the warrington

So I was rereading Harry Potter, when I came across this and thought- what if instead of Cedric Diggory, Cassius Warrington had been chosen to compete in the Triwizard Tournament?

Imagine Dumbledore calling out the name of the Hogwarts champion and it isn’t a Gryffindor, or a Ravenclaw, or even a Hufflepuff, but it’s a Slytherin. A student from a House most people hate.

Imagine Cassius Warrington getting up, and three out of four Houses are booing at him and shouting things like “NO!” or, “We can’t have a Slytherin champion!” or demanding a retry. But he’s a Slytherin- he’s been dealing with this shit since he got sorted, so he keeps his head high and joins the other champions.

Imagine Harry trying to catch Warrington alone because he doesn’t really want to associate with Slytherins (plus Malfoy seems to be around the guy ALL THE TIME now that he’s the Hogwarts champion), but at the same time he’s also fair enough not to want him to walk into the first task unprepared.

Imagine Warrington walking over to Harry a few months later, and Ron and Hermione both jump into a protective stance, wands out, but instead of attacking Harry he just tells him to stick the egg underwater. (Because Slytherins don’t forget those who helped them out).

Imagine Warrington and Harry helping each other out in the labyrinth.

Imagine Harry being devastated when Peter kills Warrington- because Voldemort doesn’t care what house they’re form, a spare is a spare.

Imagine the uproar that causes among the Slytherins, because some of their parents really are Death Eaters and they know what really happened.

Imagine Slytherins fighting in the Battle of Hogwarts and shouting “This is for Cassius!”

To those Americans who haven't heard, or don't understand:

I know tumblr is American centric, I know that when attacks happen across Europe they get commented on, reblogged, information flooding my dash as my friends reblog. But, once again, an attack here in the UK is seeing little notice. So please, don’t ignore this. This attack is one that has taken 22 lives. 59 people have been injured. Children have died. Children.

Don’t ignore this. Please.

The Manchester Arena isn’t the first, or last terrorist attack that the North West, that England has seen. We’ve lived through the IRA bombings from the 1970s to the 2000s and then 7/7 in London in 2005. The IRA Bombers were known as the 10 pence bombers because they would go to a phone box, pay 10 pence and inform police or media that there was a bomb.

At this present moment in time, we’re horrified and in shock from it all. We’ve had bombings in Warrington, in Manchester before (my family had a terrifying time when an IRA bomb detonated in the Arndale Centre and my great-aunt was working there that day) and it’s stuck with us. Our memory of the Arndale Bombing in the 1990s by the IRA is a memory the community has in the North West.

We know the fear, the horror, the mind-numbing terror.

But we also know the feeling of needing to do something, to help. Taxi drivers turning off their metres. Local shops and businesses taking in the displaced. Do-gooders and kind people who just want to help offering to ferry loved ones to and from the city so they can find their missing loved ones.

This is something we do here.

We don’t have the lingering concern of school shootings, or attacks by men or women who own too many guns and have too little stability.

But we know bombers. We know terrorism. Whether it’s made by our government, by policy, or by wars we shouldn’t be fighting. We know this.

I had a friend ask me “why Manchester?” when I told them about the attack. My initial answer was that it’s a big, important city. It’s a good target for bombers to hit. Like London. Like Liverpool. But the truth is… In the UK, we have lots of cities, lots of places that are good targets because we live on top of each other. Our lives intersect on so many levels and our cities reflect this. So it’s not so much “why Manchester?” but more “why now?”, “why a concert?”, “what is gained by this?”

When the IRA bombed Warrington in the North West in 1993, their intention was to sow terror and to put pressure on the British government to withdraw from Northern Ireland. We know that they wanted Ireland to be united. We’ve known that for years.

What does Islamic State want? What does Daesh want? To sow terror, certainly. But what else? What else does bombing an Arena full of young women—girls, mothers, daughters, sisters—gain them?

This is what is so horrid for us here in the North West. We’ve lived with the knowledge of bombings being possible for decades. It’s ingrained in our past. My mother, my aunts and uncles. My brothers. My family. We’ve lived it all. We live it now.

So don’t ask, “why Manchester?” we know why. We know why. Warrington. Arndale. The Manchester Arena. We know why it’s us in the North West.

elennare  asked:

First, I wanted to say that I love love love your Harry Potter fics and what-ifs! thank you so much for writing them :) And I also wondered if you ever written what if the Dursleys had refused to take Harry in?

When Petunia Dursley refused to take Harry in she forfeited his birthright protection, so Dumbledore took the baby to the safest place he knew: Hogwarts.

The applicable staff (mostly just… not Snape) took Harry in on a rotating schedule as he grew from baby to toddler to child. They traded extra credit for babysitting among the older students, and Harry grew up knowing a few dozen different laps that were safe and warm to nap in.

This was a Harry who grew up among books, among old transient walls and learned professors. They gave Binns night duty sometimes, and let him talk young Harry to sleep. This was a Harry whose world changed, on principle, daily. The stairs moved. The walls became doors. You had to keep your eyes open–you had to pay attention. So he did.

