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fantasticallyficticious:

livesandliesofwizards:

At twilight on August the 25th 1999, one week before classes were to begin, Hermione Granger Apparated into Hogsmeade, a wand box clutched under her arm.
Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for her outside the Three Broomsticks. The two women greeted each other warmly, and then set off towards the castle. Or rather, towards the grounds outside the castle.
They chatted amiably as they strolled towards the groundskeeper’s hut.  Hagrid, sitting outside and darning a pair of enormous socks, looked up as they approached.
“Good evenin’ Headmistress, Hermione,” he said with some gruff surprise.
“Good evening, Hagrid,” replied McGonagall. “May we go inside?  I believe Hermione has a proposition to discuss with you.”
If you had stood outside the hut as the evening darkened and the stars rose into the sky, you’d have heard the rumblings of an argument coming from inside the hut. You’d have heard Hagrid’s gruff refusals, Hermione’s calm (and then not so calm) rebuttals, and the very occasional interjection of the Headmistress.
Hermione did not emerge until the moon had fully risen and darkness enveloped the grounds. But in the light of the nearly full moon, you could see a smile on her face.
~
The Shrieking Shack was no longer widely believed to be haunted, now that the story of Remus Lupin was fully known.  Still, the residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts avoided it out of a mixture of respect and residual fear.
This suited Hermione perfectly. The interior of the Shack was now stacked with books and bottles of potion ingredients. A cauldron sat in the corner, a telescope pointed out a cracked window, and cushions lined one wall. A table was covered in parchment, broken quills, ink pots and stains. Once a week, Hermione would apparate into the Shack and go over her notes from the previous session while she awaited her student’s arrival.
Sometimes he was late without explanation. Sometimes he would bring a wounded bowtruckle he wasn’t comfortable leaving on its own.  Sometimes Fang would follow him and sit in the corner whining while his master sweated and cursed over a cauldron. Hermione was calm but firm, making adjustments as needed and letting Hagrid’s frustrated words roll off her back like water droplets. 
The Hogsmeade residents may have turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Shrieking Shack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t relieved as time went on and there were fewer and fewer roars of anger echoing through the village.
~
The OWL testers had been warned in advance that they would have an unusual student that year. That didn’t mean they weren’t taken aback when Rubeus Hagrid appeared on their testing scrolls. They all knew of him of course, knew the role he played in the Second War and of the false accusations leveled against him.
They were worried they would have to be kind.
They needn’t have. No one could have Hermione Granger teach them personally for a year and not improve in all aspects. His potions may not have been textbook perfection, he may not have fully transfigured his toad, but Hagrid had clearly worked hard to master his long dormant abilities.
Rubeus Hagrid may not have followed the traditional path to wisdom.  But he had a new wand, the (sometimes grudging) respect of his peers, classes to teach and 6 OWLs.
Including the highest score ever recorded on Care of Magical Creatures.
(written and submitted by ppyajunebug; please excuse me, because I have something in my eye. Oh yes, it is my joyful tears. ppyajunebug has a way of bringing those out of me, you see. Their submissions tackle some of the saddest moments in canon, turning them around and making something beautiful out of them.)

THIS WAS SO STINKIN CUTE EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS

fantasticallyficticious:

livesandliesofwizards:

At twilight on August the 25th 1999, one week before classes were to begin, Hermione Granger Apparated into Hogsmeade, a wand box clutched under her arm.

Headmistress McGonagall was waiting for her outside the Three Broomsticks. The two women greeted each other warmly, and then set off towards the castle. Or rather, towards the grounds outside the castle.

They chatted amiably as they strolled towards the groundskeeper’s hut.  Hagrid, sitting outside and darning a pair of enormous socks, looked up as they approached.

“Good evenin’ Headmistress, Hermione,” he said with some gruff surprise.

“Good evening, Hagrid,” replied McGonagall. “May we go inside?  I believe Hermione has a proposition to discuss with you.”

If you had stood outside the hut as the evening darkened and the stars rose into the sky, you’d have heard the rumblings of an argument coming from inside the hut. You’d have heard Hagrid’s gruff refusals, Hermione’s calm (and then not so calm) rebuttals, and the very occasional interjection of the Headmistress.

Hermione did not emerge until the moon had fully risen and darkness enveloped the grounds. But in the light of the nearly full moon, you could see a smile on her face.

~

The Shrieking Shack was no longer widely believed to be haunted, now that the story of Remus Lupin was fully known.  Still, the residents of Hogsmeade and Hogwarts avoided it out of a mixture of respect and residual fear.

This suited Hermione perfectly. The interior of the Shack was now stacked with books and bottles of potion ingredients. A cauldron sat in the corner, a telescope pointed out a cracked window, and cushions lined one wall. A table was covered in parchment, broken quills, ink pots and stains. Once a week, Hermione would apparate into the Shack and go over her notes from the previous session while she awaited her student’s arrival.

Sometimes he was late without explanation. Sometimes he would bring a wounded bowtruckle he wasn’t comfortable leaving on its own.  Sometimes Fang would follow him and sit in the corner whining while his master sweated and cursed over a cauldron. Hermione was calm but firm, making adjustments as needed and letting Hagrid’s frustrated words roll off her back like water droplets. 

The Hogsmeade residents may have turned a blind eye to the goings-on in the Shrieking Shack, but that didn’t mean they weren’t relieved as time went on and there were fewer and fewer roars of anger echoing through the village.

~

The OWL testers had been warned in advance that they would have an unusual student that year. That didn’t mean they weren’t taken aback when Rubeus Hagrid appeared on their testing scrolls. They all knew of him of course, knew the role he played in the Second War and of the false accusations leveled against him.

