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"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
A couple sat down at a small table nearby. Charles peered over his book to glance at them, sipping his tea slowly. He loved studying the people he encountered in public. As a writer, he thought of it as a free source of material. This young man and woman were no exception.
Are they friends? Or something more? Charles wondered. He feigned interest in his book, idly turning pages while sneaking in more glances. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” the man said, his freckled nose wrinkling in distaste. Charles noticed that he had been reaching for his pocket before stopping himself abruptly. “Ah, yes. Almost forgot,” he said. The man’s grin was lopsided. Charles found the man’s smile endearing.
“We use spoons here,” the woman said, sliding him a spoon. Charles noticed that though her tone suggested admonishment, the woman was staring at the man over her book with a great deal of affection. Charles noticed the book was an Austen novel, and she appeared enthralled by the story. Her curls, which appeared wild in the London rain, had fallen across her face. The man reached over and tucked it behind her ear. Charles smiled as he saw a blush creep across her face.
She smiled as she looked up, and the man smiled back, his face striving to match his hair in color.
Charles scribbled in his notebook, “Young and in love.”
“You have to teach me all these little muggle things.” The man’s voice became quieter, and Charles strained his ears to hear. The woman hushed him.
“Ron!” she shushed, looking around nervously. Charles locked eyes with her before they both quickly looked down.
“Well, we’ll be spending a lot of time with my parents, so you can learn then,” she replied. The man nodded, suddenly appearing nervous.
“Does your dad know how those planes stay up?” the man asked. “‘Cause if I can’t apparate, I’d like to know how they fly. Brooms are one thing, but–”
Charles perked his ears. Apparate? Brooms? This couple was certainly interesting. Charles glanced from his book to stare at them again. Their lips were moving, but no sound could be heard. Charles rubbed at his ears again. They were clearly speaking to each other, but he couldn’t hear a thing– not even a whisper. Charles stood from his chair, determined to find out what was happening under the pretense of heading to the loo. As he approached their table, he accidentally locked eyes with the woman again.
I need to go home. Yes. Home sounds lovely. There was no one else here but me. A very boring afternoon in the cafe.
Charles grabbed his books, turned around towards the door, and left.
[ sonder n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk. (not an officially recognized word, but language is fluid y’all. and the more people use this beautiful word, the more recognized it’ll become, and then, bam! that’s how words become official.) ]
Ron has grown up with magic so it never really fazes him.
Flying broomsticks, exploding toffees, paintings that move… he doesn’t bat an eyelash. When Harry and Hermione’s faces would light up over some spell or charm they had just discovered, Ron would smile at them indulgently like an amused father but to him it was all old news.
Then Hermione kisses him and he learns what it means to be astounded.
Now, he knows the kiss happened, he was there. Saw it with his own two eyes, felt it with his own lips. But even though he knows it happened (and has happened 258 wonderful times since), there remains an aura of incredulity, a sense that this is all just some sleight of hand, some sort of bamboozle.
It’s not just the kissing either. She introduces him to her parent’s elderly neighbours as “my boyfriend Ron” and he can’t join in the conversation for a full minute because he’s too astonished by her words.
When he accidentally clunks his knees against hers under the table at the restaurant, she just smiles at him and catches one of his big clumsy feet between both of hers and goes back to whatever she was doing like it isn’t the most incredible thing in the world.
She takes her own clothes off that night because he’s far too flummoxed to participate. When she eases herself back into his arms he finds a way to pull himself into motion, but the back of his mind still struggles to process what seems to be an entirely implausible situation.
She is fast asleep in his arms now, soft and warm and impossibly real. Ron struggles to stay awake, trying to believe.
He has never known true magic until now.
Overwhelmingly in therapy I am finding the words “it’s not fair” cropping up. From Miss. Chang, over her treatment years ago grieving for her boyfriend, to Mr. Creevey, mourning for his brother.
When asking the patients to explain their reasoning, however, markedly different reactions can be found.
When the question was posed to Mr. Creevey the young man produced his brother’s camera and a sheaf of undeveloped and developed photographs, simply saying, “There was so much more he had to give.”
When the question was posed to Miss. Chang she explained how her behaviour was read as irrational in comparison to that of The-Boy-Who-Lived’s, who had personally witnessed the death in question.
When the question was posed to Mr. Weasley the books on the shelves flew in every direction before falling to the floor at a muttered apology from the patient.
Other patients have likewise offered variants of “it’s not fair”, Miss. Brown, who attended her session with her close friend Miss. Patil (for “moral support”) spoke of the terrifying lack of motive for her mauling, indicating vaguely at her still-bandaged face. Miss. Brown is still being treated to try to hide as much as possible of her scars, to little effect.
