@zemenipearls always blesses me with the best aus, so pls have pastry chef Leoni as a treat 🥺

i’m sorry i’m just still not over “ even if poc representation and diversity is super important, it's nost just EVERYTHING. You can't diss a series solely because of that.” like????

yes??? i absolutely can??? i can diss a whole series because i don’t like the color of the cover if i want to, that’s the beauty of it. no one is owed my admiration or time. i can diss a series for whatever reason i want to and what has miss maggie done that’s ever deserved any respect?? lmao

THE FOXHOLE COURT | NEIL JOSTEN

↳ even if the moriyamas rejected stuart’s truce and came after him, the process had begun. neil josten was in the system to become a real person. he wouldn't die a lie.

I went to the cinema today and there was literally an ad for a diet before a 12A film

Showing ads for diets for any audience is lunacy let alone children… I was shook to say the least

i.

The first time Elia kissed a boy, he didn’t get a name. He, Martino, and Giovanni headed down to the skate park after classes, even though Gio was the only one in the group proficient at the pastime. They planned to record stories for Instagram. While filming Gio performing tricks on his phone, Elia caught the eye of a boy with curly black hair working the halfpipe and felt his breath catch in his throat. 

It wasn’t like Elia hadn’t ever looked at boys before, because he certainly had, but this time was different than the others. The boy wore a royal blue jacket over a loose-fitting gray t-shirt. His hair whipped in the wind as he skated. Elia took in the details one by one, memorizing them to the best of his ability. The boy cuffed his jeans at the bottom. He wore knee pads but not a helmet or anything on his elbows. When he smiled, he revealed a set of shiny white teeth that could put the sun to shame. The boy performed what Gio would call an FS Disaster, although Elia only recognized it as a difficult kind of jump, landed, and looked back at Elia directly.

At that point, Elia didn’t know what he felt about the situation. He stuck around anyway after Gio and Marti left. At the end of two hours alone, when the sun had gone down and the rest of the skaters had headed home, the boy came over and sat down beside him on the bench. They hardly spoke. When their lips connected, it didn’t feel bad, so Elia didn’t stop him. 

Thirty minutes. At least. Elia found his hands tangled in the boy’s hair, grasping at his jacket, wrapped around his neck. When the boy got up to leave, he wanted to stop him… but who could be sure it was what he really wanted? Perhaps the night air was making him think irrationally, or the fact that this was his first was making him sentimental. He let the boy go.

But he started cuffing his jeans.

ii.

The second time Elia kissed a boy, neither one of them got to keep the memory. He met Hugo outside of Edoardo’s party at three in the morning, drunk out of his mind and bumping into everything. The other boy wasn’t in a much better way, and despite their efforts to get each other to the bus station, they ended up stumbling down the street to take a long way home.

Hugo was a pretty blond, the kind of guy that looked out of place no matter where he was, which was why Elia found himself drawn to him in the first place when he saw him on Edo’s porch. He had a peppering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, like he spent a lot of time on holiday somewhere sunny, fingers meant for playing the piano, and a style of dress that gelled with no one else’s. He laughed loudly, unapologetically. If the circumstances had involved less alcohol between them, things might have developed into more.

They walked most of the way back to Elia’s house passing a bottle of vodka back and forth between them. There was a conversation, although not coherent. Hugo asked about Elia’s family, his earring, and his friends. Elia answered the questions and shot back his own. When they finished the first bottle, Elia produced his backup flask to share once more. 

As they arrived outside Elia’s apartment, Hugo leaned in. Elia had kissed a lot of sloppy girls before, but had never been so sloppy himself, and the whole thing felt more like a scene from a horror movie than a kiss goodnight. He didn’t mind so much.

When he awoke the next morning, he couldn’t remember anything from the night before. All he knew was that he felt happy. For a reason he couldn’t quite express, he felt he had to come out to the boys that same week.

iii.

The third time Elia kissed a boy, he didn’t get to savor the moment. He came to the event with a girl he liked a lot, with whom he thought he might want something official. She walked away from him within the first ten minutes, leaving him to scan the party for Gio and Eva making out in the corners or Marti and Nico taking shots at the bar.

In the midst of his search, he spotted Marco D’Adaggio across the dance floor. 

There’s always that first crush that makes you realize you’re bisexual, and for Elia, it had been Marco. Marco made him appreciate the veins in boys’ hands. Marco made him wonder at the sharpness of a boy’s jawline. He’d sent thousands of fleeting glances in Marco’s direction during class, over and over for a good three months the previous year. The possibility of reciprocated feelings hit him hard; no boy he’d ever pursued had ended up in a lasting relationship with him. He looked, and found his girl was at the bar making out with Chicco Rodi. So he crossed the floor.

