One Of The Most Important Things To Me About Harry Potter Is Its Portrayal Of Happiness. In The Harry

I was so good at being a kid, and so terrible at being whatever I was now

John Green Turtles All the Way Down // Taylor Swift “this is me trying” // Fredrik Backman Anxious People // Noah Baumbach Frances Ha // IT commentary // Lynne Rae Perkins Criss Cross // @romantics-and-eternity // Britney Spears “I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman” // Imgur user @manjurtutul // Emily Brontë Wuthering Heights

OH THIS TWEET RLLY HIT ME FRIENDS

‘My vampiric mistress saved me from a life of poverty and destitution, but she made me wait to be turned until I was old enough to take up a trade or go to university. That way I might be taken seriously by the humans which surrounded us, and would have the pick of careers to pursue.

‘Unfortunately, in the six hundred years since, cultural mores have shifted, and now appearing to be fourteen means they won’t even hire me for a weekend shift at the Burger House.’

Why I’m Mad About Eddie

Okay, so, like I said earlier, I’m not mad about the fact that Eddie died, the fact that he died is NOT the source of my anger. I’m mad about the poor storytelling that led to it not even being a good death, after they set it up to be a GREAT death. I’m mad (furious) because I deserve to be heartbroken over his death, I deserve to have bawled my eyes out, I deserve the catharsis of a good character death, not this rage burning in me over the disservices done.

If you’re mad about it but can’t quite place why you’re mad (instead of heartbroken, like we deserve to be, I deserve to be suffering a raw, gaping wound in my chest right now!!!), maybe this will help.

I want to be clear at the start here that the following is not an analysis of Eddie as a person, none of this is going to be treating him as if he were a real person. This is about Eddie as a tool of the plot, as a tool of the writers, as a character within a story being told by people that should be able to do their jobs better. If you see me saying things like “Eddie did X” or “Eddie thought X” the intent is not that Eddie, the person, performed these actions, but rather that the writers wrote him as performing these actions.

So with that, let’s proceed.

The core of my problem with Eddie’s death is that the manner in which he died is trying to sell us the opposite message to what the narration showed us to that point. The way the death is set up, the writers are trying to sell us on the message “Eddie is a coward that becomes a hero when he stops running away.” Unfortunately for the writers, that’s NOT what the rest of the narration has shown us, so that message ends up feeling empty.

So let’s look at that. When does Eddie run away?

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29.3.23 Guadalajara, México

Credit: Julio del Toro Calvario

just had the shocking revelation that people splicing together screenshots of various real movies that clearly do not go together to produce goncharov gifsets is going back to 2012 tumblr at its peak. this is superwholock edits. this is rise of the brave tangled dragons. and most accurately and importantly this is frankenstein’s monster-ing gifs of karen gillan and ben barnes and whoever else it was to create a meandering epic of a visual format fanfiction for the marauders off harry potter

Social distancing according to Alex Ryan: imagine Andrew sideways and point him at people

the well known Harry Potter cycle

Step 1: thinking Snape is a bad guy

Step 2: thinking Snape is a good guy

Step 3: realising as you mature as a person that Snape was actually a terrible person after all and was an abusive bully who didn’t grown out of this stage even into his late 30s and an obsessive person who thought he was entitled to Lily just because she showed him friendship and no matter how many bias memories of his you are shown you will never see him in any different way 

unfortunately some people are still stuck in stage 2

How do you live up to this, you ask yourselves. How do you live up to the legend? How do you follow in your own footsteps, now much too large to fill? How do you come home when your home has lived a hundred lifetimes without you?

They look at you and see not your bodies (school child-child-too small-too fragile), but a landscape full of life and long-gone peace. They see victory, glory, a battle easily won and a gracious rule. They see salvation, legend, a golden age. 

They don’t see the scars, the unyielding prison, the shake of your breaths and the purple-bruise map of all fights and failures you come with. They don’t see the steel, the gnarled roots, the ugly mess inside your chests.

They don’t see children, and did you not wish that? Did you not wish for them to see you as you are meant to be? Why then do their eyes that see royalty without hesitation feel like chains? Why do your shoulders droop under the weight of their eager gaze?

Perhaps it is because they don’t see you as you were then. They see legends, mythology, saviours upon a pedestal of shining light, a throne they paint golden when it should be red and blue for every wound it gave you. They see idols, statues, carvings on stone walls, paintings within historical tomes. And that is not what you are, standing among them in clothes that used to fit better in another life and with promises that slide across your tongue like tar. That is not what you are.

You are claws and teeth and unsung roars. You are tear-stained screams and bloodied hands and crowns too heavy for anyone but you to bear. You are cracked marble, crumbling stone, unworked metal, burning wood. You are beautiful, regal, a coming storm, but you are not what their eyes tell them they see.

And how does one even begin to tell these desperate souls that their salvation will not be golden? That glory is not so easily achieved? That you did not sit upon your throne with clean robes and regal smiles when you became rulers of a kingdom, but stood upon a cliff in bloodied armour and torn skin and swore oaths unknown to the creatures that now call you saviours? 

So how do you tell them that you are not what they make you out to be? You don’t. You swallow down the words like molten rock and choke on that truth. They cannot help seeing the fairytales you have become in a land that hasn’t known you for a millennium. You aid them as they ask you to, and pray their dreams won’t cut them when they shatter underneath your feet.