#fuck jk rowling though

[meliake]

some Rons

emo <3

[smallwingedlight]

returning to tumblr bc I’ve found another tragic gay ship to make my entire personality

[beary-wary]

I wasn’t a huge Harry Potter fan back when I was a teen/kid. I always liked it, but since I hit my 20’s it’s been such a joy reading/listening to the books and rewatching the movies. Half-Blood Prince has ALWAYS been my favorite. Idk just word vomiting, but the HP world always feel like home to me 💛

[no-song-so-sweet]

I want to talk about Harry Potter.

Well. Sort of. I want to talk about Harry Potter in a roundabout way, in that, I want to talk about the reaction my friend group had when shit started really going down with That Bitch Rowling.

Because Rowling is a horrible person. She’s a TERF, a denier of Nazi Crimes, homophobic, anti-Semitic, the list goes on and on (and most recently, has been attacking a trans soccer manager, if my dash is to be believed? Somehow, she just seems more cartoonishly evil with each passing day). But this isn’t about That Bitch Rowling, not really. Or if it is, she’s merely a footnote in the story.

Harry Potter was, and I think this is true for many of us, a large part of my childhood. While the writing may be mediocre at best, it was wildly influential. I didn’t know a single kid that wasn’t hoping for a letter to Hogwarts. It was a Big Deal for a lot of people, and that included my friend group. My friend group, which is made up of members of the LGBTQ+ community. My friend group, which includes a young lady who we didn’t always know was a lady. I’m sure you can see where this might be going.

The day I got a tear filled phone call about That Bitch Rowling was, frankly, heartbreaking. She was mad because a woman she had respected up until now didn’t respect her. She wanted to get rid of her copies of the books, but didn’t want to donate them. I never want to hear her cry like that again. So I made a decision.

I told her to hold onto her books for just a little while longer. I phoned the group. I figured out when everyone could get together for a weekend, and when I had hammered out dates, I packed up my car, and drove the six hundred miles back to my childhood home.

In the passenger’s seat, was my set of Harry Potter books.

Excluding my trans friend, there were seven of us. I had made a plan, and my father had the space to enact it - I grew up on acres of land; complete with 200 year old oak tree, creek in the woods in the backyard, and a massive fire pit.

Nostalgia and youth, I find, paint everything with a rose tinted hue; if Rowling had just kept her mouth shut, I’m sure many of us would have looked back on the Harry Potter series with some amount of shame. But I don’t think it would have suffered the sort of fall from grace that led us to this point.

The fire pit is important for several reasons. For example, it had been the popular gathering place for my friend group of literal decades at this point. Small towns mean that you know everyone from a very early age. We lived right beside the woods, so we used the fire pit to burn the leaves, and the branches storms took down, of which there were many. And when the first six of my friends rolled down the half mile driveway that day, I had already collect enough wood to get a decent fire going.

Six of my friends. We told the seventh a later time. We wanted to be prepared, and anyway, we all had the same cargo (six sets of seven books joined mine on a rickety folding table). I put them to work collecting more firewood (is it really a good bonfire if you’re not risking setting the barn on fire?).

By the time our last member rolled up, I had a fire going.

She had her set of those damn books too.

(There is a visceral grief that comes from being let down by your childhood heroes, and I fully believe that That Bitch Rowling embodies the phrase “never meet your heroes,” because folks, as a general rule, I am not a fan of burning books. But I was prepared to make an exception.)

We burned our copies of the Harry Potter books that day, all eight of us. They were well read, beaten to hell and back, with cracked spines, and dents in corners, and pieces of the pages missing where we had bent down the corners one too many times. And I won’t lie to anyone. We cried. Tears of sorrow and rage, for the piece of our childhood that we were choosing to give up, because to keep it would be to disrespect the woman we had known and loved for longer than we’d ever had those books.

Letting go sucked. But it was the right thing to do.

When they were gone, we put out the fire, went inside, and built the pillow fort of our dreams. We marathoned Star Wars, and ordered too many pizzas, and had way too much soda. We fell asleep playing Risk, because that’s what our friend choose, and in the morning, I made waffles with chocolate chips and too much maple syrup.

I wanted to talk about this, not just because this is a fond memory for me (even though it is), but because one of my coworkers confessed to me that they hated Rowling, and everything she stood for, and they refused to have anything else to do with the Harry Potter franchise, but they just couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of the books.

I said I was happy to host another book burning.

But I wanted to write this down because I know that sometimes it’s hard to take that final step, to leave behind that last thing. So for anyone who needs to hear it, it’s okay to grieve the things we loose when we grow up. Letting go can be hard, but I promise you’ll end up better off. It’s been awhile since things really went downhill, but I maintain that, in this case, death of the author is nonexistent, and it is better to have loved and then lost, than to hold on too tight.

