#he craves it but there's so many people who have known Dumbledore longer than Harry has... and they lost him too

[firendgold]

Hi,

What do you reckon Harry’s post-canon relationship is with Albus Dumbledore’s portrait(s)?

Hi! For the short answer I would say "they infrequently communicate and are on pretty good terms, for a man and a portrait".

It's strange, but I never imagined Dumbledore having any other portraits outside of the Hogwarts one. Not because he didn't deserve them or people didn't want him to be everywhere, but because I feel like to the end, his first priority and interest would have been staying within Hogwarts' walls.

It's why the Cursed Child ideas of him being in at least... three places?... and wizads using his name as a Merlin-level prayer/expletive barely 30 years after his death made me go "uhhh. NO". And not just because Dumbledore's portrait being in Harry's office makes one of the CC conflicts not make sense because the chapter where they 'settle their differences' would have happened years earlier. (Unless I'm recalling that wrong.) The authors may be better at understanding Dumbledore in some aspects than 90% of the fandom, but they did NOT get that right. Dumbledore wasn't even deified like that when he was alive. Lots of people would soften him postmortem, sure, but there'd be shit-stirrers like Rita too even long after. His death would have been seen in a similar way to real historical figures. You don't see anyone (sane) deifying Thomas Jefferson or Martin Luther King Jr. (I'm sorry, I don't know enough about UK history to name relevant figures...)

But back to the question!

Harry came to a place of understanding Dumbledore and choosing to trust his motives and plans relatively quickly in Deathly Hallows (a few months), but I do think that he would still be working things out once the dust settled and Voldemort's lackeys were all rounded up. I think he probably wouldn't visit a lot. We know he didn't go back to Hogwarts to finish his education for some effing reason, so I could see him dropping by the office after Hermione's graduation to chat. Then I could see Harry not talking to Dumbledore's portrait again until he was about to get married or have his first child. Just kind of sharing milestones with him without getting too close or personal.

Some of this might be because he still wouldn't be sure (in a world where CC doesn't happen) whether or not Dumbledore loved him or not, even though he now knows that Dumbledore had hope that he would survive since Goblet of Fire. I think the answer to "does Dumbledore care about me" is a far more important question to Harry than the fandom's "did he know I would die and set me up to walk the path Voldemort put me on". We all know the answer to the latter already. Harry cares about the former.

Harry also knows that portraits are a mere shell of the people they're painted for. You notice the way he and Sirius don't pay Walburga Black much mind in year 5? If we go by fanon, Sirius should be overcome with Angst instead of irritation every time he has to put up with her, but he isn't because he knows it's not her. It's just an impression of her left behind to comfort (or confound) the living.

Harry, who by the end of the story has faced death more profoundly than most people alive, does not need the same kind of comfort or reassurance that other characters might glean from portraits. It's why he doesn't ask for talking pictures of his parents, why he doesn't chat much with the headmasters' portraits, and why we only get pangs of sadness from him seeing Dumbledore's portrait for the first time in year 6 and a few reassuring lines from him to Dumbledore's portrait in year 7 after everything's over. Harry's already talked with the real version of Albus and said everything he needs to say. In my opinion, the rest of his life would just be checking boxes until they get to meet properly again.

[alindakb]

Letters to my Parents - 24 June 1995 - by Alinda

24 June 1995

Dear Mr and Mrs Potter,

Don’t be alarmed that I’m the one writing to you today. Harry is sound asleep and he needs his rest, but I know he would love that you were informed on all that happened today. The final task was today and we finally know why Harry’s name was put into the Goblet of Fire, and why he had to participate in the tournament. But for you to understand, I think I need to start where Harry left off.

After we visited Headmaster Dumbledore because of Harry’s dream, we focused on preparing Harry for the final task of this dammed tournament. Hermione and I spend most of our time of teaching Harry spells that could help him. We made sure he was able to cast the Impediment Jinx, the Reductor curse, the Four Point spell and a proper Shield charm. Professor Snape was so kind to let us use an empty classroom in the dungeons for practice. And from time to time he would come to help. He would then practice with Harry so Hermione and I could study for our exams. He would tell us that helping Harry was no excuse to slack off on our studying and to lose our top positions in our year.

Harry received daily letters from Sirius and he wrote to him often to assure him that he was fine and he was preparing well for the task. You can be proud of your friend, he is a good Godfather for Harry now that he’s free and cleared off all the ridiculous charges they pinned on him. He worries as much about Harry as I do. And no matter how many times Harry assured him he was sticking to school rules and was making sure he was keeping save, the man would remind Harry to do so in every letter.

Hermione and Ron joined us for breakfast this morning, as Hermione wanted to go over some more spells with Harry that might be useful for him during the task. Only we never got around to that. When the morning post arrived, Harry received another letter from Sirius, wishing him good luck and informing him that he will be visiting him today before the task. Harry was excited about that until Hermione spit out her pumpkin juice when she read the headline of the Daily Prophet. She tried to hide the paper, but I stole it from her. Pansy and Theo were snickering over their copy and I wanted to know what it was now.

You will never believe it, but Rita Seeker has published another rubbish story. According to her Harry is ‘Disturbed and Dangerous’. And only because he is friends with Were-wolfs and Giants (even though Hagrid is only half-giant and the friendliest man I know) and speaks Parseltongue. It turns out that Theo has been speaking to the press. He also told her all about how Harry had collapsed in class and that his scars hurt from time to time. Apparently, all this concludes to that Harry will do anything to get power and is therefore dangerous. It’s a joke that people believe this. You know just as well as me that Harry doesn’t crave power and is the kindest person in this world. There is nothing dangerous about him. And I was so proud of him that he didn’t get angry about the article but just brushed it off as nonsense and didn’t let it distract him from the task he had to do today.

