possess the chivalry Harry has in order to face Quirrellmort and Ron would have been too swayed by greed to succeed in retrieving the stone.

It was a joint effort on all their parts. No normal first year would have succeeded on their own and McGonagall had verbally set the three Gryffindors apart from their fellows earlier in the year when she commented on the taking down of the Troll in the lavatory.

So no, Dumbledore did not make it easy for first years to pass through. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were rather exceptional in that regard(with some luck along the way).

Now while I do not agree with him placing the stone in the school at all, I can admit that the 7 traps for the stone were amazing and difficult. And I reiterate, only Albus, Tom, or Severus would be skilled enough to get past everything on their own without expecting it all first.

Just thought I’d put this out there.

Ms M Rants

I’m beginning to receive many asks along the lines of “The object of my desires has this and that placement; how can I use that to get them to like me back?”

As I state in my FAQ, “I don’t give that kind of advice. One, synastry in general isn’t my strong suit; two, if I don’t have someone’s permission to look at their chart, I’m not going to do it. That’s creepy and manipulative.” In fact, it’s right up there with Merope Gaunt potioning Tom Riddle Sr., and we all know how that turned out.

One of the first non-astrology “New Age” books I read is Positive Magic: Occult Self-Help by Marion Weinstein. Although her astrology chapter is way off, the rest of the book is excellent - and highly, highly ethical. Any time astrology, tarot, spells, &/or whatever is used to manipulate someone, Weinstein rightly considers that to be negative magic because it takes away or ignores the target’s free will.

The main purpose of this blog is to get astrological information “out there” - to help us all navigate the day. If I can help people become the best versions of themselves, to reach their higher ground, that’s even better. We’re supposed to be working on ourselves, not other people.

(dismounts podium, coughs a little.)

4. Voldemort's Younger Brother

After Merope stopped dosing him with the love potion, Tom Riddle Sr. left her and returned to Little Hangleton where he married Cecilia. One night he went to his parents’ to visit to let them know that he and Cecilia were expecting a child. He never made it home.

Cecilia gave birth to a son. She eventually married again, this time to a man called Finnigan, and raised her son, completely oblivious to the fact that Tom Riddle had another son. When Cecilia’s son grew up, he met and married a nice woman. After they married, she told him she was a witch. It was a bit of a nasty shock for him when he found out.

like, the welsh translation of harry potter gets loads of flak, but sometimes i am blown away by some things emily huws did

  • the way the muggle world and informal wizards uses ‘mistar/mrs’ but the hogwarts staff call everyone 'y bonwr/y fones’ (really archaic titles nobody uses any more)
  • the leaky cauldron getting translated as 'y gogor-grochan’ (it sounds so cutesy and catchy and is literally 'the sieve-cauldron’)
  • the fact she translated the sorting hat’s song and the potions riddle whilst keeping them rhyming
  • the fact that hagrid’s accent is translated as really really gog (northern welsh accent, and his is as thick as a brick)
  • jelly-legs jinx as 'felltith y cwlwm-coes’ (keeps the alliteration, means 'the knot-legs curse’)
  • the use of the word 'hudoliaeth’ (more often used to mean 'glamour’ but sounds as if it means 'study or magic’ or 'magicology’)
  • names are translated so beautifully idc if you can’t recognise who’s who 
  • like seriously
  • oliver wood becomes orwig bedwyr ('bedwyr’ is an actual legitimate surname and is etymologically related to 'bedw’, meaning birch)
  • madam pomfrey becomes 'madam prysorwen’ which i’m not sure about the meaning but it sounds like a very traditional welsh name she sounds so old
  • the bloody baron is 'waldo waedlyd’ or 'bloody waldo’
  • w a l d o

thyevilqueen-blog  asked:

I am in love with your "boy with a scar" series. Thanks so much for sharing your writings! I have commented on Ao3 as well, but I was wondering if you'd take a fic prompt? I am very curious what you think would've happened if harry never requested to be placed in gryffindor, so the sorting hat placed him in slytherin.

Yes! Let’s say Hagrid got Harry a sundae and Harry, awestruck, lingered over it–- they were late to Madame Malkin’s, passing Draco on his way out.

