A Day in the Life of a Nerd Extraordinaire

I Have No Clue What I'm Doing, But That's What Makes Life Exciting

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snapslikethis:

takeme-killmeinstead:

snapslikethis:

Look at this

LOOK

I’ve never made this connection before…at the beginning of DH Hermione tells Ron and Harry how a wizard who’d split his soul could heal himself, save himself…remorse

oh, harry

Harry James you precious baby

I’ve read this second bit before, the whole try for some remorse thing, and thought it was just a Harry stabbing in the dark, but nO

It was so calculated

He remembered that conversation

Hermione’s research

actual, possible redemption for Voldemort

he kept that hope, however slim, that Voldemort could be saved

before they cast their final curses, after all that happened, Harry was actually trying to get Voldemort to mend himself back together

Harry james potter you compassionate jerk trying to save your mortal enemy before he utterly and finally destroys himself

This is everything

(via promiseofpossibilities)

Filed under Harry Potter

966 notes

Anonymous asked: Do you have any headcanons about James's mother and Sirius? You covered his relashionship with James's father in that wonderful meta I hope you'll someday continue, but that Harry and Molly hug scene answer just made me curious.

snapslikethis:

Do I ever. These are all going into my baby marauder’s fic, but I don’t mind sharing them.

Mrs. Potter heard Sirius Black’s name from her son’s very first letter home. While she was happy that he was growing up, it was bittersweet, because she missed him; she pored over ever letter until she had them all memorized. She was glad he was making friends, but she didn’t care for his last name. She knew it was hypocritical, but the wizarding world was a small community and she knew of the Blacks, of their fanaticism, and she wasn’t comfortable with James associating with their lot–more specifically, those politics, distant family or not. He was in Gryffindor, however, which was, according to James, a big act of rebellion against his family. The tenor of James’s letters hadn’t alarmed her-he’d told her of some of Sirius’ politics, but only with a sense of revulsion. He was so taken with Sirius, she decided to reserve judgment until she’d at least met the boy.

At Christmas, Mrs. Potter learned even more from James because he talked non-stop about his best mate. Sirius this and me and Sirius that and but Sirius doesn’t… He was excited to be home–he’d missed them as much as they’d missed him–and he tried not to show it, but he was miserable without Sirius around. He exhausted his owl sending multiple letters to and from Grimmuald Place. Three days into break, when he exhausted her owl as well, she decided that it was time to intervene. She took James into Diagon Alley and bought him a set of two-way mirrors. They owled the other mirror, along with instructions and, from Mrs. Potter, a Merry Christmas tin of caramel shortbreads, Sirius’ favorite, and an open invitation to visit the Potters any time any time he’d like, it’d be no trouble, they would be delighted to receive him.

She wasn’t surprised to receive an owl in response. It was a formal, polite sort of letter thanking her for the biscuits, perfect handwriting–the sort of thing she made James send after each birthday. When she turned the card over, however, she saw that he’d scrawled out another message–apparently where his mother wouldn’t see–and it won her over: “Mrs. P. Thanks for the biscuits, they were brilliant. You’re welcome to send more any time you like, it’d be no trouble, I would be delighted to receive them.”

Mrs. Potter received a distressed letter from James two days into the second term. He didn’t say everything, but between the lines was enough for Mrs. Potter to get the general idea of the misery Sirius had endured; it hadn’t been a pleasant holiday break. Mrs. Potter sent her assurances, what explanations she could make as to why the Blacks would believe the things they believe, best as she could in a letter.

She started sending a tin of biscuits for Sirius, along with her usual package for James.

During his first summer home, James was morose, worried for his mate. Mrs. Potter took action in the third week in and called upon Walburga at #12. She didn’t relish the visit, but she thought that if an invitation for Sirius to spend a week at the Potters was to have any chance at success, it had best be delivered in person. Grimmuald Place was just as creepy and macabre as she’d remembered from her childhood visits. It was an unpleasant three hour exercise in biting her tongue and polite nodding, but she left with an acceptance, albeit a reluctant one.

Sirius came two weeks later. He didn’t explain what his home life was like, but he didn’t have to. She saw it anyway, and the little realizations broke her heart. He was so clearly uncomfortable with the easy, open affection they shared with James and she realized he must not receive any spontaneous hugs or kisses at home. He grew wide eyed that first night and mouthed to James we’re allowed to talk? at the supper table. He only responded to her in yes ma’am with eyes averted to the floor. He told James over and over again how lucky he was to have such a brilliant home, and she knew it had nothing to do with the number of rooms or the large garden out back. She overheard the quiet conversations he had with her husband, and she realized he’d been brainwashed with purist garbage and dark arts worship from infancy. Mostly, she saw that he was just as taken with James, how very alike they were, how they’d already adopted each other’s mannerisms, and how alive they were in each other’s company, and it was sealed: Mrs. Potter had two sons. She just had to convince him of that.

