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fizzylimon:

thepioden:

inexorablyacademic:

sodomymcscurvylegs:

cameralinz:

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?” The whisper was barely audible; her lips were an inch from his ear, her head bent so low that her long hair shielded his face from the onlookers. “Yes,” he breathed back. He felt the hand on his chest contract; her nails pierced him. Then it was withdrawn. She had sat up. “He is dead!” Narcissa Malfoy called to the watchers.

In the end, Voldemort’s fate twice came down to the choice of a woman, a mother.

Rock ‘n roll.

Harry Potter as a series repeatedly tells us never to underestimate a mother’s love. Lilly’s love for Harry nearly killed Voldemort the first time, Narcissa’s love for Draco set him up for his real death, and Voldemort’s greatest general was killed by Molly, a mother who loved all of her children and feared losing any more to the magical war.

Bitches. Get. Stuff. Done.

   (via)

If you asked me to pick my favorite Harry Potter character, I would have a hard time picking between Luna Lovegood and Narcissa Malfoy. 

But like okay, regarding the above, Harry Potter is the heir to the Blacks, to her family, it starts off kind of politically and she has to make sure he doesn’t ruin anything or throw away any other important heirlooms and then they become buddies and Harry is babysitting Teddy one day and Narcissa is kinda punched in the heart with the realization that yes, this is her baby grand-nephew and she eventually reconciles with Andromeda and then I have a lot of Black Family Feelings.

Alternately, AU in which Narcissa Malfoy and Molly Weasley team up and together they Fight Crime As Badass Moms. 

Posts like this make me appreciate fanfic in ways I probably wouldn’t were it not for tumblr. I’m not about to dive into fanfic or anything, but like those are legitimately cool ideas and I’m genuinely pleased that there are people out there who are so excited to think them.

Seriously, man, just retire.

danieljlayton:

collegehumor:

This HR dept doesn’t negotiate with Terrorists.

Finish reading This Is The Most Passive-Agressive Office Note Battle We’ve Ever Seen

The ending is worth clicking for.

badlitmakestheworldgoround:

so it’s hotter than satan’s butthole and i’m sitting on the rooftop with cheap sangria and my regrets, blasting veggie tales songs because at some point my life went very wrong, and all of a sudden i’m thinking; hey, remember the tons of badlit you downloaded and never actually got around to reading because being a teacher is actually a terrible job that drains the life out of you? 

image

well, here we go

Businessman Paul is on a beachside vacation to unwind and enjoy the sun, the sand and the surf - sometimes from below the waves. While scuba diving, he encounters a trio of cuttlefish that turn out to be much more than they seem: they’re shapeshifters, and they want Paul for their own! Warning: 18+ only! Contains partial shifting, hot gay sex, and a cuttlefish shifter gangbang!

sure why not   

Read More

ask-asuma:

itsstuckyinmyhead:

Proof that tumblr is filled with psychopaths

(In the best way)

Welcome to the land of psychopaths and fandoms.

itsstuckyinmyhead:

British Tumblr Posts photoset #2

Want to see more country Photosets?

American Photoset #1 

Canadian Photoset #3

Monday, August 18, 2014
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.)

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.)

owlmylove:

the gradual domination of the Welcome to Night Vale fandom, part 1

I hate to spoil it,

but the end of every biography is death. The end of a city
in the rainforest is a legend and a lost expedition. The end

of mythology is forgetfulness, placing gifts in the hole
where the worshipped tree should be. But my memory

lengthens with each ending.
Traci Brimhall, “Rapture: Lucus” (via literarymiscellany)
Forget stardust—you are iron. Your blood is nothing but ferrous liquid. When you bleed, you reek of rust. It is iron that fills your heart and sits in your veins. And what is iron, really, unless it’s forged? You are iron. And you are strong.

n.t. (via thelittle-hobbit)

Damn right you’re iron, and do you know where iron comes from? Do you know how iron gets here? Let me tell you.

It does start with a star, but it’s not some dismal castoff from an eternal beauty, it’s so much more. Everything that makes our world came from stars, but nothing had as much effect on that star as iron.