They were worried they would have to be kind.

They needn’t have. No one could have Hermione Granger teach them personally for a year and not improve in all aspects. His potions may not have been textbook perfection, he may not have fully transfigured his toad, but Hagrid had clearly worked hard to master his long dormant abilities.

Rubeus Hagrid may not have followed the traditional path to wisdom.  But he had a new wand, the (sometimes grudging) respect of his peers, classes to teach and 6 OWLs.

Including the highest score ever recorded on Care of Magical Creatures.

(written and submitted by ppyajunebug; please excuse me, because I have something in my eye. Oh yes, it is my joyful tears. ppyajunebug has a way of bringing those out of me, you see. Their submissions tackle some of the saddest moments in canon, turning them around and making something beautiful out of them.)

THIS WAS SO STINKIN CUTE EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND READ THIS

(via clocktopuses)

Quote
"My mother used to say to me, ‘You can’t eat beauty, it doesn’t feed you.’ And these words played and bothered me, I didn’t really understand them until finally I realized that beauty was not a thing that I could acquire or consume. It was something that I just had to be. And what my mother meant by saying that you can’t eat beauty is that you can’t rely on beauty to sustain you. What actually sustains us, what is fundamentally beautiful is compassion for yourself and those around you. That kind of beauty inflames the heart and enchants the soul."

— Lupita Nyong’o  (via fawun)

(Source: voguememoirs, via allaindelon)

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agentsofshield:

Team Bus + glasses

We raise our glasses!

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note-a-bear:

human-and-a-dancer:

it’s a puff ball with other puffballs for feetzies

NOOOOOOOOO

note-a-bear:

human-and-a-dancer:

it’s a puff ball with other puffballs for feetzies

NOOOOOOOOO

(via stop-thinking-its-annoying)

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enerjax:

Benedict making another dream come true: “Finally I can photobomb myself!” [x]

enerjax:

Benedict making another dream come true: “Finally I can photobomb myself!” [x]

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hadlais:

blatherversity:


[x]

Sea Slicks
Whenever there is an oil spill in the world’s oceans, a sea slick is “born”. Countless animals lose their lives to the thick, clinging clutches of oil, dying miserable, wretchedly drawn-out deaths. Sea slicks are born of the lost souls of those animals and the sludge that bound and choked the life from them. As such, sea slicks are always referred to as “they” and “them” rather than “it”, and it’s said that if you chance upon a sea slick near the surface, their soft, melancholy vocalisations carry the haunting remnants of sea birds and the whispers of shoals of fish.
Despite their fearsome appearances, they are very much docile creatures, preferring to near-constantly swim through the depths and the quiet of the sea they were robbed from. Sea slicks are amortal, being unable to die, as they were never truly what we would call “alive” to begin with. Over time, however, sea slicks do disintegrate, usually over the span of several years, losing pieces of semi-sentient oil to the surface waters.
Ambitious wixes track sea slicks to gather these pieces, as they make especially valuable, durable invisibility cloaks capable of protecting wearers from even the deadliest of spells.

I love this! Modern, industrial fantasy creatures. Wow, so cool!

hadlais:

blatherversity:

[x]

Sea Slicks

Whenever there is an oil spill in the world’s oceans, a sea slick is “born”. Countless animals lose their lives to the thick, clinging clutches of oil, dying miserable, wretchedly drawn-out deaths. Sea slicks are born of the lost souls of those animals and the sludge that bound and choked the life from them. As such, sea slicks are always referred to as “they” and “them” rather than “it”, and it’s said that if you chance upon a sea slick near the surface, their soft, melancholy vocalisations carry the haunting remnants of sea birds and the whispers of shoals of fish.

Despite their fearsome appearances, they are very much docile creatures, preferring to near-constantly swim through the depths and the quiet of the sea they were robbed from. Sea slicks are amortal, being unable to die, as they were never truly what we would call “alive” to begin with. Over time, however, sea slicks do disintegrate, usually over the span of several years, losing pieces of semi-sentient oil to the surface waters.

Ambitious wixes track sea slicks to gather these pieces, as they make especially valuable, durable invisibility cloaks capable of protecting wearers from even the deadliest of spells.

I love this! Modern, industrial fantasy creatures. Wow, so cool!

(via stop-thinking-its-annoying)

Tags: modern myths
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his-only-pressurepoint:

THE IMITATION GAME

(via coffinholmes)

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the-goddamazon:

basicallyfrench:

letsflytoparis:

247muslima:

THIS

WHERE IS THIS FROM ?

It’s from “la source des femmes”

IT’S TRUE.

THERE IS NOTHING IN THE QU’RAN THAT SAYS WOMEN’S SOLE PURPOSE IS FOR OBEYING AND PROCREATING.

We are allowed to inherit and own property and businesses, and we are allowed to CHOOSE our husbands instead of having them foisted upon us in arranged marriages. WE ARE ALSO ALLOWED TO PARTICIPATE IN COMBAT.

I’ve read the Qu’ran COVER TO COVER and there’s nothing God says about women being LESS than men. In fact, God IMPLORES men to treat women as equals. Probably because God knew men have a tendency to foul things up and has to remind them that WOMEN ARE ALSO PRECIOUS CREATIONS OF HIS DIVINE WILL.

-huffs and puffs-

Sorry. I was in my feelings. But this touches my nerves a lot when people misinterpret Islam as some misogynistic religion. Nothing could be further from the truth.

(Source: qawiya, via ookamisha)