ways weasleys

the number one argument i hear being used against romione is ‘they’re not intellectually compatible and hermione wouldn’t be satisfied with ron’s mediocrity’ like ?????????? what books have you read????? where are you getting these ideas?????? why are you dismissing someone’s intelligence just because it’s shown in a different way??????? why are you acting like the only way to be intelligent is academically??????? why?????

like there are so many different ways to be intelligent, just because it’s not shown in an academic sense doesn’t mean it doesn’t count. please stop.

the only marriage proposal i will accept

it’s daybreak. i’m meandering through a field on my family estate. i look up and see u there striding towards me in tight pants, riding boots, a half open shirt, and an overcoat. the music swells. u stutter through what is possibly the most romantic proposal of all time. i kiss ur knuckles and gaze into ur eyes as sunrise breaks over the horizon.

  • Arthur Weasley: Well, I manage my department, and I’ve been doing that for several years now. And, Merlin, I’ve learned a lot of life lessons along the way.
  • Molly Weasley: Your department’s just you, right?
  • Arthur Weasley: Well, yes, Molly dear, but I am not easy to manage.

harry: nice eyes, will probably ruin your entire life with sarcastic one liners, normally pretty chill but has a temper that could kill a man, really wants to see the best in everyone, hated by Petunia for no fault of his own, raised without magic, Snape says he cares about his wellbeing but treats him like shit, kinda oblivious half the time, harnesses the Power of Love™

ginny: pureblood gryffindor w a “blood traitor” family, star chaser, popular af and knows it, no chill, only cares what a very select group of people think, probably into bad puns, had a crush on Harry for years before it was reciprocated, secretly a giant nerd but will deny it to her death

in short: ginny is actually james and harry’s lily, tbh

The Hated Women of Fandom

Mary Watson wakes in a white room, sitting in a plastic chair. She’s surrounded by girls and women, some of whom are drinking heavily. There’s a banner hanging overhead, which reads Female Characters Anonymous. A redheaded teenage girl pats her on the knee.

“Don’t be frightened. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Where am I?” Mary asks.

The girl raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?” She spreads her arms out. “This is the place where good female characters come to die.”

Mary frowns. “Oh, because I died in my show?”

Everyone laughs.

“Honey, I wish!” A woman with dark eyeliner calls out. 

“Ignore Lexa. She’s still angry about the bullet thing.” The teenage girl looks Mary up and down. “Then again, you would know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

“About what?”

“Oh, you know. Being killed off for drama. Or in your case, man pain.”

“Don’t get me started on that,” a woman to Mary’s right grumbles. She’s got bright red hair and a shirt that says Supernatural: Was it ever a good show?

“That’s Charlie. She had a good run until the writers didn’t know what to do with her.”

Mary, who’s starting to get an idea about where she is, shakes her head with a little laugh. “No, you must be mistaken. I was a good, strong character. I don’t belong here”

A few chuckles at that. Someone mutters, “I’ve heard that one before.”

The teenage girl gives her a sympathetic smile. “Have you taken a look at the fandom lately? They hate you. Always have.”

Mary frowns. “But–”

“I know it must be hard to understand at first, but let’s face it. You were an imperfect female character. You had flaws and a dark side, which would have been fine, if you hadn’t posed a threat to the Main Ship.”

A cold wind passes through the room. Everyone shudders. 

“The what?”

“Johnlock. The ship of an era.”

“Oh, that,” Mary says with a smile. “That’s perfectly fine! There’s no reason to hate me just because you ship Johnlock.”

“No, it’s not that. Some of the fandom, certainly not all of them, hate you because in their eyes, you’re the thing that’s blocking them from easy access to their ship. Trust me, I have experience with this.”

Mary squints at the girl. “Who are you?”

The girl smiles. “I’m Ginny Weasley.”

“Oh. Oh, dear.”

“Yup. I’m a bit of an old-timer around here. Boy, I cannot even begin to tell you the number of Drarry fanfics wherein I either cheat on Harry with Dean, turn into a monstrous bitch, or simply disappear altogether.”

“Don’t forget the ones where you start dating Neville for no reason!” A woman shouts out.

Ginny laughs a bit. “Those are usually alright. I have to go somewhere, right?”

Mary is starting to panic a bit. “I…I don’t think I understand.”

Ginny nods. “Don’t worry. There’s someone whom I think you should meet.” She pulls Mary to her feet and leads her towards a dark corner in the room. “This girl hasn’t been here for as long as me, but she’s certainly suffered worse. She not only got in the way of a Main Ship, but a canon Main Ship. And a straight one, at that. She’s been shat on, villainized, ignored, pretty much everything in the book. A true warrior of her time.”