It was then that Hermione went into her crazy ‘I’m too smart for my own good’ mode, said something about thinking she knows how Rita does it and then rushed off to the library. I think she finally figured out how Rita comes by her information and I’m sure she will explain it to us soon, when Harry is allowed visitors. We’re at the hospital wing now, but Harry is okay. He’s not hurt, just exhausted.

After breakfast, we all had to go to our History of Magic exam, while Harry got to see his family. We (Hermione, Blaise, Luna, Greg, Daphne, Millicent and I) joined them during lunch. Harry wanted to know how I did on the exam. He still hates that he doesn’t have to sit any of them and has all this free time while we have to cram and study and take tests. I get that he finds it unfair that competing in the Tri-Wizard tournament gives him a free pass this year, but it’s not like he hasn’t been studying just as hard as we did.

We only had a short time to talk in private before I had to go rush off to my next exam. Sirius brought professor Lupin and Tonks along and Harry said he was a bit worried about Sirius. Something about Sirius glancing at Lupin and Tonks all the time. Harry says Lupin and Tonks are getting along, as in maybe more than just in a friendly way. That must be hard for Sirius, as it’s clear that he’s still in love with professor Lupin, even after all these years.

There was a big feast for dinner and we all laughed about how much Sirius eats. Professor Lupin told us he’s always been like that. Daphne joked that he was just like Ron, who also eats more than should be humanly possible. All others enjoyed the feast, but it was clear that Harry was getting nervous and he eat practically nothing. I wanted to tell him that he needed to eat, only I was struggling myself to finish the food on my plate. I had a bad feeling about it all (which were grounded as it turns out, but everyone told me not to worry, so I tried not to).

When Harry had to leave for the task I kissed him goodbye. Blaise joked that Harry would be back and that I didn’t have to kiss him like he was walking towards his death. Sirius smacked him on the head for that and everyone laughed about it. Only the remark had already done its damage. I couldn’t get the sight of Harry, pale and lifeless out of my mind, the memory of two years ago, when I found him on that bathroom floor making its way to the surface. And I know Harry was thinking about the same. He whispered that he would be okay, that he won’t ever leave me and then kissed me again.

I watched him walk out of the Great Hall with a tear stuck in my eye. Sirius placed an arm around my shoulders and told me to have a little faith in Harry, that he was more than capable to take care of himself. And then he said that he was also worried.

Watching the task was hell. We couldn’t see a thing. It was dark and the hedges of the maze were so high we couldn’t see what was going on. I started to bite my nails until Daphne pulled them out of my mouth and took a hold on my hand. They were all so optimistic, so sure Harry would win and that it would all be over soon. I love how much faith they have in Harry, and they were right of course. Harry won. We only wish it hadn’t been at the price it came with.

Sometime in we could hear Fleur scream before all went quiet again. I squeezed Daphne’s hand and she told me not to worry, that it wasn’t Harry that screamed, that he was fine. And even though I could feel through our connection that Harry was truly fine, just a little scared, I didn’t take away the feeling I had that it would all end badly. This feeling didn’t become any less when red sparks shot up from the maze and Viktor was lifted out of the maze on a stretcher to be rushed off to the hospital wing.

I was glad to see that Hermione was just as worried as me. Ron complained that he would have no hand left after this task if Hermione won’t loosen up her grip. This task was more dangerous than any of the other tasks and I just wished our other friends would see it too.

It wasn’t until the flash of the Port-key when they started to worry too. Not that I noticed. I was running down the stands and towards the maze before any of them had said a word. I could feel that Harry was no longer close by. He had gone with the Port-key and he was terrified. I know it was silly to run towards the maze, knowing Harry wasn’t in there anymore, but it was the only physical place I could go that would bring me closer to him. Something horrible was happening. I could feel fear and sorrow through our connection.

Professor Lupin stopped me before I reached the maze. He held me in his arms and tried to calm me down. I think I was screaming and reaching on, but I’m not sure. All I could feel was the horror that Harry was going through. The professors did a quick search of the maze, with the help of Sirius and some other adults around. Both Cedric and Harry were missing. Fleur was found unconscious in the maze and she couldn’t tell us what happened. Sirius took me in his arms and hold me close. He asked me if I could still feel Harry, if he was still alive. I think it helped him that I could say yes, that he was still with us.

And then everything became worse. First I saw Professor Snape grab his left forearm and his face contorted into pain. His mark was flaring up, I’m sure of it now. He looked at me and I just cried. The look in Professor Snape’s eyes said it all. The Dark Lord is back. And no doubt Harry was near him. I whispered that he was going to die. Sirius heard me and told me to keep hope, to remember that Harry was strong and wouldn’t give in without a fight. I know that if he had known where Harry was he would have gone there in a flash, putting his own life at risk to make sure Harry would be safe. I know, because I would have done the same.

The pain came without warning. I screamed and crumbled in Sirius’ arms. He asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak because of the pain. It was so intense. Tears streamed over my face as I realised I wasn’t hurt, but that someone was hurting Harry is a way that was so awful that even I was paralysed by it.

When the pain stopped I could breathe again for a couple of seconds before it started again. Over and over again, I was in agony because someone was hurting Harry. Professor Moody was near, and he kept asking me if Harry was still alive. I just nodded, it was all I could do. I was afraid that if I would open my mouth I would start screaming again.

There was another flash and I didn’t have to look up to know that Harry was back. He lay motionless on the ground with his eyes closed and I could feel Sirius tense next to me. I said ‘he’s alive’ and then I was on my feet, running towards Harry. Headmaster Dumbledore turned Harry around and I heard him say that Voldemort is back before I fell down beside him and hugged him close. One of his hands grabbed hold of me but the other wouldn’t let go of Cedric’s wrist. I looked over Harry’s shoulder to the boy, only to see his blank eyes. He was dead. And I know this is horrible, but at that moment I was glad it was Cedric and not Harry that had died. Cedric didn’t deserve this, to have his life end when it was only just beginning.

