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Welp, AO3 is down. Guess it’s time to reread the shoebox project again!!!!!!!

(It’s not just wolfstar!!!!! It does jily and Peter really well too!!!!!! GO READ IT!!!!!!!)

Are there newer Wolfstar readers appearing that haven't yet committed to memory bits and pieces of The Shoebox Project?

Please.

Please go read it.

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scars in fiction: I got this trying to save my lover from an assassin- but tragically, I was too late. now I carry the mark of my failure with me always, and I can never forget~

scars in real life: so I was trying to open macaroni sauce with a paring knife

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All I'm saying is that some of the best fanfics I've EVER read were actually gen fics

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Rip Sirius Black you would have loved pining after your celestially-themed soulmates in French

Oh Madame Moon, you/Have such a view, do You see him, do you?/Les coeurs jumeaux Oh Monsieur Sun, I/I'm on a dark side I miss him all night/I hope he's all right Monsieur Soliel/Madame la Lune Les couers jumeaux/Pas de deux Oh Mister Sun/Oh Madame Moon Please bring him back/Into my view

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^^ that’s what I like to hear 😜✌️

In which Mary forgets.

The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.

The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger. 

“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?” 

Mary didn’t mind. 

“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”

Mary had not.

“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”

The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.

…

The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all. 

Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.

She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong. 

…

Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.

She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.

“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”

Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.

She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too. 

She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty. 

“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”

Mary wished it was true. 

But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t. 

…

She forgot the star. 

She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.

She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.

And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.

…

She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole. 

“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”

Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.

“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”

Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk. 

“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”

Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together. 

Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.

Just as friends.

Just once.

“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”

Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.

“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”

…

She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget. 

…

The forgetting came quicker after that. 

She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.

She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat. 

She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind. 

She forgot Halloween.

…

She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.

“I loved—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”

…

The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look. 

She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too. 

She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path. 

He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything. 

“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”

Of course he could.

“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”

Of course he would.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”

Of course he was.

But that had never mattered.

“Obliviate,” he said.

And Mary forgot.

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The vetches have twined about his bones, The straggling ivy twists and creeps In his eye-sockets; the nettle keeps Vigil about him while he sleeps.

— from "The Dead Knight" by John Masefield

Your art made me think of this poem :)

2022💀🌿.

His name is Moss and he's a knight who did bad things while he was alive and was cursed by the faeries after his death. Now he's a servant of the fey who uses his fighting skills to protect the weak magical creatures of the woods 🌿

He likes to sit on rocks for a long time and walk slowly around the forest dragging his weapon on the ground. Most birds think that he's some kind of statue and of course he's a nicer person now 🌱

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Pouring one out for Mary "Maybe This Time" MacDonald: everyone’s lover, no one’s beloved

Lady peaceful

Lady happy

That's what I long to be 🥲

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In which Mary forgets.

The first thing she forgot was the colour of a meadow on a midsummer day.

The second was the sound of a door sliding open, and a voice that still hadn’t lost the shake of anger. 

“Excuse us,” said the voice. “But do you mind if we sit here?” 

Mary didn’t mind. 

“You see,” the voice explained. “We had seats already. Perfectly nice seats, in fact—but then we were disturbed. Did you know this place accepts mentally deficient toe-rags?”

Mary had not.

“Me either,” said the voice. It was a bit steadier now. “Well, you seem nice, at any rate—what’s your name?”

The voice had a name, too. But Mary couldn’t forget what it was.

…

The next thing she forgot was her own hands, glowing with the light of a thousand suns. She forgot the letter that came on her birthday and the man who came with it, tall and silver and kind when he told her she was magic. She forgot the feeling of a wand in her hand, the control, the certainty it gave her, something inside her slotting into place without ever having realised it was missing at all. 

Ah, yes, she forgot thinking, when the man took out his own and conjured her mother a rose. Now everything is finally right.

She forgot how it felt when she heard that Word for the very first time and she realised she’d been so very wrong. 

…

Mary forgot that the voice belonged to a girl. A girl with long, soft, pressed-copper hair, hair that smelled like vanilla and apples and sunshine.

She forgot how she sounded when she laughed.

“Sunshine isn’t a smell, Mary—but thank you all the same.”

