Unlimited I M A G I N A T I O N ・ endless mousou

69,501 notes

silversarcasm:

if you had to drop out of a class you are not a failure

if you had to take time off school you are not a failure

if you had to leave school for good you are not a failure

your worth is not determined by academia and this goes doubly so for disabled people and others for whom school is set against them

(via forthelifeofoneburglar)

50,447 notes

antagonist:
this fight is over. - turns around -
protagonist:
-gets up and coughs up blood. - NoT YET
antagonist:
dude what you're like almost cut in half? like just take the loss this time like i'll even call you an ambulance
protagonist:
CUT THE BULLSHIT I'M GONNA WIN --
antagonist:
dude how is your spine supporting your body do you even believe in biology?? gross

Filed under so true though

84,047 notes

howcanyoudream:

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

Imagine the next years new students, so fresh and full of enthusiasm, imagine the number of students slowly increasing, the charms for lifting feathers and making bubbles being learned, imagine the students holding threstrel races every sunday evening just as the sun sets over the lake.
Imagine Professor Flitwick creating charms to help students suffering from PTSD, shielding them from their triggers and helping them learn to relax, to let the nightmares go.
Imagine the memorial that is held every year for the students and teachers that passed and the awkward attempts at new friendships or rebuilding old ones.
Imagine the ghosts slowly fading away as the souls of the dead go to peace.
Imagine the stories that those brave children will one day tell their children and their grandchildren about the time that they fought and fell for what they believed in.
Imagine two people, bearing the weight of many years, painted with the lines of wisdom and war and children and life.
Imagine two graves, charmed to grow flowers all year round, resting under a willow tree where the water sprites nest in the spring and great grandchildren have picnics and hear about their long dead family.

howcanyoudream:

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

Imagine the next years new students, so fresh and full of enthusiasm, imagine the number of students slowly increasing, the charms for lifting feathers and making bubbles being learned, imagine the students holding threstrel races every sunday evening just as the sun sets over the lake.

Imagine Professor Flitwick creating charms to help students suffering from PTSD, shielding them from their triggers and helping them learn to relax, to let the nightmares go.

Imagine the memorial that is held every year for the students and teachers that passed and the awkward attempts at new friendships or rebuilding old ones.

Imagine the ghosts slowly fading away as the souls of the dead go to peace.

Imagine the stories that those brave children will one day tell their children and their grandchildren about the time that they fought and fell for what they believed in.

Imagine two people, bearing the weight of many years, painted with the lines of wisdom and war and children and life.

Imagine two graves, charmed to grow flowers all year round, resting under a willow tree where the water sprites nest in the spring and great grandchildren have picnics and hear about their long dead family.

(via forthelifeofoneburglar)

Filed under why would you DO THAT why why why would you do this harry potter i didn't really need it spelled out i think but i'm glad i'm not the only one who's thought of this ;A;

130,492 notes

jaclcfrost:

what you said was very sweet and means a lot to me but i am incapable of properly responding in any way besides “thank you so much aaaah” because i do not know how to accurately express the exact level of my gratitude to where you completely understand how much what you said meant to me without me getting even more emotional and looking like a fucking nerd: an autobiography

(via watanabeshuuya)

Filed under forever