He grew up in a school. Knowledge was power, but knowledge was also joy. This was his sanctuary. There was magic in his world from birth.

“The castle will keep him safe,” said Dumbledore, when McGonagall came into his office to complain for the eighth time about Albus’s rather cavalier take on child-rearing. “That’s what it does.”

Then why do we bother with chaperones ever,” McGonagall said, tempted to shriek it. “Should we let all the children run about willy-nilly at all hours, or just the orphan waifs?!

“He’s not a student. He’s a ward of Hogwarts. It will take care of him, Minerva.”

McGonagall walked off fuming. A cat with spectacle markings followed Harry almost constantly from ages three through four. At some point McGonagall was far enough behind on her paperwork, and had seen enough suits of armor carry the kid back to his room, enough draperies lift off the wall and tug Harry away from edges, and enough stairs creakingly shift their slope for his tiny toddler legs. She gave a grumpy sigh, stole some of Albus’s lemon drops, and resigned herself to a magical world.

The Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, didn’t really like boys but she liked children. She especially liked patience, and politeness, and Harry had been raised by McGonagall’s stern table manners, by Victorian portraiture and quite a few House Elves. He said please, thank you, and ma'am, and as a child he was very cunning in how he got bedtime stories and bedtime snacks out of most every adult he met.

The Grey Lady told the best stories, you see, the ones with riddles in them. You had to think and ask questions to get all the way through them. So he hunted her down with big patient eyes and plates of very smelly cheese, and she told him stories that made him think.

When Harry was stable enough on his feet to walk, and then to run, Sir Cadogan would race him through the castle, the knight scattering banquet tables and galloping across landscapes, twisting through the abstract gallery up on the seventh and a half floor. Harry stumbled and sprinted up stairways and didn’t notice for years the way Cadogan waited at the end of corridors for him to catch up.

Harry was a chubby-legged toddler, in this world–cute cheeks and stubby limbs. It’s a cute image, yes– but this is important. He was a chubby kid. He ate in a high chair on the teacher’s dais, getting peas and mashed potatoes on the adults beside him– Sprout laughed. Snape didn’t.

But this is important–Harry filled his plate. He wobbled up on little legs and grabbed biscuits from the table, slurped his soup, got marinara sauce on his chin and forehead and somehow behind his ear. When he was hungry, he ate. If he snuck down to the kitchens at night, it was for the adventure of it and nothing else. When he was hungry, he ate.

When he was four, they started letting him go sit down with the students. Bill Weasley, on route to be a prefect next year, took him under his wing and scrubbed his face down after meals. Harry was passed around the Hufflepuff table; theirs was the House Common Room he most liked sneaking into, with its barrels and cozy warmth. Nymphadora Tonks turned her nose a dozen different shapes to make Harry laugh, gurgling, as a toddler (and then a child) (and then for the rest of her life, honestly–it never stopped being funny).

The whole Ravenclaw table got distracted from meals, trying to solve riddles from a book one of their Muggleborns had smuggled in.Harry pushed his fork through his gravy, trying to draw out his thoughts but only making squiggles.

It was years before Harry sat at the Slytherin table for the first time–no one had ever set him down there, like they had with the others. But he liked green–it was the color of Professor Sprout’s greenhouses, where he went and napped sometimes in winter. It was the color of his mother’s eyes, from the little book of moving pictures Hagrid had given him when he was three.

All the Slytherin kids seemed big, but everyone Harry ever met seemed big–except for Flitwick, who was seeming smaller with every growth spurt. He leaned forward, teetering on the bench, and grabbed a chicken drumstick. “Hi,” he said, because he’d had a childhood full of tea parties with high portrait society– the French nobility and the tired housewife from the third floor and an old witch with her sleeve on fire but very particular table manners. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

By the end of the meal, they were flicking peas across the table with their spoons, like catapult projectiles. Harry had been unwelcome in so few places in his life, after he’d left 4 Privet Drive, that he simply didn’t expect it. He asked Warrington, a Slytherin with shoulders like a bulldog’s, to help him with the juice, which was too unwieldy for his kid-sized wrists. Harry sat there blinking, smiling, until Warrington took the jug and poured him a brimming glass.

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Fiona is always happy glowing whenever all of her family is around. She just loves them so much!


I just thought I’d mention all of the kids’ relationship statuses, since I haven’t really shown much of the spares’ home lives. Louise married Forrest Herron, and they have one son so far, Leaf. Guinevere is married to Claire Drake, daughter of my first Next Top Model entry ever. Grace is married to Fenton Willowsburg, a townie I made. Ginger is dating Nora Raines, Azure’s older sister. Glenn is married to Rhea Warrington (sitting across from him). They have twin boys, and she’s expecting another set. Gideon, like Gardenia, is currently single.

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resashresash Amazing dinosaur footprints at the BGS! Chirotherium ‘hand-beast’ 240 Ma Old Red Sandstone found near Warrington.