Mary disagreed. Sunshine was her favourite smell.

She forgot how the girl looked with her sleeves rolled up and her wand in her plait, hands stained red-yellow-green by berries and powders and potions, eyes blazing in triumph when the man with the walrus moustache told her she was clever. Mary wondered how he did it—how he made her light up like that, and how she could do it, too. 

She forgot late nights in the dorm and afternoons in the library, painting nails and proofreading essays. The girl would look at her Potions and Mary would look at her Charms, and they’d roll their eyes when boys with silly names and big mouths sent them cards and curses and called them pretty. 

“You’re all I need, Mary. Romance is reductive, and they’re all arrogant prats with frogs for brains.”

Mary wished it was true. 

But then she forgot glasses and messy hair, and battles won with wands and broomsticks and words, and watching her watching him when she thought no one was looking. She forgot being sixteen and feeling something change around her. She forgot feeling like she should change, too. She forgot crying when she couldn’t. 

…

She forgot the star. 

She forgot his black curls and his silver eyes, and his face, pretty like a girl’s. She forgot holding his hand and pretending it was hers. She forgot how he made her listen to Bowie and she made him listen to ABBA, and how they laughed and cried and fought and made up and never, ever kissed.

She forgot sitting by the fire in a crowded common room, not reading, not talking. He looked at him and she looked at her and neither of them looked at each other.

And she forgot that the reason they’d always worked so well was that really, they’d never worked at all.

…

She forgot the castle in winter, the way the ice hung off the stone like a diamond necklace, the way the white made the blue swallow you whole. 

“Here we are, Mary!” said the girl. “Our very last Sluggy Christmas! What are you wearing? Did you decide yet?”

Mary hadn’t, but she was leaning towards the pink with the lace.

“Oh, good,” said the girl. “That one’s my favourite.”

Mary’s favourite was the emerald silk. 

“Yes,” said the girl. “I was thinking that, too—it matches my eyes, doesn’t it?”

Mary wondered if the girl was sad. She’d just broken up with the latest boy, and it was the first time she’d be going alone. Mary didn’t have a partner, either. She wondered if she might like to go together. 

Just so they wouldn’t be lonely.

Just as friends.

Just once.

“Oh—er, sorry, Mary,” said the girl. “But I’m not going alone.”

Mary didn’t want to ask. But she did.

“Potter,” said the girl. “James Potter.”

…

She forgot the words to Lady Stardust. Cherry Bomb. Jolene, Lola, and Nina, Pretty Ballerina. She forgot the Blitzkrieg Bop and the Crocodile Rock, and she forgot dancing in the tower and the flat and the cottage, arms around a boy or a girl or a stranger or the air above her head, dancing just to move, dancing to remember. Dancing to forget. 

…

The forgetting came quicker after that. 

She forgot the war. She forgot the secrets and the lies they told themselves to get through the day, the lies that tore them apart from the inside out and the ones that put them back together. She forgot killing and torture and running and waking from nightmares to find herself in hell.

She forgot the dead. She forgot the traitors and the cowards and the black, festering hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

She forgot the girl with Healing hands. She forgot her yellow hair, her whip-crack wit, her soft, warm hugs. She forgot the girl who loved her, the crusader with a chip on her shoulder, and she forgot how they died exactly one month apart, how the streets ran scarlet in the August heat. 

She forgot the boy with kindness in his voice and fear in his eyes, the boy who died and the finger they buried. She forgot the snake in lion’s clothing who killed him and the scarred, broken shell of a man he’d lied about loving and left behind. 

She forgot Halloween.

…

She forgot standing alone in a churchyard, carving words on a slab of white marble. She forgot a familiar face, a form in the corner of her eye, and she forgot the words she yelled at him as he tried to explain.

“I loved—”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Snivellus.”

…

The last thing she forgot was a road called Privet Drive, and a neat little house filled with secrets and pain and a crying boy with eyes she’d spent ten long, beautiful years loving so much it almost hurt to look. 

She forgot the feeling of night air on her face, cold and sharp, turning her tears to ice. She forgot knocking on the door, and the face Petunia Evans made when she pulled out her wand and froze her where she stood. She forgot the door to the cupboard under the stairs, and how she didn’t need to say a word before it burst into a shower of sparkling stars. She forgot holding Harry in her arms, and looking back to see a fat, blond baby bawling on the living room floor, and wondering just for a moment whether she ought to take him, too. 