Don’t hurt yourself on the shattered remains of your childhood magic.

[monkeyfishgirl]

One thing that's so tremendously disheartening about the JK Rowling situation is the complete lack of coverage in the (British) media.

It is not something that should be written off as just some twitter drama. The richest author on the planet, a woman who has a long running BBC TV show based on one book series and another in the works with Max for a separate series, a woman who has millions of followers on socials, theme parks and plays based on her works, who is profiting from her continued role in a generation's nostalgia every single second has- completely literally- denied Nazi crimes. And no-one influential cares. She is not going to face consequences for this.

The only thing more disheartening is that if the press did call her out for (again) literally denying Nazi crimes, it'd just make her book sales go up.

[ladysomething]

so max watch harry potter, please do not make him dramione shipper

[uwudonoodle]

[vulpinesaint]

i need everybody ever to watch this video actually. the issue is not difficult but if you’re somehow still feeling uncertain in any way about hogwarts legacy watch the video. they say it well and they say it with confidence and i love them actually

[togo--mimori]

I think the reason I may not like Ness is because of the whole wizard backstory because I just intrinsically links him with Harry Potter in my mind and fuck Harry Potter

[origami-butterfly]

Ok but sometimes the most infuriating political stance a person can have is point blank refusing to discuss social issues with you when you bring it up because they "don't want to get political". Don't open the tags unless you want to read a rant

[mydarlingdearestdead]

Sirius Black post-prank

Did I fully edit this? no. However I am not sorry. TW: Self harm, alcohol abuse, suicidal ideation, mentions of blood

Sirius Black knew the taste of blood well. In his sixteen years of life, there was hardly a taste he knew better. Still, knowing something is not the same as liking it.

When Sirius peeled his eyes open to glare, rather dejectedly, at his bed hangings he recognised the taste instantly. At first, he assumed he'd bit his cheek during the night and hadn't noticed- that had happened before. It wasn't until he lifted a hand to scrub over his face that he noticed the mild resistance from his joints.

With a groan, Sirius lifted his head. The sheets as well as his arms and pyjama bottoms were stained rather spectacularly in deep red. He found his torso caked in dried blood. Some part of him wanted to laugh at that. House colours, after all. His skin had even taken on a yellowish tint in recent days.

He hadn’t worn a shirt to sleep, despite the February chill. Earlier that year he'd slept in whatever jumper Remus wore that day. Now that wasn't an option, so Sirius went without.

"Sirius?" James' voice called hesitantly. Sirius didn't respond. If he waited long enough James would say his piece and leave.

"I've left a sandwich from lunch on your trunk." Afternoon then. "And Mary said if you don't come and see her then she's going to come up here and drag you down by your ear." James laughed. Sirius didn't.

James paused. "We're all worried about you, Sirius." He took a deep breath. “Regulus-”

"Remus isn't." Sirius's voice came out scratchy and hoarse from lack of use. “And leave my brother out of this, James. I don’t care if you’re in his bed or not.”

James hesitated again, "Remus." He said, "Remus is… well, Sirius, he's-"

"He hates me. Got it." Sirius cut him off coldly, a little more confident in his tone. "You can leave now." He avoided the Regulus comment, Sirius thought.

He was probably smart for it, considering how Sirius reacted when he first found out. You’d be mad too if you found out your best friend had been dating your brother behind your back for almost six months. Granted, perhaps you wouldn’t curse said best friend six ways to Sunday.

James didn't reply, but Sirius heard the door shut as he left.

He unstuck himself from his sheets, undid the charm holding the bed hangings closed, and stumbled to the shared bathroom

"House colours." He muttered.

There was no pain, perhaps a dull ache somewhere inside him but that was hardly from the cuts. Heartbreak, more likely, caused that particular ailment. Not that Sirius could blame Remus… not at all.

He almost couldn’t recognise himself. Rib bones were clearly visible under his skin. They seemed sharper, and while he’d always been pale, his veins seemed to glow blue under translucent skin. The hair Sirius took such pride in was too long, tied in a bun at the base of his neck, and slicked through with grease from serious neglect.

Sirius neglect.

Funny.

James would like that joke.

Some things couldn't be changed though. The birthmark on his shoulder, or the tattoos surrounding it. Or the Moony tattoo written in bold letters against his stomach, not that it was visible at this time- his entire torso was a bloodbath- but Sirius knew it was there. Like a ghost, a presence in his mind obscured in a way.

Sirius clutched his wand like a safety blanket. Raising it, he cast a clean-up spell, the nature of which was furniture, not people, effectively removing any trace of blood to his eye.