Several students of Slytherin house, whose names I shall not list even here, spoke of the unequal treatment they were given, despite fighting for the school, even against their own parents. One patient, who lost their brother, and parents in the battle has spoken at the snap judgement all other students still give them, refusing to allow them to grieve in peace, insisting that their parents, and even their brother who fought for the school, were merely “bringing it on themselves”.
Certain muggle-borns, who have been retrieved at last from where they had been placed in Azkaban, are still undergoing treatment for their physical ailments, which number from malnutrition and exposure, to outright physical abuse. Healers on their wards however have been heard gossiping about the nightmares many of these patients have, so much so that it can be found on the clipboards of every ex-Azkaban patient “Bespell beds with silencing spells between 9pm and 8am.”
In preparation for any treatment these people may need I have been looking into Healers notes from the previous war, from Grindelwald’s conflict, and am increasingly finding references to something listed in muggle journals as “PTSD”.
Perhaps the warmongering muggles know more than us about something after all.
– From the private notes of St. Mungo’s therapist, Muta Echo.
(Was clearing out drafts and found this which is the post which inspired this piece.)
When Hermione looks at Ron, she sees the stars outside The Burrow in the summer, and the boy who knocked out a mountain troll, and the winter afternoons spent with sock feet and warm blankets in their first flat.
When Hermione looks at Harry she sees the way the sun hits the Quidditch pitch midday, and the boy who walked her down the aisle at her wedding, and the nights spent with the radio buzzing and the war hanging over their heads in the tent in the woods.
When Ron tells her he loves her, in the backyard of the burrow, she is struck by just how much she loves him back. She loves him with every fight and every time he fell asleep in the armchair, waiting for her to go to bed, she loves him for the times he held her hand under the dinner table, and for the times they stood back to back firing hexes blindly. She loves him for the day he came back to the woods, and for the day he made himself throw up slugs in a misguided attempt to defend her honor.
When Harry tells her he loves her, just to make sure she knows, she grins at him, and tells him she loves him too, because he is her brother, and her friend, and her partner and someone she fought for. She loves him for the hours he spent in the library with her, and every sweet smuggled back from dinner for her, she loves him for the times he whispered things in class to make her laugh and for the times he let her cry until she didn’t have any tears left. She loves him for the day he started Dumbledore’s Army in a rundown pub, and the day he found her alone, surrounded by angry, paper birds and sat with her until she felt better.
Hermione has never loved anyone more than she loves her two best friends, the little boys she met on the train and stayed up by the fire with, and wrote letters to over break, and cheered on at Quidditch practice, and fought in a war with, when they were all much too young to be fighting in a war. Even if she loves them completely differently, she loves them both fiercely and gently, and with all the strength she has.
If the way the Dursleys acted was because Harry was a horcrux, ask yourself while none of Harry’s friends or the Weasley’s acted this way. Harry had a soul of his own that overpowered the horcrux, which none of the objects did, which is why his presence did not create the same time of feelings as the other horcruxes did.
Not to mention the Dursley’s hated Harry long before he showed up, the first chapter of the first book shows that. And add on to that add how Aunt Marge treated him even though she was almost never around him.
TLDR; blaming the abuse Harry went through on horcruxes is victim blaming and abuse apologism, so don’t do it
THANKS I HATE THAT POSTEVERY TIME I SEE THAT POST I GET SO ANGRY THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS
“ ‘Are you mad?’ said Ron. ‘It could be dangerous.’— Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (via randomhpquotes)
‘Dangerous?’ said Harry, laughing. ‘Come off it, how could it be dangerous?’
'You’d be surprised,’ said Ron, who was looking apprehensively at the book. 'Some of the books the Ministry’s confiscated - Dad’s told me - there was one that burned your eyes out. And everyone who read Sonnets of a Sorcerer spoke in limericks for the rest of their lives. And some old witch in Bath had a book that you could never stop reading! You just had to wander around with your nose in it, trying to do everything one-handed. And -’ ”
Portrait I drew of the lovely Maggie Smith.
I am getting this framed and hung over my fireplace goddamn.
I’m pretty sure this is the portrait of McGonnagal that hangs across from the portrait of Snape in the headmaster’s office.
Can we just signal boost this because if she sees it, you know she’s going to buy it from you
“travel. don’t worry about the money, just go”
oh phew, here I was thinking I’d have to pay for the plane ticket and transportation and food and lodging and a passport and getting back home or visiting any areas of interest while traveling that require money
guess not, what luck
"Tell the chef, the beer is on me."
"Basically the price of a night on the town!"
"I'd love to help kickstart continued development! And 0 EUR/month really does make fiscal sense too... maybe I'll even get a shirt?" (there will be limited edition shirts for two and other goodies for each supporter as soon as we sold the 200)