I know I’ve been ill, but you’re the only one who doesn’t ask if I’m alright all the time. I like that, that you just treat me normal. I like you.
#KNEW WHAT WAS ON HER MIND AT ONCE #LUCKY YOU #HE’S AGGRAVATED BY HERMIONE’S EXPRESSION #RN HE’S JUST ANNOYED BY HERMIONE EVEN EXISTING AND RAINING DOWN ON HIS PARADE AND HIS HIGH OF DOING WELL #AND GINNY COMES UP VISIBILY ANGRY AND ALMOST AGGRESSIVELY AND HE’S LIKE #OMG NOOOO BB NO I AIN’T DOIN ANYTHIN TOO SHADY I GOT IT UNDER CONTROL IT’S ALL GOOD #I LIKE THAT HE SAYS HE #BECAUSE YOOOO THIS IS JUST ONE YEAR AFTER #GINNY GOT THROUGH TO HIM LIKE YO YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO’S SUFFERED INTIMATELY AT VOLDEMORT’S HANDS #YOU LITTLE SHIT YOU BETTER NOT ERASE EVERYTHING I’VE BEEN THROUGH JUST SO YOU CAN FEEL SORRY FOR YOURSELF #AND SHE BRINGS IT UP AGAIN HERE AND HARRY IMMEDIATELY REASSURES HER THAT NO I WON’T MAKE THE SAME MISTAKE TWICE #I WON’T FORGET WHAT YOU’VE BEEN THROUGH #HARRY AND GINNY #I WON’T FORGET THE WAY EVERYONE ELSE SEEMED TO HAVE FORGOTTEN
random but this is exactly why i cant ship hermione/harry. bc as much as harry loves hermione (like a sister he never had) he does lose his patience with her and gets snappy bc of her constant whinging and hissing (lmao harry himself describes it like that once in the book)
but with ginny he is a completely different person. hes always gentle and reassuring with her, esp when shes upset, even when they were way younger and harry had zero interest in her. he treats ginny and hermione remarkably differently, and always has. one only has to go back in the books to see evidence of this.
Let me tell you about the sheer brilliance that is Meryl Streep and her creation of Miranda Priestly.
Ask any young woman what her favourite film of Meryl’s would be, and I’m quite certain that The Devil Wears Prada would come up in conversation, favourite or not. And it may seem like a generic answer: oh, a film about fashion, so obviously women would identify with it. No, that’s not it. This film isn’t about fashion. This film, as Meryl says, “is a story about a woman at the head of a corporate ladder who’s misunderstood, who’s motives and pressures on her are intense and who doesn’t have time to play certain nice games.”
And though screentime and first bill casting can indicate that Andrea Sachs is the main character, who are you really left thinking about at the end of the film?
Miranda Priestly — the woman who was written as a fictional equivalent to Anna Wintour from the novelist Lauren Weisberger’s experience as her assistant — in the novel was a raging, two-dimensional boss from Hell written only to antagonize and complicate the lives of her employees with impossible standards and even more impossible demands. She was expected to resemble Vogue’s editor-in-chief (Miranda’s office in the film a near replica of Anna’s), so imagine everyone’s fucking surprise the first day Meryl showed up on set wearing an untested wig white as snow, with a voice that never raised, where the most deadly delivery was a whisper.
But this scene on the right, this scene that hadn’t existed until Meryl went and thought, “wait a minute, there’s an imbalance of character here…” so she brought it to light and this was written. Sparingly, as it was said, yet one of the very few scenes to be altered in the entire film. This is how it went: Meryl showed up to the scene without any make-up. She walked in, didn’t talk to anybody, sat down and did it, got up and left, went downstairs and waited. She did this scene once.
And the thing is, this wasn’t meant for you to suddenly cheer for Miranda; it was to show you that she was human and that her success came with a costly price that hurt her the most. She thawed the Snow Queen, extinguished the flames of the fiery boss from Hell and gave her what she never had on paper: substance.
If completely reinventing a character from a subpar novel by giving her actual character and successfully distinguishing her from the woman she was based on isn’t considered pure talent, then I don’t know what is.
how terrified do u think harry would be if his scar started hurting again tho like omg
harry potter age 35 gets a sinus infection that causes shooting pains into his forehead he is next seen screaming and running naked in the streets of london firing expelliarmuses into the air
i want to read the daily prophet article about this
PRANCING POTTER’S PREPOSTEROUS PANIC: When the thought of you-know-who causes him to reveal his you-know-what. More inside on page 2!
"Girl Scouts promote lesbianism and abortion!"
Yes why do you think I bought 15 boxes of thin mints.
Yes, but Girl Scout shouldn’t be a thing, it should just be Scouting of America!!
Girls Scouts became a thing because guys could not and still cannot handle women in their troops defend the girl scouts to the fucking death because we aren’t equal and taking away safe spaces for young girls won’t achieve that either
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
It was a dark and stormy night. Hermione was making soup.
Then there was a knock on the door. Hermione set her spoon to self-stirring and went to see who her unannounced visitor was.
At the door was Harry wearing raincoat and hat, dripping wet, and looking absolutely miserable. He was carrying a duffel bag.
"Ginny kicked me out," Harry said. "Can I stay with you?"
"Why? What did you do?" Hermione asked. "Or what did you not do?"
Harry sighed. “Can I come inside? It’ll be easier to show you.”
Hermione stepped aside and cast a drying spell on Harry as he walked past her. Harry set his duffel on the floor and removed his raincoat. He hesitated before taking off his hat.
“Just take it off, Harry,” Hermione said, “I can’t help you figure out how to fix things with Ginny if you’re wearing that thing. “
“Uh, no, I should probably leave it on—“
“TAKE. OFF. YOUR. HAT. ”
Harry took off his hat.
Hermione screamed. “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR HAIR?”
Harry’s hair, which at the best of times was untidy, looked hideous. It was now chin length and wavy. In theory, it should have looked good. Harry was not an ugly man and he should have been able to pull off longer hair. But the combination of stubble and hair just did not work. It was quite frankly repulsive. Hermione had not seen a hairstyle that disgusting since Professor Snape.
“I was hit by a Medusa spell. It wasn’t a strong one but it won’t wear off for a few more days,” Harry said sadly. “I went home and Ginny started laughing the minute she saw me. James hid under the couch. Al took one look at me and started crying and wouldn’t stop. The boys wouldn’t settle down so Ginny said I had to leave until I wasn’t ugly Daddy anymore.”
Hermione wished she could tell Harry to go away until he was not ugly. She had a child to think of after all. “Of course, you can stay. But you need to keep your hair covered. I don’t want Rose traumatized like James and Al.”
“I promise I’ll be careful not to let Rose see my hair.”
“Make sure Ron doesn’t see it either. You look like Snape’s love child and I’d rather Ron not die laughing at you.”
Harry’s face twisted with disgust. “That’s a horrible thing to say. I wish I could cut it off but it grows right back.”
“You can always try wearing a turban,” Hermione said. “It worked for Quirrell.”