He averted his eyes before they could catch on the word fifteen-year-old Sirius was so sure he wanted to be reminded of at every glance in a mirror.

Sirius fell into a routine of a sort, or perhaps choreography could be more accurate. He waved his wand at his bed, using the same spell he’d cast on himself to clean and make it up, then moved the plate James left him. Everything he ate tasted like sand anyway. Sirius placed the plate on the ground and opened his trunk. He reached down to an old quidditch jumper of James’. He unwrapped it, an unconscious decision, and removed three items from inside;

An empty bottle of firewhiskey, a blade from his potions kit (Top of the line! Says Horace Slughorn, Potions Master at Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!) and a polaroid picture.

From inside the tiny frame, Remus’ grin caught his eye. Lily took it, at Sirius’s, now infamous, birthday party. She used a muggle camera. Part of him was glad, he wanted to keep this a snapshot of that moment without the chaos that erupted around them- Remus, grinning, completely sober, and Sirius, planting a kiss on his cheek, unsurprisingly black-out drunk. They curled up on the sofa in the common room, undoubtedly the centre of attention, with not an inch of space between the two.

Sirius resisted the urge to set the picture on fire and be done with it. Instead, he grabbed the glass bottle and launched it at the wall, right under the window where Remus would smoke at night. It smashed, of course, lying in shards under the window, which Sirius, now realised, was open. Groaning, he stomped over to close it.

It was dark outside- when did that happen?-, and clear. The moon shone clearly through the darkness, full and-

Full.

Remus.

The next few minutes were a daze of stumbling and apologies directed toward inanimate objects as Sirius realised he’d (a) allowed the full moon to sneak up on him and not notice the signs, (b) had more broken glass in his body than could technically be considered healthy and (c) needed to get to the shack as soon as humanly possible.

Why wouldn’t James have reminded him? Unless-

Unless Remus told him not to.

That was it. Remus didn’t want him there. Of course, he wouldn’t, with what Sirius had done at the last full moon-

Sirius wouldn’t want anything to do with himself either.

The worst part? Aside from Remus’ distance, Sirius couldn’t ignore how much the action, or the thought that went into it, reminded him of his mother. Walburga Black, who cast crucio on him for the first time at twelve years old. Walburga Black, who entered into a loveless marriage and produced two children for the sake of blood purity. Walburga Black, who beat Sirius within an inch of his life during the Christmas holidays in his fourth year. Walburga Black, who disowned her heir so easily, knowing she had a spare waiting in the wings.

Regulus wasn’t like her, but he wasn’t like Sirius either. He was too compliant, too willing. Sirius would be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified for his brother. But he also didn’t regret leaving. The Potters saved him and he was eternally grateful for that fact. Reggie, however, couldn’t be saved unless he asked. And Regulus Arcturus Black wasn’t going to ask anyone for help, as he’d informed Sirius in a furious whisper just a mere twelve weeks ago.

Yet he hadn’t any problem crawling to James for another type of help. That gave Sirius hope for his brother’s fate. Hope was in short supply those days, and Sirius wasn’t going to let it go. Just because Regulus was a stubborn shit.

In other, hopeless, news:

Witnessing Remus’ pain was worse than anything his mother could have possibly inflicted in all her torture. The toll it took on Sirius was unlike any suffering he’d ever known. He would have welcomed any spell, curse, or potion in its place. Alas, was anything that simple?

When Sirius told Snape how to make it to the shack he hadn’t considered any type of consequence for himself, or, more importantly, for Remus. He knew, of course, weeks later, that even Snape was undeserving of such a fate.

And Remus was everywhere, reminding him of that fact.

His face haunted Sirius’ nightmares and dreams alike, his conscience has always been Remus’ voice- a fact that only became apparent once he couldn’t bear to hear it.

As a result, Sirius will do anything to drown him out.

On many nights Sirius considered bringing himself to the astronomy tower, or just taking that blade to an essential artery. He couldn’t do it. Not while Remus didn’t understand the regret that lived inside him, like a disease. That doesn’t mean he hadn’t come close.

James had taken up a sudden interest in medicinal magic. He never said why, but they knew. Everyone knew. They just didn’t care.

Sirius fell heavily against the door. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes hard enough for stars to emerge in his vision. He watched them with increasing interest for some time. It was only when the door began pushing against him that Sirius realised he’d fallen asleep.

The sun was just beginning its ascend over the hills, and light was already beginning to pour through the window. The door was hitting him harder now.

Sirius crawled across the floor, rapidly stuffing the blade and polaroid into his trunk, along with the old jumper.

The door opened, and in came James Potter, smiling like he didn’t have to be up and learning Herbology in an hour. Behind him trailed Peter Pettigrew, looking very much like he had to be up and learning Herbology in an hour.