Let’s say Harry got a little earlier to the station and didn’t meet the Weasleys there. A big blond Hufflepuff with broad shoulders and a bright future showed him how to get through the platform wall–- Cedric Diggory was on route for being a prefect, and things like this were why.

Because what if Harry had gotten his House opinions from the song, instead of age-old conflict? Slytherin, where you’ll make real friends. And this boy with nothing, this boy who latched onto the first kindnesses he’d ever seen, he thought yes that is what I want.

Slytherins–- this is a group who laughs when Neville falls off a broom and breaks his wrist. And what if we had Harry there, who had always been the one laughed at, who had a nice thirst to prove himself, who had green trim on his robes instead of red? This Harry still stepped out in front of Malfoy’s best sneer and demanded Neville’s Rememberall back–- though he got a detention from it, not a Seekership.

When kids in the Slytherin Common Room tossed jeers at the pudgy feet of Millicent Bulstrode, Harry rose up to do something about it. This Harry, now one of Snape’s own, got fewer House points lost but many more detentions– it had never been the colors on his hem that Severus hated.

He got more bruises. Harry had barely even learned Wingardium Leviosa, but he was little, years of bullying under his skin, and he knew how to get up in people’s faces, snap out insults, and kick their shins when it got bad.

This was not wishing Harry an easy path. This was not wishing the boy a warm House. This was Harry, three weeks in, sleep deprived and considering running away and going back to Privet Drive. This was Harry in the back of Potions class, blank-faced under Snape’s disdain the way he’d perfected under the Dursleys’s torments.

Slytherin was the house of cunning, of ambition–- but if you know better, the Hat will let you ask for something else. If you know better–- so Slytherin’s dungeon was filled with the kids who thought blood purist sounded like home, with the children who didn’t know better–-with children. The dungeon was filled with children.

When Quirrell shouted “troll in the dungeons, thought you ought to know,” and Harry overheard that there was a girl in the bathroom crying, he still ran off to make sure she got out okay. He hesitated first, at the back of the little pack of Slytherin first years (at the back so that no one could get behind him)– he hesitated. And Millicent Bulstrode, who could never quite keep her tummy tucked in enough, could never brush all the cat hair off her robes, never quite keep her temper in check, hesitated, too.

Harry did not ask Millicent to come with him; this was not a boy who asked for things. When he had asked for things, Dudley had laughed, Petunia had scowled, and Vernon had said, “no,” or just kept reading the newspaper like he hadn’t heard anything at all. But when Harry went, Millicent bunched up her robes in her hands and followed.

A troll got a wand up his nose. When Harry shouted for help, for the first time someone answered him. When Hermione picked her way out of the rubble, she stared at them–- the grinning messy-haired boy and the scowling fat girl who was stubbornly considering either smiling back or kicking a bit of dirty water onto the reckless little hellion’s robes.

Hermione stared–- the green on their robes. She was eleven years old. The kids at her old Muggle school had called her ugly, know-it-all, pest–- but here she had already been called Mudblood by upper years twice her size, in green-trimmed robes just like these. It rang differently, that word, than smartypants ever had. It was hissed, and it echoed out and further out, past the school yards and high castle walls.

But Harry stumbled over a troll’s ankles and through hissing streams of water from broken pipes to make sure she was okay, hands dirty, wand disgustingly snotted, his hair its normal silly mess. Millicent refused to wade any deeper through the gathering pools of cold water, but when Hermione opened her mouth to lie about hunting down the mountain troll Millicent snorted and cut her off.

McGonagall stared at the streaming pipes, Potter’s snotty wand, a Slytherin girl stopping a Gryffindor from lying to protect her–- she gave a small pinched sigh, a headache pounding in her ears that was as deep and throbbing as the one she’d gotten the first time she realized what trouble those Weasley twins were going to be. She didn’t take or give any House points, just sent them off to their respective dormitories and then went to make herself a hot cup of tea with lemon.