Harry first didn’t want to let go of Cedric’s body. He kept saying that Cedric wanted Harry to bring him back. Headmaster Dumbledore said it was okay, that he did, and that he could let go now. When he did, Sirius and I helped him up. Minister Fudge was there, he told Headmaster Dumbledore that the Diggory’s parents were here and Dumbledore and he move to talk to them before they would see the body. Professor Moody told us to get Harry to the hospital wing. Sirius lifted Harry in his arms. It was a bit weird, Harry in Sirius's arms, but he wouldn’t let go of my hand, so we walked towards the castle like that. Professor Moody made sure there was a path for us to take, pushing aside everyone in our way.

We reached the hospital wing and Professor Moody asked what happened. Harry wasn’t all that clear, but what he said was terrifying. It still scares me. He was taken to some graveyard where Cedric was killed. They made a potion that gave the Dark Lord a new body and then he duelled with the Dark Lord. His wand did something funny and he saw the both of you.

Professor Moody in the meantime made us some tea and gave it to me and Sirius. I sipped it with one hand, as Harry still wouldn’t let go of the other. I was tired and struggled to keep my eyes open, but I fought sleep. I wanted to be here for Harry who had just been through hell. The Death Eaters had appeared, and I’m sure my father, just like Greg’s father would have been among them. I don’t know if I can go back home now, if it’s even save for me to do so. The Dark Lord is back and my father is one of his followers, always has been and always will be.

Moody kept asking questions, but they seemed off. It was hard to focus and to protest. I could hear Sirius try a couple of times until he fell asleep. I followed not much later.

It turns out that Professor Moody wasn’t Professor Moody. He was Barty Crouch Jr and he had been working for the Dark Lord all year long. He had drugged Sirius and me, so he could talk to Harry alone. He didn’t get away with it and he’s in custody now.

When I woke up about an hour ago, Harry was fast asleep, with his arms around me. He looks so peaceful asleep. Sirius said they had given him some dreamless sleep to make sure he gets some rest. He promised me that Harry is fine and that Madam Pomfrey already mended his leg.

I wish I knew what all happened in that graveyard, but I will let Harry sleep for now. I’m so happy that he’s still alive and with me. I don’t ever want to live without him. He’s the love of my life and I will do whatever I can to protect him from Voldemort. I won’t let him hurt him, I promise. I would rather die than have anything happen to Harry. So don’t worry, I will keep him safe from now on. I will keep my word and make sure nobody ever hurts him again. I won’t be your sacrifice be in fain.

Yours sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

[bookishtickles]

I started to feel really soft over Harry, and especially his bond with Dumbledore, and I always thought I wouldn't be able to write them considering Dumbledore is so old and than I remembered there is a way around that in the wizarding world 😏

So yeah, enjoy

-

Tiny, skinny 11 year old Harry found himself inside Dumbledore's office near the end of the school year to ask him more questions about his parents. Dumbledore answered them all, like what houses they were in, when they met, what they were like (of course Dumbledore conveniently forgot to tell Harry how dad used to be a bully). The more questions he asked, the more and more Dumbledore looked at him fondly

"You seem to care a great deal about them." Dumbledore notes

"Well yeah," Harry says. "They're my parents...."

"I'm well aware." Dumbledore says calmly (yes, calmly, he does not slam Harry into the wall). "Still.... it's very touching Harry,"

Harry has a very confused look on his face, so Dumbledore continues, "There are plenty of people who would not be so caring if they grew up the way you did, Harry. You're exceptionally kind for someone who has been treated so terribly for so long."

Harry doesn't know why, but this made him feel very embarrassed. He can feel his cheeks heating up, and stayed silent, not knowing what to say to that

There's a moment of silence before Harry finally talks, "Uhm sir, I did grow up somewhere that's uh, not the best, and so I feel like I've missed out on some things that a lot of other kids do." Harry says quietly. He planned on asking Ron and Hermione about what he saw, but there's no harm in asking Dumbledore. "I saw someone, like," Harry's face heated up as he isn't sure how to describe what he saw, "It looked like they were attacking someone but the person laughed."

Dumbledore knows what Harry means. "Ah. And you don't know what was happening?" He asks gently

"No," Harry says, feeling a bit stupid for asking now

"Would you mind if I used a spell to show you?" Dumbledore asks and Harry could swear he sees a hint of amusement and mischief in Dumbledore's kind eyes

"Er-yeah you can," Harry says quietly

"Alright than," Dumbledore says and takes his wand out. "It's called tickling Harry. There's a charm for it, but most people just use their fingers to cause the effect. But this is the sensation you get," Dumbledore explains and points his wand at Harry's stomach. "Rictusempra"

A sudden tingling sensation hit Harry's tummy, making him slide down the couch a curl into a ball on the floor, laughing all the way, trying to cover his belly from the invisible hands assaulting it

"Whahahahat's hahahahahahahahappening?" Harry squeals quite cutely, arms covering his belly but nothing would stop the tickling

"You're being tickled by my spell," Dumbledore says brightly as he watches poor Harry squeal and laugh on the floor, twisting his wrist to up the sensation

"EEEE!" Harry laughs, arms pressing further into his belly like that will stop the charm. Dumbledore has notes that Harry has not asked him to stop and watched the small boy giggle like mad on the ground with a very fond look

Truth be told, Harry doesn't mind the sensation. He can't remember ever laughing the way he is now. It's very nice. The felt very happy by the sensation and it felt good to laugh like this

"Would you like me to stop?" Dumbledore asks gently

Harry is too busy laughing to fully comprehend the question, but Dumbledore does, in fact, stop. Harry's giggles subside in a minute and he looks up at Dumbledore, "That's a nice feeling," he says innocently, having no idea many people detest tickling

"I suppose it's alright," Dumbledore says sweetly to the boy

- 4th year-

Before the names of the goblet of Fire had even been opened for submitting names, Harry was in Dumbledore's office, attempting to find out what the tasks were going to be

"I can't tell you," Dumbledore says patiently to the stubborn boy

"But I won't tell anyone," Harry says. "And I'm not old enough to compete anyway, it's not hurting anyone,"

"I can't," Dumbledore says a little firmly. "Although if you'd like to continue asking, I could always cast a charm that I castes on you 3 years ago."