When they saw him crouched at the foot of his bed breathing erratically, James froze. Peter ran the other way, presumably to get a teacher or some other form of help (read: the girls). James inched toward him slowly, and Sirius backed away like a cornered animal.

“What happened?” James asked calmly. He lifted his hands in a surrender gesture. Sirius felt himself relax against the bedpost.

“Nothing much,” Sirius said, his voice felt scratchy again, “The glass? I just had a moment.” Sirius shrugged the best he could. His attempt at nonchalance was wearing thin.

James grimaced, “Sirius. I know it’s harder but English, please. Not French.”

“Mais putain! Je ne parles pas-” He cut himself off. Sirius could’ve sworn the words were in English. How long was he unaware of his own thoughts?

He repeated his previous statement, slowly, listening to each word as it passed his lips.

“Pads.” James said, tone level, “I mean the blood.”

Sirius shook his head quickly, “No.” He said, “No. I cleaned it up. There is no blood.” James’ face turned sympathetic. He nodded and, gently, placed a hand on Sirius’s shoulder, which the boy neither leaned into nor shied away from.

“No blood, Padfoot, got it.” James smiled tightly. Normally, Sirius would’ve seen right through it. This Sirius, however, wasn’t normal by any standard.

Silently, James pulled his wand from his waistband and cast a couple of heavy-duty cleaning spells. The first on Sirius’ sheets, then the bathroom sink, which newly sported bloody handprints upon the porcelain, and lastly on the floor underneath Remus’ window.

They’d taken Sirius’ wand as a precaution for nights like this after he’d tried a charm on his bed hangings and almost got himself killed. Remus disagreed, his exact words were, “Let him vanish the wall and jump for all I care.” He admitted later he didn’t mean it, but he also wasn’t the one who had to find Sirius on nights like these.

Four months passed since Sirius told Snape how to bypass the Whomping Willow. Four moons. Each time James’ hope resurfaced, hope history wouldn’t repeat itself. Hope they’d return and Sirius would be Sirius again. Hope there would at least be less blood. His prayers hadn’t been answered so far and he was beginning to doubt they ever would be.

[querilousjb]

Art of Harry from a Hoboheartache fic

Portrait of Harry from Creature of Winter

[teenangstenthusiast]

i honestly really dont care if someone likes harry potter

[dove-da-birb]

Jasmine and Papyrus for the ask game?

jasmine ⇢ do you have a movie or book you loved but will never watch/read again?

For book? Hmmm, probably the Heroes of Olympus series; I love it, but man, they are long and sometimes I found them boring? Like a great series, but so. long.

Movie? Any of the Twilight movies; Stephanie is ... well, she's problematic.

papyrus ⇢ if you put your ‘on repeat’ playlist on shuffle, what’s the first song that comes up? what do you like about it / associate it with?

Greek Tragedy by The Wombats

I love this song; mainly the sound, hits the right spots for my brain. I kinda of associate it to spending late nights with friends, knowing that in a few years you may no longer speak to each other, but the time that you had together was fun.

[missmeinyourbones]

not to be a harry potter adult on the dash but the ravenclaw urge to fuck a slytherin is so real

[nothing-an-iratze-cant-fix]

One of the saddest places I can think of now is the bathroom at (one of the many) cafes in Edinburgh that claim to have had JKR in them while writing some portion of the HP books. It’s covered in graffiti with messages of love and happiness for the books and JKR herself because people found acceptance and love in the world she’d created. So many of the messages state how low or broken or lost the people who found solace in her work were and how much it meant to them. Most of them likely travelled far to leave these notes. Many of them will have been trans/queer/NB. It was, mostly coincidentally, an occasional haunt for me and some friends years ago now. I haven’t been back since she made her feelings on trans people and just being a generally awful human being horrifically clear. I don’t think I want to see it.

The situation with JKR is simple - she’s transphobic, racist, unionist, attention-seeking arsehole. The situation with Harry Potter really isn’t and pretending it is isn’t helping anyone.

Anyway, if you’re trans, a poc or even just a technically unaffected decent human being who is sickened by her behaviour but once loved her works and the world that grew from them and beyond her influence, I see you, I feel you, I know it’s heartbreaking to go home and find it wasn’t what you thought when you were there and that now it’s burning to the ground around you. Are there worst things in life? Oh, yeah. By far. But it’s ok if you mourn for that too. If it makes you sad too. If every time you see this hateful bitch open her mouth and hurt innocent people, it sucks and you feel sad and angry and guilty and weird all over again. And if anyone tells you to “read another book”, it’s also ok to punch them because Jesus fucking Christ is that NOT the issue.