Emma Watson as Belle in a promo picture for Guilleromo del Toro’s upcoming Beauty and the Beast
I DIDN’T!!1 KNOW THIS WAS HAPPENING???
da-dang
HUH WHAT.
I have to admit, I wonder what it would have looked like if Guillermo del Toro had done it.
if this doesn’t tear you up you have no heart
I’m dead now.
Thought I’d put this up, since we’ve been watching the films for the past couple of days (we’re on #6 now).
i can’t believe friday, september 1, 2017, is nineteen years later. the last scene in the harry potter books.
this is it.
Gosh…
To Harry Potter - the boy who lived!
Glimmer grew up in a cozy environment of touch and easy affection. She doesn’t even notice that she and her family touch each other all the time; hands on shoulders, arms, cheeks, backs, wrapped securely around waists, ruffled through hair. It’s normal to her, expected. She knows that other people aren’t so lucky, that really she should be so grateful. But it’s a distant kind of knowledge, like knowing the name of a mountain you’ve never seen.
It becomes so much more real when Adora moves into Bright Moon.
Adora who flinches from affection one second but leans into it hungrily the next, like she’s starving. Adora who says such horrible, terrible things about her life with the Hoarde in such a matter of fact way. Adora who still crawls into her bed sometimes and buries her face in Glimmer’s neck but will never initiate a hug for no reason because it’s ‘pointless’ unless born from a sweeping sense of relief or grief.
Glimmer is so conscious of touching Adora that sometimes it’s all she thinks about.
It’s because of this that she starts noticing. The way Adora’s eyelashes flutter as Glimmer strokes a hand through her hair. The careful, almost breathless, way Adora leans into her side when Glimmer throws an arm around the taller girl’s waist. The way Adora’s eyes flicker from the fluffy mess of her hair to the little wiggle of her toes that Glimmer does as she stretches sleepily in the morning. The way Adora glances away, pink dusting her cheeks. She ignores the weird, bubbly feeling that build up inside her during these moments.
And once again Glimmer notices but does not internalise. And once again, realisation crashes down on her (literally).
Adora is frantic and Glimmer is dazed; from the blast that singed the edges of her cape, from Adora’s tackle that knocked her out of the way. From how close their faces are now, both gasping in the same breath. Glimmer manages a nod, she’s okay, she’s okay, and Adora slumps against her in relief, forehead pressed ever so gently against her own. Glimmer is drowning in the best way possible, and it’s probably the adrenaline from almost dying and everything, but her hands are cupping Adora’s jaw and their heads are tilting towards each other and suddenly they’re kissing and everything is starting to make sense.
It’s Bow who interrupts them, happy and exasperated. “Hey, glad you guys finally figured it out but we are in the middle of a deadly situation so…”
Adora pulls Glimmer to her feet, all the soft edges of her sharpening but her hand squeezes Glimmer’s before she pulls away and Glimmer feels infallible.
“Right. Let’s win this.”
I’m suddenly reminded of the kiss in Deathly Hallows.
Y'all know which one I’m talking about, right?
Not the ones in the movie, the big one in the book.
Read this.
Imagine twelve year old Harry not even knowing how awful his childhood with Dursleys had been until he gets to the Burrow.
Imagine him seeing Percy asleep with a book on his lap, and being baffled that a kid might feel comfortable enough in his own home to be so vulnerable in the living room.
Imagine Molly coming up to the attic to say goodnight to Ron and Harry, and Harry glancing at Ron when he hears her footsteps, trying to figure out what they had done wrong that day.
Imagine him asking George who does all the house chores, and thinking it’s a joke when George answers, “we all do.”
Imagine Ginny pestering Arthur with questions over the Daily Prophet, and Harry trying to shoot her warning looks to stop it! but then Mr. Weasley looks up and patiently answers every single one.
Imagine Bill popping in for a visit one evening and Harry being floored when Bill stops to chat with him.
Imagine Fred chasing after Harry in the yard, playfighting, but Harry actually begins to run for real fear of being hurt.
Imagine Molly burning something on the stove my accident and tossing it, imagine Harry mentioning to Ron, offhandedly, “she could’ve given that one to me, it’s what I eat at home when I mess up dinner” and not knowing why Ron is horrified.