Harry looks at him confused, clearly not remembering what had happened in his first year there. "Allow me to remind you, Rictusempra,"

As soon as Dumbledore makes the r sound, Harry remembers his eyes widen but the spell has been cast: Harry once again falls to the floor laughing, curling in to a ball as his cheeks redden, hands uselessly trying to protect his belly

"PROHOHOHOHOFESSOR!" Harry squeals, the sensation of the charm is so much worse than he remembers, or maybe Dumbledore has just castes it stronger since he isn't an 11 year old who has never been tickled now

"Yes?" Dumbledore chuckles, the familiar sight making a fond smile upon him. He and Harry have only grown closer and the bond between them goes far deeper than just professor and student, which is what made this not an odd thing to happen between them

"STAHAHAHAHAAAAP!" Harry squeals adorably

Dumbledore lifts the charm, and Harry smiles rather shyly at Dumbledore as Dumbledore tells him, "Now is you ask me again about the tournament, I will be forced to cast the charm on you again,"

-not quite the 6th year, over the summer-

Harry has been hoping to hear from Dumbledore all summer now that Dumbledore is no longer enforcing the "maybe me ignoring you will have Voldemort stop coming after you" plan (seriously worst plan ever). He needs Dumbledore more than ever right now

Apparently Dumbledore has known that because Dumbledore says he will apparate in to Harry's room when Dursley's are out so they can talk without the fear of being over heard

And so when Dumbledore got their, he consoles the nearly 16 year old boy. Much taller than Dumbledore last saw Harry, still on the small side but he's grown about 4 inches. He asks Dumbledore how the wizarding world is doing and after answering, Dumbledore says, "I am here to see how you are doing," he says. "Voldemort trying to possess you a few weeks ago; that must have been quite traumatic." He says gently

"I-yeah." Harry says quietly. "Sir, I'm not really up for taking about it-"

"Which is fine." Dumbledore assures him. "How has the summer been,"

"Normal." Harry shrugs. "I've been trying to stay in my room mostly, and my uncle seems to take that as a challenge this year." He says quietly, clearly upset and Dumbledore just nods but Harry could see a glint behind the eye that told him Dumbledore would like nothing more than to curse his aunt and uncle

After a little bit of quiet as Harry calmed back down, Dumbledore rubbing his back contributed greatly, and finally, Harry says, "If uhm, you could maybe cheer me up," he felt incredibly awkward asking, and he could feel his cheeks turn red at such a childish request

"What way do you want me to cheer you up?" Dumbledore asks the boy, still rubbing his back

Harry hasn't given much thought to that bit. He sat, thinking for a few moments how he would like to be cheered up, and his mind only went back to one thing, but he can't ask for that. He just can't

Dumbledore, as though he read his mind, "There's nothing wrong with wanting to be cheered up in any way. No one can judge it. You're entitled to choosing how you want to be cheered up."

Harry nods and puts all the effort into the mustering up the courage to ask to be tickled. Oh, gosh this is difficult. It's not Harry's fault, it's just that when he gets that charm cast on him, he laughs so much that his mind is free of all else, and he doesn't really why tickles from anyone except Dumbledore. Especially not in his childhood, and Harry desperately craves anything that gives him a taste of what a normal childhood would have been like

"Can you, uhm," Harry asks, shamefacedly began. "canyouticklemeprofessor?" The words came out jumbled in a tone that surely no one would hear

But somehow, Dumbledore it seems, did understand Harry's request, because the next moment, Dumbledore has his wand at Harry's belly and says, "Rictusempra," with a certain degree of fondness

As so many other times, Harry immediately goes down, falling on his bed, his laughs and squeals filling the room. Dumbledore has definitely upped the ante again from the previous time as Harry, again, isn't as small anymore

"AHHHH!" Harry squeals, it felt like a million raspberries were being blown on his belly as well s all the hands in the world attacking him. This surely did wipe his mind of the Dursley's and Voldemort

"How are you enjoying the charm, casted at my full power?" Dumbledore fondly asks, the sight of Harry's curled in a ball as he squeals in laughter so loud it would be impressive if the other houses couldn't hear him

Harry is in too much of a ticklish state to answer the question and Dumbledore mustve known Harry would have passed out instantly if he was under it any longer than 2 seconds because he twisted his wrist, this time to turn the charm down, higher than it has been but not nearly as torturous as it just was

Harry, relieved that Dumbledore turned the charm down and delighted he was still under it, laughed quite adorable and loudly. The sight and sound of Harry being tickled never fails to make Dumbledore watch him in fondness, as though Harry is his son

"EEEEHEHEHEHELP!" Harry rolled into to belly, not that that did anything to lesson the tickling

"And to whom are you speaking?" Dumbledore chuckles

Harry just blushes, he had not meant the little squeal of help he let out, just did it in instinct. But if he did know, he wouldn't be able to say anyway, as under the charm the only words Harry could currently remember are the words "stop" and "help" as well "haha" "eeee" and "ahhhh"

Once Dumbledore lifts the charm, Harry takes in a few deep breaths and, with great shyness, looks at Dumbledore and instantly began to blush again

"I should be going now," Dumbledore explains. "I will write to you soon,"

Harry nods and as he watches his headmaster apparate away, he knows he has at least one thing to look forward to this summer

[awed-frog]

Angst and Feels (Why Fanfiction Matters)

I used to be normal. By which I mean: by the time I was in college, I no longer read children’s books, or even YA. I was too busy, for one thing - I’d spend hours in the library, sometimes cursing at the impossibly difficult stuff I’d been asked to do, but mostly relishing all the new, inspiring things I had the privilege to learn. I was reading about witches, about the use of colours on Greek vases. About Virginia Woolf.

