voldemort fun

4

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…”

  • Peter Pettigrew: You’re not sweating.
  • Voldemort: Uh-huh.
  • [Peter feels Voldemort’s face for any evidence of sweat]
  • Voldemort: Having fun, there?
  • Peter: How could you not be sweating?
  • Voldemort: I don’t sweat.
  • Peter: Everybody sweats.
  • Severus: Not Lord Voldemort.
  • Rabastan: Lord Voldemort never sweats.
  • Peter: What do you mean he never sweats?
  • Voldemort: Sweating is gross, so I don’t do it.
  • Peter: So what? You’re just like… cold blooded?
  • Regulus: [sarcastically] Lord Voldemort? Cold blooded? What a surprise
typical fanfiction
  • Hermione Granger/Lucius Malfoy
  • Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
  • Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
  • Hermione Granger/Scorpius Malfoy
  • Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
  • Harry Potter: you're crazy, Hermione?
  • Ron Weasley: it's disgusting!
  • Ginny Weasley: I understand you!
  • Luna Lovegood: you are a lovely couple!
Scar Tissue


Draco had learned a lot from the Dark Lord.

He’d learned how to think quickly and critically—how to isolate alternative exits and easily accessible windows immediately upon entering a new room, how to evaluate escape routes and measure the weight of excuses, omissions, denials and exaggerations and lies.

Similarly, he’d learned how to strategize; how to infiltrate an enemy stronghold and capitalize on fear, disorganization, surprise—how to plot a successful murder, too, even if he hadn’t quite had the stomach to finish the job.

The Dark Lord had been incredibly generous with his knowledge.

He’d taught Draco how to hide in the shadows of his own house, how to deflect attention and, perhaps more importantly, how to steal attention, how to keep that narrow, endlessly curious crimson gaze away from his mother and firmly on himself.

He’d taught Draco how to differentiate between what was nice and what was necessary, and he’d taught Draco how to correctly identify the appropriate times in which to utilize the Unforgivable curses; because it wasn’t about not getting caught, no, that was child’s play—adequate advice for the Draco who’d been young and stupid and frozen, maybe, desperate to fix what he’d broken but unable to rationalize why; the Draco who’d been stripped raw, flayed to the bone, left to haunt the roof of the Hogwarts astronomy tower like the dried-out husk of a long-shed snakeskin.

And Draco, he had adapted since then, he’d had to, had felt the shift in his temperament—in his demeanor—in his veins, and he had relished it, absolutely and resolutely—and it was entirely thanks to the Dark Lord.

For example—

Draco now knew how to properly barricade a door, how to pretend—how to believe, truly believe, that was the trick—that a solid mahogany chest of drawers could protect him from the things that went bump and bang and boom in the middle of the night.

He knew how to avoid a mirror and block out reality and grit his teeth against the sudden, blinding pain of having to listen to Hermione Granger be tortured on his sitting room floor—and hadn’t that been a particularly illuminating lesson in humility, his mother’s fingernails digging deep and sharp and hard into the bend of his elbow as if she’d understood that this was going to be it, this was going to be the thing, the moment, that finally shattered his composure and attacked what remained of his conscience with all the efficacy of an ice pick against a glacier—because in all the years that he’d been acquainted with her, Hermione Granger had been equal parts annoying and infuriating and captivating, unfairly so, and as much as he’d loathed her—sometimes, only ever sometimes—he could not watch that, could not watch the tears streak her face and the breath get trapped in her throat—

But he knew better than to speak up.

The Dark Lord had made sure of that.

He’d made sure that Draco knew how to stay quiet; knew how to keep his head down and his mouth shut and his screams—thick like honey in the quivering cavern of his lungs, thick like Granger’s blood as it seeped into and around and across his mother’s priceless antique rugs—locked tight inside, always, always, always inside—right where they belonged.

And really—

Really, the Dark Lord had been an excellent teacher.


when your boyfriend, who is reading harry potter for the first time after much  reluctance and countless preconceived notions makes you proud af by suddenly messaging you things like this:

like, fuck yes

Instead of a Boggart turning into the thing the person fears the most, it turns into the thing a person most desires.

Imagine Harry going up to see what he desires the most and it turns into everyone he loved that died in the war and them being confused when he asks them why they are there when they are supposed to be dead. Then, because they are still looking confused, he asks them about Voldemort and Sirius snorts and says “What a stupid name, what kind of idiot calls himself Voldemort? Hah” and he, James, Remus and Fred start making fun of Voldemort’s name while Lily looks at them, smiling to herself. And Harry is just standing there, tears of happiness running down his face