Marco was a black-haired, blue-eyed wonderboy who could pull off a leather jacket with Doc Martins and still didn’t look too hipster. When they kissed in the back room that night, it was almost everything Elia imagined kissing was supposed to be. Hands in each other’s hair. Lips trailed along collarbones. Breathing, gasping, breathing. Perfect.

Marco leaned in close, so Elia could feel breath on his neck, and said, “We can keep this going, so long as you don’t tell anyone.”

And then it wasn’t perfect. Elia wasn’t about to be anyone’s secret. He left the bar by himself immediately afterward, without the girl he brought and without seeing any of his friends. 

Marco didn’t try to call him.

iv.

The fourth time Elia kissed a boy, it happened in the light of day, on a swing, with no alcohol coursing through his veins or weed pumping at his heart.

After months of seeing Filippo across parties, he’d gotten the nerve to approach him alone for a chat on the couch. It was nice, Elia felt, to have someone to talk to who understood him. Without an agenda. Without needing to be drunk. Without being a stranger or a secret or assertive. When talking became a normality, and there weren’t enough parties to do it consistently, Elia invited Filippo to hang out with their friends. The older boy was practically a part of the crew before Elia decided to hang out with him on his own.

And then, in the park, on a warm summer day where the light shone off of Filippo’s hair and glinted off his piercings, everything fell right into place where it was supposed to be. Elia’s eyes locked on the cognac-brown of Filippo’s, and they both knew what they wanted to happen. They kissed. 

It might have been the fourth time Elia kissed a boy, but it felt like the first. Never before had he felt this much with a person– not with the skater boy, not with wasted Hugo, not with picture-perfect Marco, not with any of the girls he’d ever loved. As he kissed Filippo, he understood why people liked kissing so much. He understood how much he’d been missing out on by kissing the wrong people.

It lasted over half an hour. They walked home together, no stumbling or staggering, and no hiding either. 

Moreover, when he woke up in bed the next morning, Filippo hadn’t gone away.

i feel like love potions aren’t taken as seriously as they should be in the wizarding world. dumbledore suspected that merope had used a love potion on tom riddle sr and that voldemort was conceived under the love potion.

romilda vane had used a love potion on ron (meant for harry) which she got from fred and george’s joke shop + hermione mentioned there were a dozen girls trying to decide how to slip harry a love potion. as far as i remember, romilda did not get in trouble - but i assume that’s probably because harry never mentioned it was romilda to any of the profs

molly weasley mentioned to hermione and ginny in poa that she had made a love potion when she was younger and all three of them were giggling about it.

and hermione even says “love potions aren’t dark or dangerous”

giving a love potion to someone is wrong on so many levels because the drinker is not consenting to it. tom riddle sr did not consent. harry (and ron) did not want to go out with romilda, or any of the girls who wanted to slip harry a love potion. i think love potions can be on the same level as the imperius curse and yet, the potions are not banned. 

Ok so we had a break-in to our house today and they took my computer and idk when I’ll be getting a new one so I might be off tumblr for a while

my entry for the @percyprotectionnet post war au event 

our fading scars, just shooting stars

When Percy had returned to the burrow he had been surprised by the things that was just like it had always been. His mother hugged him tightly as if he’d never left, his brothers made fun of him as if they hadn’t all lost a brother. 

 It’s almost like Percy never left. Almost. 

It’s late one evening and Percy is sitting on the small bed in his childhood bedroom when there’s a knock on the door. He looks up and sees George standing in the door. His looks tired and Percy doesn’t doubt that his brother has trouble sleeping. George doesn’t enter the room; he just stands there hesitating, almost like he’s afraid Percy will run again at any wrong word. It makes Percy’s heart break. Neither Fred nor George has even been described as hesitant before, they’ve always jumped head first in to things never thinking of the consequences and it isn’t the war that has made George hesitate it’s the fact that Percy left. 

“Remember when Fred and I were little and you’d read to us like the massive dork you were?” He asks, trying to laugh even with their brother’s name hanging thick in the air.
Percy nods. It felt like ages since they’d last done that. It was before he left for Hogwarts, before he had to be anything but their brother. 

George swallows, as if he’s struggling to find the words. “Would you-“ he cuts off. Silently he hands Percy a book. The tales of Beedle the Bard. Percy smiles, finally understanding what George is asking for. He can do this, he thinks, he can read and hold his brother if that’s what it takes to convince him he’ll stay.