Hermione reached out best through books sometimes–- she snuck out of her dormitory one night, breath held tight, chin held high, and tiptoed into the Restricted Section. She owed a debt, and that was more important than even rules, even expulsion.

She read late into the night, quiet, and napped rebelliously through History of Magic (she had made her own eight-volume replacement history course with Madame Pince’s help).

When Hermione thought she knew what she needed, she stole all of Harry’s lunch hours for a week and taught him how to cast lasting shield spells that wouldn’t cave even to the top of the seventh year’s class, even in a House known for its fondness for curses. When Harry finally mastered her shield spells and a pretty handful of boobytrap jinxes, he put them up around his four poster and slept easily for the first time since he’d arrived at Hogwarts.

Slytherin was the house where you’ll make true friends. The next time Harry went after one of his housemates, who was bullying a Ravenclaw in the back aisles of the Library, Millicent dragged him up to Madame Pomfrey after, made his excuses for him, and finished up the last of his Potions essay so Snape would have nothing to tut about. When a Death Eaters’ daughter sent a curse at the back of Harry’s head, Hermione muttered the Anti-Jinx under her breath from across the Great Hall. When Millicent went home for Christmas, Harry fed her cat every morning and evening and praised every power he knew for the existence of magical catboxes.

Keep reading

shaolina  asked:

1. Dumbles was a MAJOR dick about her. 2) she appears on a later book. 3) we never technically meet her. 4) she dead. 5) she unjustly gets compared to another character.

Merope Gaunt! And I am still mad about Dumbles making so many assumptions about her. Here, have a few quotes of his from Half-Blood Prince.

 ”… it is my belief—I am guessing again, but I am sure I am right — that when her husband abandoned her, Merope stopped using magic.

As I said in HBP Spork, “[t]his would make more sense if we had ever seen Merope START to use magic. There’s no evidence that she knew how to cast a single successful spell. In fact, she may have been the Squib her father accused her of being. 

“And even if you accept Dumbledore’s word that Merope used a love potion, she didn’t have to brew it personally. She could have bought one, or even shoplifted one.”

Of course, it is also possible that her unrequited love and the attendant despair sapped her of her powers; that can happen.

“It’s clear in retrospect that Rowling inserted this line to cover her arse about Tonks. But considered simply as information about Merope…well, it seems that Dumbledore is blaming Merope again, saying that her refusal, conscious or subconscious, to use magic caused her death. Me, I think that poverty, lack of food (and most likely shelter and pre-natal care as well, for they too cost money), plus years of abuse took their toll far more than lack of magic did.”

In any case, as you are about to see, Merope refused to raise her wand even to save her own life.”

“*mimicking Dumbledore* In any case, we never see Merope again. We hear about her, but the glimpse we got of her in Chapter 10 is all that we get. Therefore, we don’t know if Merope refused to raise her wand to save her own life or not.”

However, based on what Mrs. Cole said, that’s not what happened. According to her, “Merope staggered up the steps of the orphanage on New Year’s Eve.

We took her in, and she had the baby within the hour. And she was dead in another hour.”

“Doesn’t exactly sound like ‘wouldn’t lift a wand to save herself.’ It sounds more like ‘died from complications in childbirth.’ There’s a real difference.”

Dumbledore’s theory that Merope MUST have used a love potion to snag Tom Riddle, Senior, though, is what bothers me the most. Again, I’m going to quote from HBP Spork:

“Merope was terrified by her father—indeed, he almost killed her. Now, magic in the Potterverse is strongly tied to emotion. Put a young, untrained wizard or witch in a stressful situation, and magic often results. (Witness young Harry, who ended up on the school roof after Dudley and his gang chased him.) Fear’s a very strong emotion, and Merope was clearly frightened of her father and brother…but we see no evidence of her lashing out unconsciously with magic.

"To me, Merope is the epitome of an abused woman. Fighting only makes the abusers angrier, so she doesn’t fight. Second, her father, who would have been looking for magical talent in his children, calls her a "dirty Squib.” This clearly is the worst insult in his vocabulary. Third, the Gaunts appear to have lived a rather isolated life, regarding themselves as superior to anyone not of pure blood. 

