#I LOVE THE FUCKING DEATH EATERSSSSSS. literally a workplace sitcom. i think about them daily

[foursaints]

tom riddle as a muggle-raised halfblood orphan is wonderful because you’d THINK his villain origin story is all the horcrux stuff but really it’s just the experience of trying to wrangle a class year of pampered slytherin heirs into one household. tom doesn’t even have a house elf so half of the emergent DE are politely avoiding putting their jackets down on the furniture in fear of getting his plebeian germs on them & grimacing behind his back but telling him it’s all fine, old bean, really, his house is so charmingly quaint :)

1/3 of the death eaters are engaged to each other since childhood, another 1/3 are having affairs, and the remaining third has unimaginably intricate ancient beef that traces back to someone’s great-great-grandfather snubbing another’s at a ministry gala in 1860. but its largely impossible to tell who hates who because they’re all obligated to be backstabby fake-friends with each other. 

just staggering amounts of social skills that tom got them fearing for their lives and wearing cult outfits within the year. could you imagine trying to explain to your terrifying pureblood patriarch father that, sorry, you’re moving out because actually WAY MORE afraid of this random 20-something grad student whose failed lifelong dream was to be a high school teacher. and he wants you to live in his Scooby Doo Villain house and call him a made-up name.  

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Swings

I don't like to dwell, but I'll be honest, sometimes I do. There are a handful of things that have happened during my time on Earth that I can't seem to shake. Here is one of them.

The last time we spoke, I remembered feeling rage towards him. Even over the phone I knew he was trashing his body and fading away. The slurred speech, repetitive and inconsistent thoughts. I knew he was the same, and it killed me.

We were so young when we met, yet we had such adult ways of living, and not the good kind. It's hard to remember exactly how we bonded, through trauma I'm sure, and that never ends well.

I spent countless nights sleeping under the thin blanket on his bed as he spoke every thought in his head. We always snuck me out of his house in time for his mother's alarm clock in the morning.

He always seemed to pop back up in my life unexpectedly as if the universe wanted me to look at him. And look at him I did, all of him. Maybe it's easier to say how I feel now after finally grieving him. I had held onto his memory for so many years it had become exhausting.

I rocked back and forth on my swing as he spoke every thought in his head, like he always did, and then he told me, "Sharon, you can do better." I was sure at the time he meant my husband because he then asked me to go for coffee, but now I wonder if he meant himself.

I believe that maybe I dwell on things until I feel as if I can see clearly. Looking back, he spent most of the conversation apologizing to me and telling me how great I was, I thought he was blowing smoke up my ass. The next day he texted "I'm sorry" to which I never responded, and he died shortly after.

I wasn't sure I wanted to share this on my blog because honestly, it's one of my greatest regrets. I spent over a decade loving a man and never telling him because I was mad at him. I was angry at how he lived his life, and how I lived my life alongside him. But honestly, the only person I punished was myself.

Source: Swings