She forgot walking, then running, cradling a soft black head to her chest, too afraid to Apparate with such a fragile thing. She forgot the rage in her throat, on her tongue, when she saw the tall, slim man in silver robes, blocking her path. 

He was there to take him away. He was there to take away her Harry, her godson, just like he took away her Lily. He threw her life away like it was nothing, nothing, nothing, when to Mary it was everything. 

“You can’t,” she said. “You can’t send him back there, you can’t make me leave him.”

Of course he could.

“You won’t,” she said. “You won’t let them hurt him, you won’t close your eyes.”

Of course he would.

“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re wrong if you think this is good. You’re wrong if you think there’s no choice.”

Of course he was.

But that had never mattered.

“Obliviate,” he said.

And Mary forgot.

[sadcatinapartyhat]

We don’t talk enough about the fact that Sirius is literally a service dog

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🦇 Vampire Sirius Wolfstar Canon-Adjacent AU 🦇

Been feeling vampire-y again now that it's spooky season, so I thought I would do some promo for one of my favourite fics ever, which is criminally under-kudosed on ao3. Wolfstar dealing with the vampire-ing of Sirius, set in a canon-adjacent au (as opposed to a more removed vampire au like disintegration) during the war (and it actually ends up being a fix-it fic too!). Super super super well-written, one of those fics that makes me rage internally against ao3's 1-kudos policy. Go check it out!!! (And leave the author some kudos if you like it!!!! Do it for me bc I can't lol)

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I just filled it out, and it was really fun!!!! Really well-made form, thanks for putting so much work into it :)

gonna make this its own post as well so people see it -

hey everybody, i made a form focusing on headcanons/fanon preferences in the marauders fandom based on how long people have been in the fandom. if you're interested, you can find it here! please reblog this &/or send it to people who might be interested so i can get as large a sample size as possible :)

thanks!

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love rereading some of my writing like damn this person really knows how to write that appeals to all the things I personally love

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I like to imagine that there was already something wrong with the friendships, but that in a better world, after Hogwarts Peter would have had the same experience a lot of people who find themselves on the edges of their friend groups in secondary school have: he would have grown up, and moved on, and in the moving on he would have been able to re-forge his old friendships in a healthier, stronger way.

Like maybe he got a nice job, where he felt fulfilled and appreciated, and so he no longer wanted approval so desperately from his friends; or maybe he found lasting romance, and so he was no longer so jealous of theirs. Whatever it was, he would have been able to get some much-needed distance, and when he was far enough away he would have been able to look back and say “huh, maybe I do still love them after all.”

But because of the war, none of that happened, and instead he was stuck in one of the most stressful environments imaginable with his same exact social circle from secondary school (and any underlying problems that circle may have had) for three whole more years, which is a long time for things to fester 🙃 and maybe simmering resentment turned into genuine hatred, or maybe his superficial emotional needs were better met by somebody with a connection to Voldemort (like how a lot of MRAs get radicalized today), or maybe he was just afraid.

Anyway—this is why I love Peter!!!!! He’s one of my favourite characters to think about and write from the perspective of, because he’s so interesting (not that I’m an apologist of his—I’m in the business of understanding, not excusing)

That's something I haven't seen anyone talking about so I will.

So many "No Voldemort" AUs in the Marauders fandom and in all of them Peter is still their friend.

The implications behind this are pretty crazy. It's literally giving "they'll be friends forever until presented with another opportunity" and there is something so weird and sick about it.

Was he their genuine friend before the War and would he have remained one if the circumstances were different? Maybe. I believe he was.

But the whole idea that he would have been their friend in another timeline and f them up in the current one really has me thinking.

Would he do something else to eventually end this friendship even if Voldemort wasn't around?

Or would they be friends and oblivious to what could have been?

All in all, the prospects of the situation are wild. You mean to tell me that you can trust someone with your life and be very good friends in times of peace but they would otherwise stab you in the back??

It's true that people act differently in difficult times than in calm ones but as far as we're aware he had not once done something dubious before.

Was it some suppressed hatred that would have broken out anyway or what? Genuine fear of Voldemort?