My English, though, wasn’t good enough. Having taken Latin in high school, I knew what a hexameter was but I would define it as a ‘six foots meter’. In the end, one of my professors, mildly exasperated by it all, told me I needed to read more; much more. He suggested YA books, and, since I’d read most classic novels as a child (in translation), I bought a battered second-hand copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It was 2002. The books had been out for five years, but I knew next to nothing about them.

And, well, it wasn’t always easy to keep up with JK Rowling’s funny, inventive prose, but two days later I stepped through the doors of our English bookstore and bought the other three novels. I’ve been addicted ever since.

But the thing is - I didn’t connect with other fans in any way. Back then (in my country), the internet was still an unfocused, unclear thing. If I remember correctly, I didn’t even have an email address until 2003. Not a proper one, I mean. Not something I used to actually communicate. And there was no one I could discuss Harry Potter with. Ah, is that a children’s book? people would say, and that would be the end of it.

I kept reading the series, though, and when the waiting got too difficult, I gave the internet a second chance. I discovered fanfiction, and that was the beginning of the end.

(No more normal for me. Gone. All gone.)

Because, in the end, we are social, creative animals. Shared stories, like shared memories, bond us together more closely and firmly than anything else ever will.

When Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows finally came out, I happened to be back in my small town for the summer, and I went out at midnight to buy it. It was unheard of - a miracle - that our local bookseller had decided to take part in this crazy initiative, and I didn’t expect anyone to actually be there. Instead, well, some people were. Not many, but it didn’t matter. We were a small crowd of mostly adult readers, some trying to pretend they were passing there by chance, others wearing wizard hats or capes. One girl had a homemade piece of jewelry shaped like the Deathly Hallows symbol. It shone on her chest as she waited for the bookstore to open, silent and somewhat fearful.

I knew exactly how she felt. I was terrified. I didn’t want the series to be over. I was afraid I wouldn’t like the end. I was fearing, most of all, that someone would spoil it for me.

(I had been waiting so long.)

In order to prevent that, I had hatched a detailed, careful, crazy plan: I would go into the mountains, alone, walking from hut to hut and stopping in isolated meadows to read the book in complete solitude. I had given myself two days to finish it, and I had no doubt I would. I am a fast reader, and I’d been craving this one story for two years.

My parents told me I was insane, but it didn’t matter. I went ahead - the book was heavy, so I only packed a few other things - a parka, raisins, a water bottle and an extra pair of socks - added a small notebook on top, and the map, and my clunky mobile phone (turned off), and I left.

I have vague memories of those two days. I barely noticed the landscape around me, because, somehow, it filtered into the one from the novel. It slid in and out of focus, unseen, unremembered.

(A place I’d known since childhood, now invisible around me.)

Like Harry, Ron and Hermione, I walked around in the wilderness, oblivious to both its dangers and its beauty. I was tormented by their doubts and fears; I was hounded by Death Eaters; I was hungry and unhappy. I once hurried through the rain, my mind a thousand miles away, and, as soon as it stopped, I spread out my parka on the unfriendly grass (all sharp with rocks and thistles) and I started reading again, my wet hair slowly dripping on the pages.

I remember very well, however, that by the time I arrived to my second (and final) hut, I hadn’t finished. I was planning to read through the night, but I was still wary of spoilers (and I was right to be: I discovered afterwards our local medias had mentioned it all - Harry’s death; Harry’s resurrection - on that very same day), which is why I kept to myself - a practice much frowned upon in such places. I barely nodded at the friendly-looking couple sitting in front of me for dinner, and I ignored the little family chatting behind us. And, at night, I sat up in my bed (it was too cold to stay in the common room downstairs), turned on my flashlight, and started reading again.

Thinking about it now, it was like the end of childhood all over again: this secret, solitary reading, way past my bedtime, in a room I shared with two other people (strangers).

I was wearing every piece of clothing I had, because it was still bloody cold, but it didn’t matter at all.

(So tired, and yet unable to stop reading. The words flickering a bit in the bluish light.)

And then Snape died.

And I started crying.

I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop. He’d been my favourite character, and, having discovered the books as a grown-up, I’d never seen him as the overbearing, nasty teacher; from the start, I’d been drawn in by his lights and shadows; by the damage which had so clearly been inflicted on a clever, unforgiving man (someone who could have been so much more; someone who, in other circumstances, could have been loved, deeply and unreservedly). I’d been hoping against hope he’d turn out to be Good. And here, spelled out by writing, the most magical of all human inventions, here was everything I’d been wishing for - a compelling, heartbreaking backstory; murder; redemption.

I tried to be silent, but you can’t really cry silently, not like this; not with the kind of sorrow which grips you tight inside and shakes you around like a ragdoll until there’s nothing left of you at all.

I finished the book. I slept about two hours. And when I went down for breakfast (thick bread slices with homemade wild blueberries jam and that generic fruit tea, way too sugary, they always offer you up there) I wasn’t looking at anyone, or seeing anything. I was completely empty; lost inside my own head. Happy and sad and terribly lonely, because this story I’d loved so much was now over.