Mary starts to get nervous as they approach this girl. She’s seated at a bar, head down on the counter, twirling a paint covered finger around a whiskey glass. 

When they’ve reached her, Mary clears her throat. “My name is–”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh. Well, who are you?”

After a moment’s pause, the girl downs the whiskey in one gulp, and slams the glass on the counter. She slowly turns to fix Mary with a battle-hardened stare. “My name, is Rachel. Elizabeth. Dare.”

if you’re gonna shit on ginny because she was a mary sue / “overrated” at least acknowledge that we saw her from the perspective of an incredibly biased person (aka the inventor of denial), of course she’s not actually perfect but there’s a reason she goes from ~ron’s little sister that i do like but isn’t rly relevant to my life i’m sorry also i’m actively ignoring her crush on me so it’s a tiny bit awkward~ to !!! good god what an angel?? like ginny’s beautiful?? and plays quidditch!!! and she’s popular and so funny holy fuck ron would KILL me but.. worth it tbh is this.. … what some people call love??? and that reason is called harry potter who spent a good portion of the final books internally combusting whenever ginny did anything what a nerd

It’s Fred and George’s 39th birthday today, think about that when you continually request me to write smut you filthy animals

Down To Mephisto’s Cafe PT. 5.5

She Has A Girlfriend Now

After the song…

Pansy: So…you’re gay, then.

Ginny: Yep

Pansy: You have a girlfriend?

Ginny: Yeah…. she’s kind of a bitch though.

Pansy: Hmmm… I just know what I want.

Ginny: Me.

Pansy: Do you wanna dance?

Ginny: You wanna skank?

Pansy: *appalled* Is that what it’s called?

Ginny: *pauses*

You know, we could just go makeout instead.

Pansy: Lead the way.

FIN

A Good Brother

Since he was a little boy, Charles Weasley saw Voldemort as his personal boggeyman. Even if  he’d never met the man in person, little Charlie was terrified of that person who’s name shouldn’t be said that made his parents sad and angry. He would ask every night for his  parents to check under his bed if he wasn’t there. The idea of a mass murderer hiding in his son’s room always started an ugly laughter in Arthur Weasley’s throat. But every night, he complied and assured Charlie he was safe and had nothing to fear. It was a lie of course. They both knew it.


Charlie knew he was right to be scared when he was eight and he saw his mother cry for the first time. He entered the kitchen one morning and saw her curled on her chair, a piece of parchement resting on the table. Charlie sneaked in to try and read the paper. His first fear was that something happened to one of his brothers. Because that was what his dad and mum often talked about when they thought Bill and Charlie were asleep. The words were small and complicated, but Charlie could decypher two names, Fabian and Gideon. His parents hated lying to their children, so they told them that their uncles were fighting You-Know-Who and died.  They didn’t say they were killed, but Charlie kind of understood that. He wasn’t sure what death really was just yet, but Bill told him it meant he would never see his uncles again. When he saw the twin caskets, a couple days later and watched them disappear in the ground, Charlie cried. He didn’t make a noise, because no one was talking, and you’re not supposed to be loud if everyone else is quiet. He simply gripped Bill’s hand and followed him around. For years, Charlie would dream of twin caskets in which his siblings were resting.


At school, Charlie was gentle and popular enough that people didn’t make fun of him if he ever got surprised crying because he was missing his brothers and sister. They would simply go look  for Bill, and later Percy, and either would comfort him and help him write letters home. Charlie was terribly bad with words and never knew how to get his thoughts across. In return for his letters, he would get drawings and pictures. He kept them preciously in his bedside table.

When he was thirteen, Charlie kissed a girl. She was pretty and smelled nice but even he didn’t feel much. There was no butterfly or firework in his belly like he’d been told he’d feel. At sixteen, Charlie kissed a boy, and though it was nice enough too, it wasn’t special enough to have him wanting to do it often. He’d learned about dragons the previous year though, during a class of Care About Magical Creatures. That lit his eyes up and made him daydream far more than any kisses could.