He opens the book to the first page while George gets comfortable next to him. He shuffles a few pillows and drags the blanket over him. Percy reads and reads until George falls asleep next to him.

for @hpwritersnet‘s prompt: james potter

he falls in love like this: six years old giggling in the treehouse with sugared lips. they fight dragons and travel through jungles from the safety of the garden. they are young and the way she laughs, with her nose scrunched up and eyes closed makes him laugh too. and just like that, marlene sits in his heart.

he falls in love like this: a train carriage, wind rattling the windows and bertie botts beans littering the floor. he falls in love with carved cheekbones and a love of puns, with grey eyes and that feeling already that the same blood runs in their veins. he falls in love with a brother, with sirius.

he falls in love like this: a silent dormitory with a skeletal remus hunched in the corner. he has hollowed cheeks and purple bruises under his eyes. he falls in love with jokes muttered under breaths and a knowing twitch of the lips. there is a stirring in his bones and he knows, he knows he will protect this one with his last breath if he can.

he falls in love like this: the early hours of the morning, practicing with him again and again and again until peter can get it right. watching the watery eyes light up when the spell finally works or the essay is done. watching as he tries so hard to fit in without knowing he already does.

he falls in love like this: sixth year on the quidditch pitch, mary’s lilting voice through the megaphone, jokes and goddamn awful puns trickling out of her as the game plays on. he’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his brrom and he thinks he can’t live in a world without the warmth she makes in his chest.

he falls in love like this: the months between january and february, the days inbetween monday and tuesday, the seconds between night and day. he falls in love in the time that doesn’t exist, surely, because how could he forget falling in love, how could he not remember the moment? he falls in love with a girl with flowers in her name and in her ribs; with the pure sunlight in her veins, with the kindness overflowing from her pores. he falls in love with her smile and her lips and her soul. he falls in love with lily evans, or maybe he just always was.

he falls in love like this: a tiny baby balanced in his arms, black hair dusting his tiny head. He coughs in his sleep, eyelids fluttering open to reveal forests. there are tears in his eyes and he wants to hold him forever, to wrap him up and lock him away where he will never feel any pain or hurt. He falls in love with the future, with quidditch matches and christmas mornings, with tantrums and hugs and motorbike rides with sirius. he falls in love with his son, with harry.

he falls in love with life, with nature, with his beating heart and expanding lungs. he falls in love with a world that doesn’t love him back, with people who betray him, with people who leave. he falls in love with a life he cannot have, a life he will never live.

he falls too easily, james.

like a marionette whose strings were cut.

So i was watching chamber of secrets and for the Gryffindor v. Slytherin match lucius malfoy was in the stands. Lucius malfoy is a soccer mom I can’t

people judge theodore nott in the simplest of the terms.

slytherin, son of a death eater, orphan, rich, pure blood, intelligent, a loner.
wrapped around in his own arrogance and pettiness.

little they know, though.

little they know about the pain carved onto him, the real scars linked to stories of disappointment, hurt and remorse, and the pain that didn’t leave any visible marks, but runs the deepest into him. how he remembers, in vivid detail, the way his mother’s eyes lost their spark when life left her, when her body hit the floor with a dull sound. the silence after that, the silence that followed him around, all his life.

little they know about the universes living within him, the ones which made the darkness sparkle with light. about the books he loves to read, slipping away into a reality that doesn’t have death eaters, family expectations and blood lines, the stories theodore nott can fall in and inhabit, without having to speak, to pretend to be someone else.

little they know about his dreams, his real dreams, not the nightmares of memories and the metallic scent of blood, or the guidelines perfectly traced by his father about his future wife, and his future position at the ministry and the importance of the blood legacy. thedore nott’s dreams are in the corridors of st mungo, as a mediwizard, in the fouth floor. in his most secret dreams, he could imagine his own mother there, in the janus thickey ward, it’s better than remembering her cold, lifeless hands.

little they know about the feelings bubbling up in his chest. the butterflies in his stomach that make him flush and stutter and that doesn’t add up to the image of pettiness, arrogance and coldness. the yearn in the pit of his stomach for things he cannot have, but he cannot stop wishing for, embodied in calloused hands and deep dark eyes, fleeting touches and whispered words that theodore nott knows they are just a token of friendship.

little they know about the warmth, the care, the worry, the love, the hope, the anxiety, the trust. about the complexity of his character, about the layers, about the contradictions, about the internal fights of what he was taught and what it’s actually right. about the moments he wishes he could give up, feeling he’s crashing under expectations, and screams and the silence, and the cold.

stripping theodore nott of all the things that define him and shaping him with the things people think they know about him, it’s like tracing a labyrinth with no exit, a riddle itself, like the very complex personality of theodore nott is.

and very few people could actually see the cracks, and the depth.