And then the woman in front of me - someone my own age, perhaps a bit older, who was there with her husband - I’d shared the dorm with them the night before - put her hand very near mine on the table (you do not touch strangers here: it is not done).

“Was it good?” she whispered, and I looked up at her. I was so out of it, I didn’t even realize what she was talking about.

“I saw you with the book last night,” she added, and then did this sort of thing which was on my face as well, this half smile, half frown. “I heard you cry.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t tell me anything. Just - is it good?”

“It’s very good,” I whispered back, my eyes falling down to the table; idly following the knot in the wood which looked a bit like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh God,” she cursed, or prayed, softly, and this time she closed her fingers around my wrist, and I started crying again.

The thing is, I’ve always felt books too deep and too raw. I was that kid who would forget the world around her, wouldn’t hear her mum calling for dinner, wouldn’t go to bed in the evening.

You know the kind. The One more page child. The Let me just finish the chapter child.

What I’d never known, though, was the joy of talking about these stories with someone else.

There was no one else.

Some of my friends read, but not like this; not compulsively. Also, they didn’t care - they wouldn’t cry for a fictional person. They wouldn’t smile all day because someone’s quest had succeeded. They never got upset.

(How?)

And the adults - well, of course they encouraged me; they praised me. But it was still a lonely way to grow up.

(I didn’t mind.)

(I never minded.)

(It’s never just a story, though, is it?)

With Harry Potter, that changed. I’d always written fiction into my own head - I mean: some stories I wrote down (my own), but other stories I just dreamed about (little me, with her courage and fears and that one t-shirt with a horse on it, stepping into all these worlds; making friends with those characters; taking part in their adventures). I never wrote them down, because I could feel they weren’t my stories, not really. They belonged to the real writers; to the people who’d first written them down - Dumas and Ende and Tolkien and Wilde and all those other people. I had no right to -

And then, in my twenties, I discovered that I had the right. Sort of. That other people lay awake at night trying to put it together - why did Snape kill Dumbledore? Is it possible that - or maybe? That it was even allowed, in fact, to discuss these things with each other and be taken seriously. Even more incredibly, it was possible to write stories about it. What would happen to Draco next? What if Hermione got hold of a Time-Turner again? And what about the Marauders and the Seventies - is it possible to change the future by changing the past?

Yes, this is the first reason why I love fanfiction, and why I’m grateful to those invisible writers whose names I never knew - adults and teens and office workers and teachers and stay-at-home mums, all living their (to me) invisible lives, and yet speaking, somehow, directly to my heart and soul. Because they made me feel like it was okay to be like this - to love this so very much.

Something else I’m grateful to fanfiction for, though, is its gentle sneakiness; its joyous underhandedness. It draws you in, doesn’t it, because it seems safe and easy. This is why people sneer at it, after all - because you’re not creating anything. Allegedly. And, well, it is a kind of safety net, isn’t it? I’m just playing with these characters, we used to say; I’m putting them back when I’m done.

(As if we could. As if writing about someone doesn’t make them real to you. As if we didn’t know the truth of it - that you can’t write about people and then put them back, because now you’ve bled all over them, and they are, in a way, yours forever; the good and the bad.)

The reality of it is rather different.

Sure, you do start with a story already written; with fully-fledged characters.

But you don’t know everything, do you? We haven’t seen Dean Winchester’s first day of school. We don’t know what Ron Weasley thought when he walked into a Tesco for the very first time (did he? he must have, at some point). We don’t know if Neal and Peter ever saw each other again. What Mary (Watson) was like as a child.

And yet - yet we are bound by everything else we do know. If we want to write canon fanfiction, which, for many of us, is the goal, we have to be mindful of this.

(We look at how they move - Mary’s secret smile, Dean’s slightly uneven gait. We know what they are like when they’re alone - Neal: dissatisfied, Peter: warily content. We try and mimic the way they do their homework - Ron’s careless spelling; his glib, hasty essays.)

And it is difficult and painful and frustrating, but it is also - I think - the best thing that can happen to you as a writer, because I am starting to realize that a story always has invisible walls (stuff that just can’t happen, no matter how much you wish for it to). It’s these walls, and not the rooms inbetween them, which make a story great. The things you can’t write about. The dialogues that will never happen. The characters who’ll never meet. Your story is right there: in the silences. It stretches into the distance, unseeable, undefined, like that strip of land which is not beach and not sea. A puzzle and a challenge.

(Why is this interesting? Why do we care so much?)

It is not easy to see these walls when you’re writing your own story (not fanfiction, that is: fiction), and it’s very tempting, when you do see them, to just tear them down.

(It's your story, after all.)

Fanfiction teaches you not to.

(Sure, we have the extreme AUs and the There I fixed it things, but, personally, it’s the other things I like. The ones where nobody says anything and yet everybody understands. Cas putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. John looking at Sherlock, then away. The Always. things.)

When you’re writing codas, you can’t ignore what happened in the episode, no matter how painful. When you’re filling a fanfiction gap, you must be mindful of what comes next.

And the walls (these walls you hate and push against until your nails are bloody and your head aches) do make the story more interesting. What Maisie Knew would be a rather dull novel if it were written from the point of view of Maisie’s father. So would To Kill a Mockingbird. And what about Of Mice and Men? A Clockwork Orange? Good novels are built on ordinary stories which are made extraordinary because of the way they are written - just like we are, all of us, living ordinary lives which have been lived a thousand times before, and it is our own hearts and souls and our vision of the world around us which make them extraordinary and new and worth living again. Most novels would simply collapse without this gift writers have - to see the beauty and magic (the heartbreak and the tragedy) in things which are completely, utterly normal.

And writers see other things, as well.

