meanwhile i’m asking the real fuckin questions
i am all about this
Here I am, a rabbit hearted girl
Frozen in the headlights
It seems I’ve made the final sacrifice
But we’re not bad people. We’re like our emblem, the snake: sleek, powerful, and frequently misunderstood.
Our most cheerful alums flock to the Hufflepuff club, to its cozy dens and immaculate dining rooms; and the Slytherin club remains to this day in its old Knockturn spot, imposing and exclusive, where the snootiest house elves in Britain are ready to chuck one out at the slightest hint of blood treason, or even for wearing last season’s robes.
Ravenclaw’s club lasted a mere decade beyond its founding, before it split into two clubs, one for Ravenclaws who preferred the scientific method to magical puttering, and one for Ravenclaws who believed in sensible and established arcane philosophies instead of modern and silly Muggle experimentation. From there it has split a further forty-three times, and today Ravenclaws may have their pick, or else they may simply found their own branch, and individualistic as they are, they often do.
But what happened to the Gryffindor club?
Once the heart of Godric’s Hollow, its warm red wood welcoming any stalwart young heart, it now lies ruined, ivy winding through the high casement windows, the foundation a bone-strewn home for stoats and mice and snakes. It is gone. No one mentions it. The hulk of it has been swallowed by the old cemetery, and Gryffindors today pass it by, unheeding, unaware that once they, too, had a place beyond the walls of Hogwarts to call their own.
The Gryffindors did not wine and dine in their club, you see. They did not network and exclude, passing judgment on blood or elves or robes. They did not dissect and bisect knowledge in infinite mathematical loops, separating magic from science, experimentation from philosophy.
No, the Gryffindors took sides during the Anarchy. They became Levellers. They fought tooth and nail against each other during the Barons’ Wars. In the Gryffindor club, it was not good cheer or blood or science which ruled, but sides, banners, civil conflicts — supporters of Lancaster dueling the supporters of York.
Gryffindors do not shy away from conflict. And today conflict unites them, a heady drug, calling even the fiercest lions together under one cause.
But in earlier times? War or peace, lions were lions. And these lions dearly loved their banners and ideals. So, brought together, they could only destroy each other for supremacy.
Their club is gone. Now they only fight the other houses. It is better this way.
seriously though, people need to get over this whole ‘hufflepuff = goody two-shoes’ thing
can you imagine, for a moment, hufflepuffs fighting in a war, whether for light or dark
those fuckers are loyal unto the end, aren’t afraid of hard or messy work, have the patience to play the long game, would work tirelessly for the cause they believed in, and aren’t swayed by personal ambitions, pride or emotions.
a dark hufflepuff would be the most terrifying, effective soldier ever.
#ladies and gentlemen #meet ginevra molly weasley #teased 24/7 when she was growing up for having a crush on the famous harry potter #wasn’t allowed to play quidditch with her brothers because she was considered too weak and too little #was constantly overlooked and underestimated because of her size and timidity #was possessed by none other than lord voldemort for basically an entire year #almost fucking died #not only fought off said horcrux for a year #but survived #blossomed #THRIVED #grew up to be a shockingly well adjusted young woman #not even a year later she faced dementors and didn’t even pass out despite the trauma #made the house quidditch team because at the age of six she said ‘fuck it’ and taught herself how to fly on a broom #GREW UP TO PLAY THAT SAID SPORT PROFESSIONALLY LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING BOSS #GREW UP TO BE SENIOR SPORTS EDITOR OF THE FUCKING NEWSPAPER #not only learned how to standup for herself #but also for her fellow classmates #students who unlike her were still overlooked and underestimated #BECAUSE SHE IS HELLA FUCKING NICE SON #proved her bravery and skill by willingly fighting adult deatheaters at the age of 14 #and at the age of 15 #and at the age of 16 #FUCKING PWNED AND SURVIVED AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN #LIKE A BOSS #FUCKING LED THE D.A. #DO. YOU. EVEN. #fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck #ASDFGHJKL; #all in order to help those she cared about and loved #BECAUSE SHE LOVES AND CARES FIERCELY MMK #proved herself to be so charming and so fierce #that soon her pumpkin juice starting bringing all of the boys to her yard #owned her sexuality like a motherfucking QUEEN #when her own brother tried to slut-shame her you know she ended that shit right quick #COULD NOT BE TAMED #WILL NOT BE TAMED #not only won the heart of the D she was yearning for since the age of 10 #but also PUT A RING ON IT #you know thats right #she made sure that shit was hers forevaaaaa #became a momma who still profits dollas #THROW YOUR HANDS UP AT ME #you know she ballin #BASICALLY YOU FUCKWITS #MEET GINNY WEASLEY #the girl who could NOT be fucked with #the girl who proved all the haters wrong #THE GIRL WHO HAD NERVE
CALL HER “THE GIRL WHO WAITED” AND I’LL PISS ON YOUR SOUL
In magical Paris there was a place where one would find the love of one’s life. This was its sole claim to fame. Culinarily-speaking, it was no great restaurant. Certainly not for Paris. The bread was always a bit stale or a bit soggy, and the main courses very dry. The wines left one gagging. And best not to mention the desserts.