Charlie left Hogwarts the summer before Ron entered it. He left home in August, and headed to Romania to study dragons. He’d already read every book from the Library and was ready to meet people who’d understand his passion. Charlie made friends, and was teased for chosing a hermit life  in forests with giant lizards over becoming a Quidditch star. He didn’t mind, because at the end of the day, he got to see dragon eggs and share hot cocoa with his colleagues. The highlight of his year was still when his parents and sister came to visit. He also managed to get Bill to drop by. They got drunk and Bill listened to him cry about how much he missed all of their siblings. Charlie kept the drawings and photographs in a tiny box in his trunk. When spring came around and he received Ron’s letter asking him to smuggle a baby dragon, all his friends exploded in laughter and were ready to go before he even finished his explanations. They already knew Charlie would do anything for his siblings.


Charlie wasn’t there when Ron got hurt saving the world at the end of his first year. He came back for summer and bought Ron as many candies as he could eat. Sometimes, being a good brother is in discreet celebrations.

Charlie wasn’t there when his baby sister got possessed and left for dead in a mythical chamber. When summer came and Ginny left school, paler and more silenced than ever, Charlie kept a vigilant  eye on her. He didn’t go back to Romania for months. And when Arthur won the Daily Prophet Grand Prise Galleon Draw, Charlie was the one to suggest they should all go visit Bill. Sometimes, being a good brother is knowing your presence and a change of scenary are the best medicine.

Charlie was there when the Death Eaters attacked supporters celebrating a victory - or drinking the bitter taste of loss away. He went to fight alongside the Ministry to protect his siblings and everyone who needed it. He also stayed the rest of the summer in the Burrow. Sometimes, being a good brother is making sure your siblings and their friends have an open ear if they need to talk their fears away.

Charlie wasn’t there when Harry, his adopted but estranged sibling, watched Voldemort come back from the dead. From Charlie’s childhood nightmares. He learned about it in one of Ginny’s letters and got his worst burns when her words resonnated in his head as he was tending a dragon. In his head, Ginny had that same terrified voice as when she was twelve and asking him if Tom would come back. Charlie felt like he’d been lying to her for years, telling her she was safe and had nothing to fear. That Tom would never come back. Sometimes, being a good brother is forgetting how life doesn’t always follow your hopes.

Charlie wasn’t there when his father got attacked by an evil snake. Charlie wasn’t there when Dumbledore’s tiny army raided the Ministry. He came back to see the greying hair on his father’s head and the scars on Ron’s arms. Ron laughed it off. Charlie cried it out. Sometimes, being a good brother is shading tears other people won’t cry.

Charlie lived in Romania. He loved it, loved the people, the country, and above all his job. But when Charlie came back to Bill’s comatose and broken face, he considered never leaving again. Bill had always been his best friend, his safety in the chaos that was their family. Charlie hugged Fleur and helped her chose her wedding dress. He was Bill’s best man and joked, more than once, that Bill was actually the best man he knew. The three of them got drunk at a pub a few miles from the Burrow and he recalled every embarassing moment of Bill’s childhood. Sometimes, being a good brother is making your sibling blush and hit you in the face as their fiancée is bending in laughter and coughing beer out of her nose.


Charlie wasn’t there when Fred died.

Charlie was there to see his mother cry and his brothers collapse.

Charlie was there to see Ginny stand, tall and proud and clutching Harry’s hand so she wouldn’t get lost.

Sometimes, being a good brother is knowing that there are days when you can’t be the good brother.



Charlie was there when Victoire was born.

Charlie was there to see Bill cry and his siblings scream.

Charlie was there to hold the tiny baby and let her grip his finger.


Charlie was there when Ginny wrote that she was pregnant and wanted to see him. Everytime.

Charlie was there when Fred II asked to learn how to fly and neither George nor Angelina had the heart to teach him.

Charlie was there when Lucy got in another fight with her parents and needed a place to let her anger out. He was also there to bring her back home and make sure she’d apologize to Percy.

Charlie was there when Hugo felt inadequate and lonely in their giant family.

Charlie was there to talk about kissing boys and girls, about how sometimes people liked it and sometimes they just didn’t care.

Charlie was there to give pets as presents, as siblings and in-laws pretended they didn’t know about it.

Charlie was there every step of the way in his nieces and nefews’ lifes.

He quickly needed a larger box to gather all the drawings and pictures he kept receiving. (Hermione gave him an enchanted one)

Sometimes, being a good brother is being a good uncle.

sigma-castell  asked:

Have you ever thought about writing a fic in which Voldemort went after the Longbottoms instead of the Potters?

If Voldemort had chosen the pureblood boy, not the halfblood, as his opponent? This Neville would have had graves to visit, instead of a hospital. He’d still have grown up in his grandmother’s clutches, tut-tutted at, dropped out windows absentmindedly, left to bounce on paving stones.