Because, well, I’d thought I wanted a meaningful conversation between Snape and Harry - a lengthy and detailed explanation of everything that had been going on between them. I’d thought I deserved it, after everything. That I had a right to it, even.

What I got were three words (Look...at...me.) - a shared look and a whisper - and God, I’d been so wrong. I’d thought I’d known everything - I knew nothing. Fairness was not the issue - life's not fair - this was sheer poetry, right there. It was, in a remarkably I can’t breathe right now kind of way, everything I’d ever wanted, and more. I hadn’t known I wanted it like that, but JK Rowling had known. She’d known my heart better than I knew it myself, and that is the mark of true writer.

(And there are true writers both in fiction and in fanfiction.)

But, some people may object, what about the porn?

What about it?

Well, it must be said out loud. If normal people (not us; no longer, and not perhaps, ever) have heard of fanfiction at all, they tend to dismiss it as porn, and, indeed, Rule 34 blooms and thrives in our archives as well.

On the other hand, why should this be a bad thing? Who decided (well: we know who; and we also know why) that sex should be shameful? That sexual desire should be secret, and sexual preferences undisclosed and undiscussed? Why is the relationship between a man and a woman, even a relationship which is unloving or abusive or downright unreal, something we’re allowed to have access to, while an MPreg between the Giant Squid and the Archangel Gabriel is not?

(Why is the first one a right of passage and a standard for our real life relationships and something which generates billions of dollars of profit and the second one not normal and never bookmarked and tagged as Seriously, This is Filth, You’ve Been Warned, I Need Jesus?)

Greek mythology is built upon such things, after all, and it blossomed into one of the most astounding periods of human history - fifth-century Athens - a place where, in the space of few short years, Plato and Aristotle and Euripides and Alcibiades worked and lived side by side. A perfect storm of culture and art and beautifully orchestrated politics which still defines most of what we are today.

And yet, look at Theseus’ love life.

(This most great Athenian hero, lord of the sea, destroyer of monsters.)

Theseus/Helen (M/F, Mature, Underage, Non-Con, Kidnapping, Heavy Petting, Fingering, This Is So Sick, I Can’t Believe I’m Writing This); Theseus/Ariadne (M/F, Mature, Dubcon, Kidnapping, First Kiss, First Time, Happy Ending, Sort Of); Theseus/Hippolyta (M/F, Explicit, Enemies-to-Lovers, Dom/Sub, Murder, Major Character Death); Theseus/Phaedra, Phaedra/Hippolytus (M/F, Explicit, Slightly Underage, Major Character Death, Non-Con, Dubcon, Incest If You Squint, Murder By Proxy, Suicide, They’re All Kind Of Assholes, And It’s Great, No Happy Ending, Seriously Don’t Read This If You Like Happy Endings).

Look at Achilles’.

(Oh, Achilles. I have loved you so very much, and I do love you still.)

Achilles/Patroclus (M/M, Teen And Up, Angst And Feels, Topping From The Bottom, Established Relationship, SO MUCH PAIN); Achilles/Penthesilea (M/F, Explicit, Major Character Death, Dubcon, First Kiss, Enemies-to-Lovers, Necrophilia, Blood-Soaked Pagan Manpain, Can You Spoil The End Of A Series That’s Been Finished For Two Decades?).

And, of course, we have to mention the gods.

Zeus, for instance.

Zeus/Leda (M/F, Explicit, Zoophilia, Non-Con, I Actually Watched Videos Of Swans Mating For This, Author Is Sleep-Deprived); Zeus/Alcmene (M/F/M, Sort Of, Explicit, Dubcon, Issues Of Consent, Theological Stuff, T Is For Trash, Frustratingly Vague Magical Realism); Zeus/Ganymede (M/M, M/F, Mature, Underage, Dubcon, Zeus Is An Eagle But They Have Sex As Humans, Mentions Of Slavery, Light Dom/Sub Play); Zeus/Semele (M/F, Mature, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Death, MPreg, Loads of Angst, Like Wow); Zeus/Other (I’m So Sorry He’s Gonna Fuck Everyone At Some Point).

(Those were actual AO3 tags, by the way, and also perfectly adequate summaries for most of the classical literature we know. I mean, don’t get me started on Apuleius’ Metamorphoses.)

If people want to write PWP because they want to, er, have fun and, er, make other people happy, I say let them. They’re not hurting anyone. They’re also taking back control from more traditional sources of, er, joy.

(Things whose goal is to generate money; things which tend to perpetuate the status quo and enforce it, and which are not, therefore, art. Things we need to take control back from, because we’ll never be rid of them and everybody masturbates and it’s a joyous and relaxing activity and it’s time we talked about it.)

But from what I see in the community - sure, the PWP is appreciated after a long day at the office, and it’s fun (and oh so challenging) to write (those published authors who keep getting Bad Sex awards should have a look at AO3 and see how it’s done), but what keeps people coming back is what will always keep people coming back: everything else.

The painful, heartwrenching, slow-burn stories.

The case stories; the adventure stories.

The what if AUs.

The My life is so unbearable right now, please give me something else to think about stories.

The idea that books can save your life is not new - I loved Arabian Nights, but it was another novel, Fred Uhlman’s Beneath the Lightning and the Moon, which really did it for me - the idea, brought forward by this German Jew writer who’d witnessed three wars, that (when all’s said and done) everything we are is just that - stories. That’s what keeps us from going mad - the stories we tell each other. The stories we tell ourselves.

And this is what will be remembered after we pass away.

We’re all stories, in the end.

(Just make it a good one, eh?)

And the other reason I am grateful to fanfiction and I love fanfiction and I will defend it to the death - well, that’s way more political.

