May. 14th, 2017

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hackedbysombra:

cutepetplanet:

A polar bear cub discovering the joy of bubbles

Oh my gosh baby
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via http://ift.tt/2rdT842:Anti-Semitic incidents rose a whopping 86% in the first 3 months of 2017:

animatedamerican:

littlegoythings:

The states which had the highest number of incidents in 2016 and the first quarter of 2017 were:

California (211 in 2016; 87 in first quarter 2017)

New York (199; 97)

New Jersey (157; 24)

Florida (137; 41)

Massachusetts (125; 38)

These states also have some of the largest Jewish populations in the nation.

I knew it was getting worse.  I didn’t know it was getting this much worse.
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anne-e-clark:

i was at rehearsal today and i was talking to these girls and the conversation got around to “who would you go gay for?” and one girl listed like ten women i was like… honey
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When I was younger, I always thought there was something romantic and inspiring about fighting for the one you love and trying to win them back.

But as I sit here, broken and lost, I’ve come to realize that there is absolutely nothing amazing about trying to convince someone to love you back.


- LA // 2 a.m. thoughts (via thoughtsofla)
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geeky-ps-edits:

Hogwarts Houses  (2/4)

↳ Ravenclaw
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fuckyou-d2:

I’ve noticed that a lot of Star Wars blogs use current Earth slang and curses such as “Fuck” and “bitch” which do not tend exist in the Star Wars universe. With this in mind, I decided to make a handy resource of some of the curses and slang that are available. For a full list, click HERE

Bantha fodder: “Bullshit”

Blast!: An interjection of frustration

Bucketbrain: Slur for stormtroopers

Bug: Slur for a Genosian

By the Z'gag!: Exclamation of surprise used by Ruurians

Caraya’s soul: Verbalization of disbelief

Chobb’s knob!: Exclamation of surprise

Damn: Expletive used to express anger or as a positive modifier, i.e. “Damn good.”

Dirtball: Dismissive term for a planet one did not like

Dupe: Slang for TIE fighter pilot or TIE bomber

Emperor’s snowmen: Albernate name for storntroopers

Flyboy: Slang term for a hot-shot pilot

Goo: A planet’s atmosphere in TIE fighter pilot slang

Harpy: A derogatory term for a female individual

Having kittens… by the litter: Slang for someone who is panicking

Hell: Expletive

Imp: Slang for “Imperial”

In Malachor: Term used to express that one felt emphatically about something; i.e. “There is no way in Malachor that I’m going…”

Jedi Scum/Sline: Employed as an insult against Jedi

Karabast: A Lasat exclamation of frustration

Kriffing: An expletive; i.e. “Those kriffing stormtroopers.”

Kung: Huttese for “scum”

Laserbrain: An general insult

Leatherneck: A slur for Ithorians

May spice salt your wounds!: A Twi-lek insult

Moof-milker: A dimwitted individual

Mother of Kwath!: An exclamation of aggravation

Mother of Moons: An expression of surprise

Nerfherder: An insult referring to an animal of the same name

Nerve Burner: An insult suggesting that one is unstable

Peedunky: Huttese insult meaning “punk”

Pig: A derogatory term for a slovenly individual

Poodoo: Huttese term meaning “fodder” or “shit”

Pfassk: An adaptable expletive “What the pfassk does sorry do for anyone?”

Reb: Imperial slang for members of the Rebel Alliance

R’iia’s shorts!: An expression on Jakku denoting wonder or awe

Rock: A derogatory term for a planet

Rust bucket: A battered droid

Scum:  Anyone undesireable

Skug: A common Zygerrian insult

Sleemo: Slimeball

Son of a bantha: An insult

Spaced: Slang used by travelers meaning “dead” or “killed”

Spice: A type of dangerous narcotic mind in Kessel.

Stang: Slang term of frustration

Stars!: A general purpose exclamtation to express frustration or excitement

Switch off!: Droid equivalent to “Shut up!”

Tailhead: Derogatory slang for Twi-leks

Wastoid: A derogatory term

What in the blazes: Expression of of surprise

What the…: General purpose expression used throughout the galaxy

What the Sith: General purpose exclamation

Witch: A derogatory term for a female or a term for those who cast actual magick

Wrench-jockey: Repair droid 
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appolsaucy:

howdareyouhughdancy:

thatironstring:

thrucikat:

neurodivergent-crow:

thunderhunk:

The last thing you ate + the first thing you see when you look to your left is the title of your pretentious lifestyle blog.