“Given this, and given Marvolo’s refusal to open letters, it’s unlikely that either of his children attended Hogwarts or any other magical school. Merope simply doesn’t have the training to brew a love potion. And love potions are stated in canon to be difficult to make.

"I think it far likelier that Tom Riddle, Sr.—rich, handsome, arrogant, and eager to laugh at a frightened person in pain— noticed Merope’s silent adoration and realized that she would do almost anything for him simply for a smile or a kind word. This probably fed his ego for a bit. He may have even gone through some mummery of a marriage to convince Merope that he really loved her. [N.B. After all, it’s not as if she would know what a Muggle marriage ceremony would look like.] This seems more in keeping with the personalities of Riddle and Merope that we’ve glimpsed so far.

"It could be argued that Dumbledore’s statement is supposed to be erroneous, and that the audience is supposed to see through it and realize that he’s made an error. But there’s no proof of such subtlety. Dumbledore theorizes without offering a shred of evidence to support it. Everything is ”I supposed” or ”can you not think of a possibility?” or”the villagers guessed” or ”the rumor flew around the neighbourhood.” All is supposition, none of which relies on anything that we have seen of Merope or Riddle. And Harry simply accepts Dumbledore’s theory.”

In fact, we don’t even know that Tom, Sr. and Merope WERE married. Here are the quotes from Dumbles:

You can imagine the gossip it caused when the squire’s son ran off with the tramp’s daughter, Merope.

The rumor flew around the neighbor­hood

Which doesn’t mean that it was accurate.

that [Tom Sr.] was talking of being ‘hoodwinked’ and ‘taken in.’

When they heard what he was saying, however, the villagers guessed

Which means, of course, that they didn’t KNOW.

that Merope had lied to Tom Riddle, pretending that she was going to have his baby, and that he had married her for this reason.

In other words, the villagers ASSUMED that a) Merope lied to Tom and pretended to be pregnant, b) that Tom married her because she SAID she was pregnant, c) that Tom married her at all. 

Dumbledore seems to go along with the last assumption, though he acknowledges that Voldemort was born too late to have been a cause of elopement. Though he continues to talk about “the runaway marriage,” it’s clear that he’s assuming that Tom would have married Merope—because, after all, he ran away with her.

To return to the conclusion of that spork:

"And what really, really sticks in my craw here is that Dumbledore blames Merope for everything. She is responsible for Riddle’s taking up with her; SHE must have used a love potion. She is responsible for her marriage to Tom Riddle, Sr., because SHE probably told Riddle that she was pregnant to get him to marry her. She is even responsible for Riddle deserting her when she was pregnant; Dumbledore believes that SHE made the choice to stop giving Riddle the love potion—even though we don’t even know for a fact that she gave him one in the first place! 

"Everything, even things that are done to Merope and that harm her, are all her fault. 

:::

"Can you say ‘blaming the victim’?”

Ahem. Sorry for the rant. This REALLY bugs me, even now.

The signs as things wrong with the films

Aries - Harry not repairing his wand with the elder wand.
Taurus - Peeves.
Gemini - “Did you put your name in the goblet of fire, Harry?” he asked calmly.
Cancer - Periwinkle blue.
Leo - Harry not giving Fred and George his triwizard winnings.
Virgo - Ginny having the emotions of a spoon.
Libra - The death of Lord Voldemort.
Scorpio - Hermione working out the potion riddle in Philosophers Stone.
Sagittarius - The death of Peter Pettigrew.
Capricorn - Tom Riddle’s backstory.
Aquarius - Sir Nicholas’ 500th Deathday party.
Pisces - Ludo Bagman.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

Request 25: A oneshot where Steve and the reader are really close friends and are always flirting a little bit. She is teasing him about something and he warns her that she’ll cross the line and it leads to them kissing. (Anonymous)

“Good morning.” You hear Steve call from behind you. You look around and wave, before turning your attention back to the food you had been stuffing into your mouth.

“A md pncdges.” You say, food spraying out of your mouth as Steve sits down opposite you.

“Pardon?”

You chew a few more times, swallow, then try again. “I made pancakes.”

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