In the years since that day in the mountains, I’ve kept reading and writing and studying. I am now a fanfiction writer myself. I’ve also been strongly encouraged - even ordered, one would say - to keep up with the news obsessively, because of my job (I am an interpreter). Which I do. For the same reason, I listen to a variety of things - political debates, scientific conferences, TED talks, podcasts about anything and everything. And, well, what is happening in the world isn’t - mostly - very encouraging. More people fleeing their homes. More people fighting. More people burning down trees and keeping employees into unhealthy factories and forcing livestock into pitiful conditions so the rest of us can thrive in gilded abundance.

One thing, though, gives me hope; one thing I’m awed by.

Three in four people can now read and write. Two in four are connected to the internet. Two in five speak English (which, I should specify, isn’t per se a sign of advancing civilization, but still means we have an eye-watering widespread lingua franca).

Which means that for the first time in the whole of human history, we can communicate with each other, and we can do it instantly. We can share opinions and photos and feelings. Everywhere, anytime, with anyone.

(Almost.)

And we are (perhaps too slowly; perhaps not enough) taking control of how information is spread. Of which information is spread.

People were wary of online content in the beginning (I remember this well; I was one of them); they (we) feared that anyone could say anything. That it would become more difficult to tell apart fact from fiction.

(We scoffed at the idea of an open source, user-generated encyclopedia; and look at us now.)

And, yes, it’s not perfect. There are quack bloggers and fake things all over the internet; propaganda and paranoia and scams. Then again, it was never perfect. Humans are peculiar creatures. We feed on wishful thinking and lies. This will never, I think, change. The internet has little to do with it.

But, on the other hand, the internet is also exposing lies. It’s making it more difficult for governments to hide things, and for a handful of media (of rich people) to control what we know about an event - because there’s always someone else there. There will always be at least one other person there - on the site of an explosion, in the middle of a political rally, in a city under siege - someone who will tweet or facebook share what is actually going on. What blew me away, for instance, is what happened recently at the COP21 in Paris: there was one very important meeting the press hadn’t been given permission to attend, and two random students from New Zealand - who were there as representatives of some youth movement - live-blogged the entire thing, including personal comments, memes and reactions gifs, through a Google document.

Hashtag Imagine Yalta, one could say.

And, well, I think fanfiction plays a role in all this.

Now, I’m not a fanfiction expert of any description, and I’m not a researcher - I’ve only seen this happening because I got obsessed with Supernatural and I started poking here and there on the internet - I write stories about the show, and the occasional meta, but I also love to read other people’s analyses, which means I lurk around on tumblr - and I have the feeling something special is unfolding. We are slowly learning to reject a system based on privilege and competition and I paid for my knowledge, go get your own to embrace a more egalitarian, inspiring model; a Here is what I know, because this my area of expertise, please enjoy and leave a comment and tell me something I don’t know in exchange. I read metas about the use of colours and props and lighting. I read an AU Destiel story where they are both actors which had footnotes - footnotes - explaining how the job works. I learned about botany and the American school system and classical music. I stumbled upon a blog for writers where you could just ask, One of my characters is an African-American girl who grew up in Detroit in the 1990s. Anyone here knows what that was like? - and someone would answer, share tiny details of their own life so someone else’s words would ring more true.

What’s happening is, we’re taking back our content. We’re saying, creating stories isn’t the prerogative of big corporations. It’s about people sitting in a circle and weaving magic for each other. For free. Because it gives us joy and sorrow, and we need them both (so much).

And, perhaps even more importantly, by analysing books and movies and shows and animes and mangas so very carefully, by writing (and reading) stories about them, I feel we are learning to think more clearly. We are seeing what works and what doesn’t in a story. We are training each other to read and understand subtext. Those of us who were lucky enough to have great teachers - people who taught us how to see the box, and how to think outside it - are encouraging others to go beyond the standard I liked it, I hate it, I meh. To ask why. And - even - to ask cui bono.

Because this is, the way I see it, the beating heart of everything. Our societies are built and maintained by stories. The best storytellers control it all. It’s that simple.

Money is, perhaps, the most successful of those stories - the idea that paper money, or even coins, are worth anything at all, is the pinnacle of human storytelling. A miracle of fiction.

And also politics, of course. Now, there are other factors which come into play here - most notably, this indefinable like/dislike thing we have around people, that feeling we all have instinctively (which has to do, perhaps, with smell or symmetry or some hormonal madness); this thing perhaps best expressed by the Would you buy a used car from this man? phenomenon. It’s messy and complicated and very often a gut feeling we should or shouldn’t trust.

I’m not saying that words are everything.

On the other hand, there is more to words than we know. Recent research has shown, for instance, a clear link between hexameters and an area of the brain which usually lights up around addictive foods and drugs. As far as I understand it, what they did was read epic poetry to people - the language didn’t even matter - they read Homer, in Greek, to people who’d never heard the language before - and this thing, the simple alternation between long and short syllable in a precise, well-structured way - our brains react to that. Our brains say, Like. Our brains say, More.

Good writers, and good politicians, never needed the study to be carried out. They knew about it already. If you analyse advertisements and novels and political propaganda and speeches, you’ll find plenty of hexameters.

But the idea that not only they sound nice, but that they actually prey on your brain - they touch you in a way you are not aware of being touched - that’s powerful stuff.

Language is powerful stuff.

(It runs the world.)

And, in my opinion, reading and writing is the best way to make it ours; to understand it better, so it cannot be used against us.

This is why places like AO3 are not only entertaining - they are revolutionary. They represent a community of tens of thousands of people coming together and changing the world in the only way we truly can change the world: by changing ourselves first. By making ourselves better, smarter, more aware.

So hold your heads up. Keep caring about stories, keep writing and reading them all (even the coffeeshop AUs; even the tentacle porn). Be bold. Be joyous. Be free.

And thank you, for everything.

[If you’re curious about my fics, here is my AO3 page. Hi!]