Thinking about it doesn't give me rest...

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@enbysiriusblack FACTS

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Dorcas Meadowes headcanons developed (mostly) in the void

Hey Marauders Tumblr! I'm pretty new here, but I've seen people making lists like this of their headcanons, and as somebody who has never really interacted with fanon, I thought it would be interesting to share some of mine to see how they compare to what other people have come up with. I’ve had these for years, and my inspiration for them was literally just a few pieces of art on Pinterest (so, interestingly, the ways in which my headcanons are most similar to popular fanon tend to be in the characters’ appearances), the canon books, and my own overactive imagination. I'm starting with Dorcas, because from what little I've gathered she, Marlene, and Mary seem to be the characters for whom my interpretations are the most different from what's already out there (although it's fascinating how close they actually are sometimes).

Please do lmk what you think!!! I've put the list below the cut so as not to annoy people who just want to scroll ↓↓↓

First things first: like I said, I developed these before interacting with fanon much, so I am a Gryffindor Dorcas truther (I know a lot of people have her in Slytherin now, sorry 🙃)

“The weird and offputting one” (said with love)

One sibling. A brother, two years older, in Ravenclaw

Intelligent and creative. Would have been in Ravenclaw with her brother, but adamantly refused, as at the age of 11 she found him deeply irritating and could not stand to be in his presence

Very emotionally level. Difficult to excite, difficult to anger, difficult to deeply wound

Fatal flaw: stubbornness

Patronus: tiger 🐯

Acquired something of a reputation for casual meanness throughout her school years (though, importantly, not for cruelty). It wasn’t that she didn’t always think before she spoke; rather, it was that she cared more about what she thought than the feelings of those around her

Fashion-adventurous. As a child, enjoyed bright colours, patterns, and loose cuts; as an adult, enjoyed black, jewel tones, and artfully distressed items (would likely have enjoyed the goth subculture, but alas, ‘twas after her time)

Mastered colour-changing spells in third year so she could match the beads in her braids with her outfit, nail polish, and mood

Along with James and Lily, one of the few amongst her friends to have a happy upbringing

Would have done well in art school (mixed-media sculpture)

Did not dream of labour. Worked occasionally as a professional duellist, and won nearly all of her matches when she did, but devoted most of her time to the Order and her portraiture (which she hoped to one day make a living from, though she was unwilling to sacrifice her abstract, vivid style to satisfy her more traditional customers)

Genuinely confident in herself from an early age, including in her sexuality (asexual biromantic) (because gosh darn it this fandom needs some ace rep)

Figured the ace part out when she kissed her first boyfriend and hated it, but still wanted to know his mind and hold his hand; figured the biromantic part out when Marlene went on a date with her first boyfriend (which, in Marlene’s case, was comphet) and Dorcas also hated it

Confessed her feelings to Marlene straight away when she realised, but only to get it off her chest; never expected her feelings to be returned. Proceeded to date around a bit, and was pleasantly surprised a short while later :)

Had one Muggle grandmother, with whom she was very close. Passed away the summer between Dorcas’s fifth and sixth years (just after Dorcas received an ‘O’ on her Muggle Studies O.W.L.)

Took the maximum four out of five supplemental subjects after second year, mostly because a Ravenclaw bet she wouldn’t

Proposed to Marlene the night of James and Lily’s wedding, privately, in a dark corner of the dance floor after the newlyweds had left

Siouxsie and the Banshees #1 fan. Tragically too busy avenging her recently-murdered fiancée to listen to Juju, although she did hear “Spellbound” once or twice on the radio

Also an enjoyer of the B-52s

Anyway...I think about my version of Dorcas a lot (could you tell lol), and I'm pretty invested in these headcanons because they form the basis of her characterisation in the fanfiction I write, so I probably won't be changing my mind anytime soon, but it's always fun to hear what other people think! Seriously, please let me know :)

[sadcatinapartyhat]

Something something the inherent tragedy of watching your siblings grow up and how they will always be the child you once knew but at the same time you’ll never know them like that again

I think people that say that sirius completely hated regulus are only children because if you have a sibling, especially a younger sibling you would understand more that sibling relationships are so complicated and idk about anyone else but I truly don't think I could ever hate my baby sister