Right now, mine would be called Pizza and Prints.

Hemp Heart Sneakers

Ramen with two poached eggs body pillow

Cake Imposible Mirror

Burger Nook

Iced Tea Iced Tea

Peanut Butter Bean Bag
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the-lusus-naturae:

fourteenacross:

goodluckdetective:

I have a soft spot for parental figures who don’t want to admit they’re parental figures.

“I am not a father,” he says as he is followed by a horde of children.

murder dad and his army of tragic daughters
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tmirai:

This is such an interesting dissection of a very common trope in writing female characters that I never really thought about before, but it’s so prevalent and so obvious and so fucking disgusting.
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captainamerica-in-middle-earth:

vvexpyke:

creepycryptid:

possibly my favourite scene from anything ever

ok what the hell is the x files

This video is the reason I started watching the x files
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bookriot:

Are you a Muggle-born book-lover looking to build your very own wizarding library? Are you a dedicated student eager to read around a bit more on your favourite school subjects? Do you need to update your hexing skills to prepare to fight in the resistance against President Voldemort? Then look no further than this [probably] complete list of every book referenced in the Harry Potter novels.

http://ift.tt/2lS3kgs
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It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”  

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.  

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily…  strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

Afficher davantage
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lullabyknell:

ginevravweasley:

listen secret magical creature heritage au’s may be cliche and overused but they are my JAM

(What are you even suggesting, this is totally canon. Anyone who wants to get to you will have to fight me first. Bring it.)

It’s fairly obvious if you know what to look for. Unfortunately, so few people do, not realizing that person does not necessarily mean human. But perhaps this is inevitable, given that most nonhumans are dead, elsewhere, or intensely and viciously private nowadays.

A younger humankind would have laughed at the idea of “pure blood”. If anyone human-shaped was pure, then it was the purely nonmagical humans. Mud Men, many nonhumans affectionately called the tenacious people.

Goodness gracious, where did people think magical blood came from in the first place? The term mudblood? And if you wanted to call a pure elf or fae a creature or a beast, then it was a good idea to dig your own grave first. Save everyone else the trouble.

But that was then… and this is now. Now, you often must watch closely.

Lucius Malfoy, for example, is not a terrifying difficult puzzle. One only has to look up the family tree to find their French origins and relation to many prominent Veela clans there. Although, that is perhaps more difficult than it sounds, as the Malfoys have “fixed” all their copies and buried the rest deep in unmarked graves.

But, watching closely… the hair and general preening suggested quite clearly, accompanied by a certain slant to the jaw and elegance to the limbs. Along with how the man could lure many a Ministry official into agreements with seamless charm and smooth smiles. And also in the way his handsome face will twist into something terrible in anger, his hands clenching like claws, flexing with half-remembered fire and talons.

When Lucius Malfoy cares for the peacocks at Malfoy Manor, when nobody is watching, he will cluck and coo at them. And they will answer him. Veelas have their own origins, after all, in the avian set of magical creatures.

On the other hand, while Narcissa is loyal to her husband, the Black family has their own hidden nonhuman origins.

She is much more of a lurker than dear bloodthirsty Bella, waiting for the right moment to strike from the shadows, much like viciously protective Andromeda - they are more scavengers than predator, the younger two. Though none the less cruel or dark. None the less protective of their nest.

Narcissa is quiet, unlike the howls of hateful Walburga, much like the silent judgement of cold Orion or the creeping calculation of young Regulus. Entirely unlike the brash swipes and territorial snarls of Sirius, who is more familiar with lurking in shadows and striking for blood than he will ever be comfortable with.

They are so similar, yet so different. What they are has many names, bogeymen is one; they are the brothers and sisters of all the necromantic (and some of the demonic, too), and they come in so many kinds.

Luna Lovegood is another simple puzzle - that she is practically made of thousands of clues is answer enough. That she can see things and creatures and the invisible sorts that most can’t is almost the only clue you need. Fae are a rather insular bunch, after all, and few have the Sight to looking for the Fair Folk or the way their Worlds weave together.