Imagine Harry seeing what a normal, functioning family looks like, and realizing the absence of love in his own life.
“What Harry found most unusual about life at Ron’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanging ghoul: It was the fact that everyone there seemed to like him.” – Chamber of Secrets
I think sometimes people forget that Harry lived in an abusive household.
Anonymous asked:
ink-splotch answered:
All through the war, Dean drew.
It was something he had done since he was small– smiley-face suns and stick figures– but he had kept going. He had learned cross-hatching and shadowing; depth, perspective, and color; patience.
Until age ten, until the letter, Dean had drawn himself a suit of shining armor, a dragon to slay. He had drawn aliens and ray guns and wings. They were adventures that he wanted but that he could not have.
When he first arrived at Hogwarts, he drew Nearly Headless Nick’s stiff collar in his notebook margins. He tried to capture the flick of sparks off Flitwick’s wand, Seamus’s singed eyebrows at supper, the owls swooping overhead.
He had never been away from home before for more than an overnight. He drew the gentle curl of his mother’s hair, gilded in sunlight. He had learned how to draw the shine and to pick out colors and bright glare on matte paper by drawing imagined plate armor. But he drew the light on his father’s (stepfather’s) (father’s) crooked glasses, his sister’s sparkly nail polish when they held hands crossing the roads. There were things he missed that he could not have.
Dean hid the sketches under his bed and showed Seamus his little comics about Snape’s greasy hair instead.
In the war, Dean holed up in hollows and friendly attics and Muggle pubs. He drew Umbridge the Toad, noseless Voldy confused by the last dozen plus years of wizardly pop culture, the Ministry of Magic with its fingers stuffed in its stuffy ears.
He drew Snape as Headmaster, his sneer easy after seven years of notebook margin practice. Dean drew the Dark Mark over London’s skyline and he left his work nailed up around Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow. He signed his name. He had things he wanted to say.
There were long days when he didn’t talk to anyone– walking old fields and long roads, sleeping in haystacks. There were long weeks when he only talked to strangers– passersby, shop owners, sympathizers, snatchers who he traded curses with.
He drew the Gryffindor Common Room, hearths all ablaze. He listened to Lee Jordan’s radio show on the crackling airwaves. He drew his little sisters, who had gone to France with his mother and father. He drew faces from the darkened boys’ dormitory– Harry’s long bangs hiding his scar, Neville practicing his dance moves for the Yule Ball, Ron asleep with his head on his thick Weasley sweater, Seamus grinning at him over a three a.m. game of cards.
Seamus had taught him Exploding Snap. Dean had taught him poker, gin rummy, go fish. Dean sketched in Seamus’s eyebrows as curling bits of smoke, laughed, and pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders in the sympathizers’ basement where he was spending the night. There were things he wanted that he could not have.
When the snatchers caught him near Hogsmeade, they took his knapsack. They took his sneakers, his wand, his spare cloak. They burned his notebooks in the hearth of Malfoy Manor before they led him down cold stairs and left him in the dark.
It was a long few months where he saw no sunlight except for a few precious moments where the sun hit the high, angled windows just right.
Ollivander and Griphook were already there in the dark. Luna came later. Blonde hair in a tattered cloud, one earring missing, she thanked the Death Eater for holding the prison door open at her and drifted inside. Dean, for all they would remain friends for the rest of their lives, was never quite sure how much of Luna was just Luna screwing with people.
It was a long few months– Dean got them to give him some paper and pens eventually. Luna made papier-mâché earrings. Ollivander napped six hours a day and they all piled him high with their extra coats and blankets and socks. Dean sat for quiet hours with Griphook, drawing his wife as Griphook grumbled “what an ugly face– so full and smooth. My wife’s a beauty, you better draw her as such.” Dean sketched in a jagged cheekbone, a crooked chin and Griphook almost smiled.
When Dobby got them out, Dean had pages and pages stuffed in his pockets, clenched in his hands. He carried them out with him, into sea air.
Ollivander made them replacement wands with old hands and tools transfigured from driftwood and beach glass. Dean walked out to the water while he worked and watched the waves mumble along the stones.
His sisters were somewhere on safer shores, his mother’s hair all gilded with sun, his father’s spectacles shining. Dean had told them he couldn’t go with them, he couldn’t run.