She started writing letters during their second term: one letter per week, directly to Sirius, rather than through James. She kept them short. She made inquiries about his school work, his family, if he’d gotten up to any good mischief lately. She shared little tidbits about her life, her activities, and ended every letter with her open invitation to visit them any time. He didn’t generally trust adults, and for good reason, but he slowly, very slowly, let his guard down. It was the small victories that made her smile. He stopped calling her ma’am every other sentence. He let his handwriting slip into something less formal. He started sharing his own stories, rather than just politely replying to her inquiries. He ended every letter thanking her for the cookies, and asking her to send more. When he signed affectionately, Sirius rather than respectfully, Sirius O Black she didn’t bother wiping the tear that slipped down her cheek.

That fall, she arranged for an out of town trip to France for the Christmas holidays. She endured another horrid tea at Grimmauld Place, this one worse than the one before, to secure an acceptance to her invitation for Sirius to join them. It was a decidedly warmer visit than the first, now that they were more comfortable with one another, that they had something to talk about. She made his favorite food for Christmas morning. She pretended not to see the hurt in his eyes when he didn’t receive a note from his parents, along with the broom he’d received. For her part, she bought both boys tickets to four matches for the following summer and signed jerseys from their respective favourite teams. She pretended to be confused when they were outraged that they’d received the wrong jerseys. She just smiled and explained that it must have been a slip up, but they all knew she’d done it on purpose, for no other reason than to tease them. They rolled their eyes and exchanged shirts. After James stood to hug his parents, Sirius did, too. It was a quick affair, barely two seconds, but it meant the world to both of them.

During third year, all four boys spent an entire month at their house during the summer holidays. It was exhausting, completely exhausting, but it was, to borrow her boys’ favorite word, a brilliant kind of exhaustion. She taught them cleaning and repairing charms so they could clean up after whatever havoc they’d created. She and her husband took them to Quidditch matches, all the ones she’d reserved tickets for the previous December, plus a few more. It was different, now, seeing Sirius thrive in the company of these boys. They were inseparable, these boys, and she loved it. She loved them. Sirius was openly affectionate with her now, but it was a tender kind of affection. He gave her pats on the shoulder and a kiss on her cheek when he came in for breakfast. She ruffed his hair, same as James, and laughed when he shook it back into place. He stopped asking for permission to do everything, and helped himself, same as James. She taught him–them, but mostly him–how to make caramel shortbreads.

She and her husband realized one day in during the boys’ fourth year that they referred to the boys and their sons rather than their son or James when writing to Minerva, or talking between themselves. It had happened so naturally that neither of them could pinpoint the shift had occurred.

She put a stocking for Sirius on the mantle that Christmas.

She also took him shopping. She explained that it wasn’t fitting to refer to it as the guest room anymore, when it was really his room, and he ought to be able to decorate it as he saw fit. They spent the afternoon at both muggle and wizarding shops, purchasing everything from bed linens to posters. She wasn’t surprised when it was more or less a carbon copy of James’s own room, but it was important for her to give him autonomy over the project anyway.

During the Easter holidays, she caught the boys with a bottle of firewhiskey. They flinched, bracing for their scolding, so were shocked when she conjured a third shot glass, poured the liquor into all three, and told them to drink up. If they were going to be bested by an elderly woman, they had no business drinking, but if they could match her, she told them, they were welcome to it. Devious, darling, devious, her husband had told her the next morning when both boys were still in bed recovering. They enjoyed a quiet, pleasant day to themselves. Her boys didn’t touch the liquor cabinet for another year.

Sirius wasn’t allowed to come over the Potters’ at all during the summer between fourth and fifth year. She made her annual pilgrimage to Grimmuald Place and bit her tongue as Mrs. Black made her feelings on the Potters and their influence over her son quite clear. Something inside Mrs. Potter snapped when Walburga said her son in that possessive way, as if she actually gave a damn about his well being, and every harsh word she’d been holding back for four years spilled out.  It didn’t end well. Sirius would not be coming to Potter Manor that summer, or, if Walburga had her way, ever again. He ran away anyway, two weeks later. He thumbed the dark circles under his eyes and made him some biscuits. She wasn’t surprised when Orion turned up and threatened them with legal action. They were forced to send him back, and it nearly broke her to do it. She didn’t bother to hide her tears when she wrapped him into a tight hug and whispered up into his ear–he was taller than her now–to keep his head down, to keep his mouth shut, that she loved him, and that she was so, so sorry. He’d arranged his face into a stony, blank face by the time she had to pull away, but her shoulder was wet and she knew he’d been crying. She tried not to flinch when Orion put an iron grip on Sirius’ shoulder. She cried for two days, and the ball of worry in her gut didn’t abate until September 1st when he was safely back at Hogwarts.

He wrote that term, but it wasn’t as frequent, and it wasn’t as warm. There was something broken about him, and her ball of worry returned.  When she got an owl from about what had happened-the whomping willow, and Snape, that boy they got into so much trouble with, her heart broke. It was she, not Walburga, who went and spoke with Dumbledore about her boys. It was she who went to the Hospital Wing to find a broken, repentant Sirius, a shaken James, a torn Peter, and a livid, embarrassed Remus. Her boys, who she talked to separately, who she mended back together with her words and hugs, best as she could, before heading back home.