But as for the little clues, well… the girl’s heritage is in the vegetables in her ears, the odd-sounding sentences and introductions, and the used bottlecaps around her throat. It’s from the inverted reading of everything… to the visiting of Thestrals in bare feet and with both an apple and a strip of flesh as offering.

Little things, odd things, but important things.

There are certain Safe Ways of dealing with the world, you see - a certain way to go about doing things. Like tossing salt over your shoulder if you spill it, never breaking a mirror, and not intruding on Fairy Forts for anything. Luck has to be worked for, and a smart fae follows traditions and pays attention when their ears burn. Listening to omens like owls and robins and black cats can save a life. (Luna didn’t know to be listening then, she regrets it now.)

And it’s too faint to see, but when she skips, she hovers for a split-second before she falls. Somewhere deep in Luna Lovegood, something is singing a half-remembered warble… of wings made of gossamer and glass turned flesh.

Weasleys, on the other hand, are an interesting matter, especially with the introduction of the Prewetts. Weasleys come from a curious line of creature, literally quite curious, and… well… quite weasel-like in appearance, as opposed to the avian origins of Veela. But Prewetts… Prewetts were born of fire - fire sprites, elementals, somewhere between nature spirit and demon, spiteful and fierce and warm and hot.

One would need the right machinery to see it, but it can be felt perfectly fine when a child of Molly Weasley gets angry. The air around them gets quite warm. And they turn quite red, which clashes horribly with their hair, which is sign in itself, really. Quite a temper, fire has, if you poke it.

For those who can see it and are paying attention, Ginny Weasley’s hair rises slightly when she’s furious, and her tomato-red ears give off the faintest of sparks. Luna doesn’t mention it though, because it’s not very polite to point out that sort of thing. She does, however, note with some interest that Ron’s do the same, after she meets him.

Harry Potter, the infamous Boy Who Lived, is… a bit strange. He’s hard to pin down, honestly, almost impossible. When he flies, one might suspect something born of wind or something born with wings. When he fights, one might suspect something animalistic, something extremely loyal and fierce, and maybe a bit mean when provoked out of gentle contentment. Or maybe something powerful, something truly sorcerous or maybe demonic.

He hisses like a naga, he’s got eyes between nymph and necromantic, and he acts sometimes… elvish in demeanor… house-elvish. It’s hard to tell, honestly. Who knows? He certainly doesn’t.

Hermione Granger, while on the subject of the three friends, is actually incredibly obvious. That truly fearsome intelligence? That offensive temper, that righteous determination, that jealous pride, that cruel vindictiveness when crossed? That affinity for fire? That near hoarding of as much knowledge as she can reach? A tad insecure, but the young ones are always easily upset, and the kindness and crusading isn’t at all a dealbreaker.

Oh, wouldn’t the so-called “purebloods” be surprised? But, then again, many forget that fire hides under the earth. And the riddling, terribly clever kind of dragons aren’t really around anymore. The rare few that remain, however, always tend to be such book-wyrms.

Like the mudblood girl’s, Tom Marvolo Riddle’s naga heritage was well-hidden. First behind his handsome nonmagical father’s face, then behind the mutations and corrupting magic of the Horcruxes.

He shouldn’t have tried to get rid of most of his “Muggleness” when he resurrected himself, if he had wanted to keep a human appearance. The faint scales of scales on his skin and slits of his eyes are entirely his own fault - the ancient naga blood wasn’t enough to create something less unnatural and ill-suited to exist. Voldemort was always cold, wherever he went.

“Purity” of magic and of witches and wizards, my friends, is such a laughable thing. “Pure blood”? Goodness gracious, what a joke.
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buckwoodsmith:

irisharchaeology:

From a 9th century Irish manuscript, the phrase ‘massive hangover’ (Latheirt) written in the ancient Irish text Ogham. The monk must have been having a very rough day…..

Source 

My God, what a tattoo that would make.
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mesprit:

Like this if you “LIKE” otters or Reblog this if you “LOVE” otters for good luck :)
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geekynerfherder:

The ‘Star Wars’ inspired ‘Queen, Princess, Jedi’ Perspective #3 by Andy Fairhurst, a new officially licensed print release from Bottleneck Gallery and ACME Archives.
13" x 19" giclee prints in a numbered limited edition of 325 for $100 for the 3 print set.
On sale Thursday August 25 at 12pm EST.Go here to buy.
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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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iloveheathledgerforever:

Fuck you.
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September 2017

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