“They called you Gryffindor,” his sister Ella had said. “Not stupid.” Little Jenny had been crying and so had his father. His mother had packed him a bag full of clean socks. The snatchers had tossed it in a ditch somewhere outside Hogsmeade.
Dean and Luna left Ollivander and Griphook at Shell Cottage and then they went to Hogwarts.
In the years that followed, Dean would draw the war. There were things he didn’t want to forget. There were things he wanted to dredge up from the sludge and splatter down on paper, hoping maybe to keep them from circling his head at night, wanting attention.
He drew the protective dome that rose up over Hogwarts, the candles in the Great Hall, Cho Chang’s face lit up from an Expelliarmus– tried to capture light, tie it down to the page. Dean had killed three people in the war– snatchers, Death Eaters on Hogwarts grounds– and he drew their faces over and over when he couldn’t sleep. He drew Neville’s face (tired, kind), Ginny’s glare, Luna’s gentle, distracted smile.
Dean didn’t draw the first glimpse he’d had of Seamus after the capture, the escape, the night he and Luna set foot on Hogwarts ground. It wasn’t something he could draw. Dean didn’t remember the light on his hair, his cloak sweeping over stone, new muscles, new scars, new inches of height–
Dean remembered standing in the Room of Requirement with old classmates and new students moving around him, both his fists curled tight into the back of Seamus’s robes, both of Seamus’s tight on his arms. He remembered the heartbeat thudding up the column of Seamus’s throat, where Dean’s forehead was pressed close. He remembered not wanting to let go. He remembered letting go.
Dean remembered coming back into the Great Hall after the battle and looking at the dead– at Fred Weasley, whose crackling voice he had heard on so many late cold nights; Nymphadora Tonks, who he just barely remembered from first year; Remus Lupin, who had made him feel smart in class; Lavender Brown, who Dean had danced with at the Yule Ball– but not Seamus. He didn’t see Seamus there. He was sick and guilty with gladness.
Dean didn’t draw the dead, after. Dennis Creevey made a book of his brother Colin’s photos. Dean sat down with a blank page, a good pen, and tried to draw Fred’s grin. There were things here he didn’t want to forget. He scribbled through half-done smirks and tangles of unruly hair he just couldn’t get right. He tossed the botched pages in the fire and, after a long moment staring at his fireplace and seeing the hearth of Malfoy Manor, Dean put his pen away.
After the war, Dean went on camping trips with Luna, watched her look for creatures that might or might not exist. They skewered meatballs and chopped vegetables and roasted them over fires.
After the war, Dean went over to have tea and jam at Griphook’s. He recognized his wife when Griselda Griphook opened the door and grinned up at him. His tattered old sketch was framed and hung in the front hallway. There are some things that survive the dark, that escape into the sea air, that come home.
When Dean went with the Gryffindor gang to go cheer for Ginny Weasley’s Quidditch games, Lee Jordan commentated in the stands, sending George over into fits of laughter, red hair shaking into his eyes. There were days when no one expected an echo of that laugh, when no one flinched at the absence– less and less rare as the years went on. Ginny flew, twisting into tricks that she’d taught herself on her brothers’ stolen brooms. They cheered.
Ollivander’s hands were old. All of him was old. Dean showed up for an unplanned visit one day and found him in the back, gathering up the phoenix feathers his shaking hands had knocked to the floor. Dean helped him gather them up, sat him down, then brushed the plumes out gently and laid them out on the work table. By the time he was done, Dean had a job.
Seamus was trying to learn how to cook and it was going about as well as spellwork ever had for him. “Dean could just draw your eyebrows on,” Ella told him sweetly when he and Seamus visited Dean’s family for dinner.
When Dean came home from Ollivander’s, the whole flat smelled like smoke. The windows were thrown open to let the sunlight and cold air in, so Dean didn’t unwind his scarf.
Seamus sat on the floor by the coffee table, eating Chinese food out of a take-out container with a fork. He looked up, his fingers greasy, his winter coat bundled tight, his shaggy hair gilded with sun.
“Hey,” said Dean. “Stay there,” said Dean and went to find a notebook, digging in his pocket for a pen.
Holy.
Shit.
There’s a wizarding school in Japan! How awesome is that?!