He showed up on their doorstep during Christmas break, bruised and limping, two trunks and a broken broomstick in tow. He took two steps into the foyer and he yelled at them, at her, I’m not going back. He was all defiance, shouting, daring them to contradict him. His arm was hanging limply at his side, it’d obviously been hurt, but his hand was clenched around his wand; it was shaking. He was feral, really, a wild animal, cornered, not quite sure if he’d escaped yet or not. It scared James, it scared her husband, but she took two steps forward and put her hands on his cheeks. My darling boy, you’ll never have to back there again. We’ll protect you, we’ll keep you safe, alright? You’re safe now. And they did have to fight-to keep him, but they bribed the right official and were able to delay the hearings until he turned seventeen. She found out snippets of what had happened from James, but she knew he was sparing her the details. 

(This got away from me. I’m sorry it’s so long. I had to stop here because sixth/seventh year Sirius living with the Potters, and the war, and them getting sick and dying is an entirely different post. The other post anon was talking about is here.)

Filed under sob Harry Potter Marauders

35,104 notes

You’re going to have people who are going to say ‘Oh, you know like, she just writes songs about her ex-boyfriends’ and I think frankly that’s a very sexist angle to take. No one says that about Ed Sheeran. No one says it about Bruno Mars. They’re all writing songs about their exes, their current girlfriends, their love-life, and no one raises a red flag there.
Taylor Swift on some peoples views on her songwriting. (x)

(Source: thebentley13, via hello-batman-its-superman)

Filed under Taylor Swift

773 notes

Anonymous asked: You should do a prompt based ont his "Sirius fell behind the veil; but before his body hit the ground, a set of strong and familiar hands caught him"

bigquidditchhero:

"Careful there, mate," came the voice he hadn’t heard in almost fifteen years, and he took a step back and looked at the man in front of him, who released his shoulders and beamed.

"Christ, you’re old," said James before Sirius could speak. "Not as old as I’d like to you be, though, I have to say," he added, and Sirius saw that his grin, unchanged, looked strained.

"I’m - dead?"

And, for as long as he’d missed his best friend, now he hoped that he would wake up. He had been knocked out, badly hurt, and he was imagining James - because he could see nothing else, just space, and James was exactly as he’d seen him last, same clothes, twenty-one -

James nodded, and Sirius felt as if he’d taken a great blow to the stomach.

"I want to go back," he said, quietly at first, then louder, frantic: "I need to go back! Harry’s there -"

James’ hands grabbed at him again as he looked around wildly, searching for an exit, a way out: there were things worth dying for, but there were still things worth living for, too, or at least there was Harry, and Harry was both. He couldn’t leave him there to Bellatrix, and Voldemort too, probably, not again, he was going to be there this time …

"Hey," he heard James say, and realised his eyes were stinging. He brushed impatiently at them with his sleeve and shook his head.

"They’ll say I shouldn’t have gone."

"Yeah, probably," James agreed, patting his arm in a comforting manner, "but I’ll bet Harry was glad you were there."

"Until now." A horrible thought struck him. "Shit, I bet he blames himself - it wasn’t his fault -"

James did not say anything, but looked weary. Sirius wondered if he and Lily had, somehow, been able to watch all that was going on; if they had seen their son suffer, for years, and felt utterly helpless, like he felt now.

It occurred to him that their reunion ought to be more joyous.

"I don’t wish I was here," he said, stumbling over the words, "but - it - it’s good to see you, mate."

James smiled properly - he was so young - and they hugged, awkwardly; they had never been ones for hugging, but feeling that James was real, or at least as real as he was - there, not disappearing as soon as he returned to wakefulness - it was good.

"It’s been a long time, Mr. Padfoot."

"Too long, Mr. Prongs."

They grinned at each other. It had been too long. In a perfect world, Harry would have grown up with his parents and godfather, and the brothers would never have been separated; Sirius would never have seen James’ body sprawled on the ground. They had lost too much for this to be a happy reunion.

Sirius thought about the battle, perhaps still raging on, perhaps having claimed more victims, and looked around again.

"If I could go back," said James, watching him, "in a heartbeat, I would. Even just for a little while … see my boy again …"

His voice faltered and cracked.

"You know - he looks just like you."

"Some people have all the luck."

Sirius snorted. “Just like you. Except his eyes,” he added, and he glanced about him once more, but this time he didn’t look for an exit. “Where is Lily? Shouldn’t there be more people?” They’d lost enough. It would be nice, he thought, to see Lily again; he had missed her more than he would have imagined before her death. And Regulus. Maybe.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to finally be - at peace. No one to hide from, no one shutting him away.

"Oh, this isn’t where you go," said James. "I’m just collecting you."

Filed under Harry Potter SOB