Let’s tell this story: Alice Longbottom, who was the better at hexing, told Frank to take Neville and run.

She died on the braided rug of their sitting room floor. Frank heard her fall from where he stood in front of the cradle. He did not have time to run.

When the Dark Lord climbed the stairs and saw Frank, he laughed at the small man in front of him. Frank had crooked teeth, a mis-sized nose, big fingers and small, watery eyes. Voldemort looked at him the way children would look at Neville, in almost a decade, at stubby fingers around a rememberall, a wrinkled brow and a stammer. “Move aside,” he said, the way a different Voldemort had once offered a way out to Lily Potter. That had been for the sake of another man’s love, and this was for his own contempt. “Just let me have the boy. Did you really think you could–”

When Neville met Voldemort again, in his fourth year, when Luna’s advice, his own gillyweed knowledge, and Ginny’s Bat Bogey Hex lessons had gotten him through the Triwizard Tournament he’d never signed up to enter, there would be a bubbling scar on Voldemort’s sunken left cheek. His father had had time for one curse. Frank’s love had saved his son, marked him, but his hate had been enough, too, to scar Tom Riddle through every rebirth and transformation he would ever have.

Harry Potter would have grown up as James’s oldest son. I think Lily, who missed her sister, and James, who had found three brothers at school and loved them more than life, would have had more children: a little sister who James taught to fly (little Tuney’d be Keeper to Ginny’s Seeker, in a decade, and gossip terribly about Harry), a baby brother Lily fervently talked James out of naming Lupeterius. Harry would have grown up spoiled and loved, magical, with toy broomsticks and playdates with the other Order kids– stumbling Neville, the Bones girl and the rollicking Weasley bunch.

If the Potters were never the main targets, never hiding and frightened, I don’t think Peter would have turned when he did. Not enough gain. Not enough tail-tucking fear. Peter would have limped through to the end of the war, whiskers shivering in his soul even when they were popping champagne on the night Neville Longbottom’s parents died.

They raised delicate glasses that had somehow survived all the first war, laughing, in Godric’s Hollow, to the Boy Who Lived. Augusta Longbottom planned her children’s funeral and wondered if her grandson’s forehead would scar like that. Lily danced in the living room with James, on the garish rug that Sirius had bought them as a joke and that they had kept just to spite him.

But this was a story about Neville now–it would always be a story about Harry, somewhat, because it had never been the scar that made the boy. When Draco Malfoy stole Neville’s rememberall, this Harry would still jump on a broom; when Hermione, weeping in the bathrooms, didn’t know about the troll, Harry would still run to tell her–that instinct was not something even having loving parents (especially these parents) would have kept from him.

But this had always been a story about Neville, too– unscarred Neville, Neville with his pockets full of gum wrappers, this had always been the story of his rise and his steady soul. But this time he was marked from birth, a scar on his forehead and hands that weren’t any better at holding a wand. This time, his grandmother had even more reason to look at him with disappointment when he spent all his childhood looking powerless.

Neville was not the disappeared savior who they whispered about. Halloween was still a celebration of Voldemort’s fall, but Neville was a lucky object, not a small hero, because where there had been a vacuum to fill when it had been Harry Potter, to fill with wonderment and thanks, here Neville toddled down Diagon Alley and held his grandmother’s hand. The whole world knew this boy was probably a squib, with pudgy fingers and a slow stammer, who didn’t learn to read until it was almost time to go to Hogwarts.

When Neville got his Hogwarts letter, the whole wizarding world was very politely surprised. He got told congratulations from strangers in the street, who in different universes would be shaking Harry Potter’s hand and swooning. Neville was far above smart enough to recognize than none of the other children got congratulated for the victory of being asked to attend school.

He asked the Hat for Hufflepuff and it gave him Gryffindor. He hoped they did not expect him to learn how to roar.

This was a Neville scarred. This was a Neville who would still get a rememberall and still forget it in his room two days out of five, who would eat a Weasley treat and turn into a canary, who would take Ginny Weasley to the Yule Ball and not once step on her toes.

This was a Neville who had had long conversations with the garden snakes in his backyard as a child and who had snuck them bits of his breakfast, kept track of which little serpent liked soft boiled eggs and which would dare to try a bit of sausage if he wiggled it properly. When he first got to Hogwarts, lonely, a lion in lamb’s fleece, Neville hid out behind the greenhouses and made friends with the snakes who curled on the warm rocks there.

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