And it was always either full to bursting, at a glance, with so many patrons spilling out onto the street that anyone feeling ready to die of starvation would still have reconsidered, passed it by, suggested the party go elsewhere to avoid the crowds; or else it was empty and eerie and still, when one finally got in, with the waiting elves looking very bored, as though nothing had been prepared all the day.
So for ambience, this was not the place.
And yet still the rumor persisted. Here — here! — one would find a soulmate. It had been woven into the wall panels by some clever French witch, long ago, this spell to bring about purest love; it was some kind of curse left by a handsome wizard troubadour whose beloved had been whisked away to a convent; it was simply a part of the magic of Paris, perhaps.
For Katie Bell, the place was a mere whim, something Angelina and George had booked for her, hoping to bring her out of her slump. Katie was at odds with magical notions of love, you see; she was too retiring, perhaps the result of some terrible accident in her seventh year; she did not collect beaus as some witches did, nor did she bother to meet men, nor did she flirt very much: the business of romance seemed to escape her entirely. And indeed the experience of being kissed by a young wizard brought about more a crawling, bored sensation than any true fervor. Her solid Muggle minister father was alright with this; everyone else saw it as a kind of defect. Katie had been far more alive in her schooldays, quick as a flash on the pitch, at home with her fellow Chasers, so bright and delightful and laughing and not closed, in that way she was now, with all these fellows Angelina and George would throw at her.
She would have to try a bit harder, that was all. To apply herself, to really work at finding a soulmate. Perhaps it would be someone as closed-off as she was, a man left equally bored by the prospect of a grope after a candlelit dinner; someone she could simply talk to, not someone to curl up with or bat her eyes at — for some people were not ever passionate; it was not in their natures. Or perhaps it would be some lothario to draw her out of her mouse-hole, some great lover to incite her to eroticism; some people preferred to jump straight into the sex, and it was the romance that bored them.
So to the restaurant Katie went, her place reserved in advance. She was full of trepidation and dread. She sat at the table and looked around at the empty room, and felt like she’d been made a fool of. For there was no one here! She rang for the elf. The elf came over, and in crisp French that was far far better than hers, told her to stop being silly — there were fellows everywhere.
If she could not see them, then they were not for her, yes?
"So it’s something wrong with me,” Katie decided. For that must have been it. Katie was ill-suited to finding a match, and this was surely a character defect.
"I don’t know that it is," noted a voice, coming up to the table from somewhere behind the house elf. "Hallo, Katie. I think this is my seat."
It was a quick, laughing voice, a voice from some long-ago memory. It corresponded to someone whose brown hand on her shoulder had once made Katie light up with delight, someone whose friendly jokes inspired far more ardor than any candlelit dinner.
"I can’t see the men either," confided Alicia Spinnet. "Only you. Not that I’m surprised."
And solemn Katie, with her Muggle minister father, had never contemplated that it might turn out this way, but she was not the least bit surprised either. This made a terrific amount of sense. A great rush of relief came over her.
She put her hand in Alicia’s.
See, Rowling largely operates Harry’s generation in a clear system of parallels to the previous generation, Marauders and all. Harry is his father—Quidditch star, a little pig-headed sometimes, an excellent leader. Ron is Sirius Black—snarky and fun, loyal to a fault, mired in self-doubts. Hermione is Remus Lupin—book smart and meticulous, always level-headed, unfailingly perceptive. Ginny is Lily Evans—a firecracker, clever and kind, unwilling to take excuses. Draco Malfoy is Severus Snape—a natural foil to Harry, pretentious, possessed of the frailest ego and also deeper sense of right and wrong when it counts. And guess what? Neville Longbottom is Peter Pettigrew.
Neville is a perfect example of how one single ingredient in the recipe can either ruin your casserole (or stew, or treacle tart, whatever you like), or utterly perfect your whole dish. Neville is the tide-turner, the shiny hinge. And all because he happens to be in the same position as Wormtail… but makes all the hard choices that Pettigrew refused the first time around. Other characters are in similar positions, but none of them go so far as Neville. None of them prove that the shaping of destiny is all on the individual the way he does.
Did I know, in my heart of hearts, what Gellert Grindelwald was? I think I did, but I closed my eyes. If the plans we were making came to fruition, all my dreams would come true.
The Weasley’s joke shop? Didn’t one of the owners die? I heard his brother kept it running for a year or two with some help from his younger sibling but it didn’t last. Its all rusty now, the shop. It really is sad, heard from my parents that it was the best shop there ever was.