See the sun burning in the sky? The light you see and the heat you feel are created when the sun fuses elements, the building blocks of our world, into new and heavier elements. The sun lives because more energy comes from that process than is needed to support it.

UNTIL IRON COMES ALONG.

Fusing iron — burning it to make a star shine — is nigh on impossible. Iron is strong and iron is heavy. Iron is so strong and so heavy that to make new elements from iron takes more energy than it produces. The star can’t keep up, it starts to die.

The iron that flows through your veins KILLED A STAR.

Those other metals that we so value, like gold, owe their existence to iron. As the star died it collapsed, crushing itself and making gold and platinum and other precious and powerful things. Then it exploded and scattered those metals throughout space.

Chief among them was iron. The iron whose formation was the death knell of the star. The iron whose intensity made other metals possible. The iron that was the last thing the living star could make.

Stars lived to make iron.

Stars died to make you.

(via noctumsolis)

gallifrey-feels:

knitmeapony:

dreaminpng:

allonnziii:

kellanium:

#probably the best explanation of a device in the tv history

This is literally my fourth or fifth time reblogging this.

It’s still hillarious.

One of my favorite lines

I kinda feel like the writers wrote this line specifically to drive the kind of fans who want to figure out how sci-fi tech would theoretically work crazy. They’re like “nope! We’re not going to give you any techno babble to tear apart or investigate or mull over to tell us how we’re doing it wrong, or how it compares in effectiveness to similar tech in other franchises.”

I also feel like this is one of those times when the TARDIS’s translation circuit just gave the fuck up. Like the ‘physics physics physics’ scene, where he is imparting secrets of the universe and the TARDIS is like THERE ARE NO WORDS FOR THIS IN ENGLISH DAMN IT DOCTOR OH HELL FUCK IT.

OH MY GODS she TOTALLY edits his speech. I be he actually swears a fuckton but the TARDIS is like THERE ARE CHILDREN

songofages:

sizvideos:

Watch it in video

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Wait wait….people seriously don’t spoon out the kiwi fruits delicious goodness? I didn’t know there was any other way to eat them?

thebeautyofmoonlight:

spookynyan:

consultingpsychopaths:

that’s the spirit

OH MY FUCKING GOD DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST FUCKING SAID? DO YOU REALIZE HOW AMAZING THAT PUN WAS? THATS THE SPIRIT???!?!?! THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT YOU DICKSUCKING FUCKBUCKET THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT. THAT IS ALCOHOL. NAY, NOT SIMPLY ALCOHOL. IT IS A SPIRIT. YOU ARE LITERALLY LOOKING AT THE BOTTLE OF BOOZE HE IS DRINKING, AND YOU ARE POINTING OUT THATS THE SPIRIT WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY APPLAUDING HIM FOR DRINKING DURING GRADUATION BY SAYING THATS THE SPIRIT. YOU MY GOOD SIR HAVE SUCCEEDED TODAY. YOU HAVE SUCCEEDED IN MAKING ME PHYSICALLY BOW TOWARDS YOUR GREATNESS.THATS THE SPIRIT.THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT. 

That is the best reaction to a pun I have ever seen

thebeautyofmoonlight:

spookynyan:

consultingpsychopaths:

that’s the spirit

OH MY FUCKING GOD DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST FUCKING SAID? DO YOU REALIZE HOW AMAZING THAT PUN WAS? THATS THE SPIRIT???!?!?! THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT YOU DICKSUCKING FUCKBUCKET THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT. THAT IS ALCOHOL. NAY, NOT SIMPLY ALCOHOL. IT IS A SPIRIT. YOU ARE LITERALLY LOOKING AT THE BOTTLE OF BOOZE HE IS DRINKING, AND YOU ARE POINTING OUT THATS THE SPIRIT WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY APPLAUDING HIM FOR DRINKING DURING GRADUATION BY SAYING THATS THE SPIRIT. YOU MY GOOD SIR HAVE SUCCEEDED TODAY. YOU HAVE SUCCEEDED IN MAKING ME PHYSICALLY BOW TOWARDS YOUR GREATNESS.

THATS THE SPIRIT.

THAT IS THE FUCKING SPIRIT. 

That is the best reaction to a pun I have ever seen