dontyouforgetaboutm
tin-d0g:

spoken-not-written:

oopsphan:

darlinghogwarts:

In the books, Hermione’s boggart is failing her classes. Her greatest fear is failing her classes.
However, it goes a lot deeper than that. Subconsciously, I think she believes that if she does not do well and if she fails, they’ll kick her out of Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. So her real fear isn’t failing.
At Hogwarts, she has two wonderful friends who love her, and she is getting to live in an incredible world. She doesn’t want to lose that, and she thinks that if she does bad in her classes, they won’t let her come back.
Her real fear is rejection and loss.

so what if…
when in the philosophers stone her line “we could be killed, or worse.. expelled” wasn’t her being snooty or a teachers pet..
but her saying that she would rather die than stop going to hogwarts and never see her friends again?

why

This is also why she’s always helping Harry and Ron and even going so far as to do their homework for them at times because if they fail they’ll get kicked out too and that would mean loosing them as well.

tin-d0g:

spoken-not-written:

oopsphan:

darlinghogwarts:

In the books, Hermione’s boggart is failing her classes. Her greatest fear is failing her classes.

However, it goes a lot deeper than that. Subconsciously, I think she believes that if she does not do well and if she fails, they’ll kick her out of Hogwarts and the Wizarding World. So her real fear isn’t failing.

At Hogwarts, she has two wonderful friends who love her, and she is getting to live in an incredible world. She doesn’t want to lose that, and she thinks that if she does bad in her classes, they won’t let her come back.

Her real fear is rejection and loss.

so what if…

when in the philosophers stone her line “we could be killed, or worse.. expelled” wasn’t her being snooty or a teachers pet..

but her saying that she would rather die than stop going to hogwarts and never see her friends again?

why

This is also why she’s always helping Harry and Ron and even going so far as to do their homework for them at times because if they fail they’ll get kicked out too and that would mean loosing them as well.

cozcat
More worrisome is that the TV series has actually never established that Dorne follows equal primogeniture, unlike the rest of the continent. In stray mentions throughout Season 4, when the TV series could have introduced that women have an equal chance of inheriting lordships in Dorne, they avoided it. A “Lord Blackmont” appeared in the Season 4 premiere, when in the books House Blackmont is ruled by a woman. When Oberyn recounts to Tyrion how he traveled to Casterly Rock when Tyrion was a baby, he says that his father took him on the trip - while in the books, it was his mother, the Ruling Princess of Dorne. Indeed, Dorne’s equal primogeniture laws are one of its most prominent cultural features, setting it apart from the rest of the continent - as well as directly tying into Myrcella Baratheon’s major subplot in Dorne, as Arianne hopes to press the token excuse that under Dornish law, Myrcella would inherit the Iron Throne ahead of her brother Tommen.
From Trystane Martell, Game of Thrones Wikipedia (via white-tea-and-lightning)
sendrickkissed

Anonymous asked:

One of the saddest and most hil- NO BITCH, the sad thing here is the fact that you're a stripper. If you want respect, maybe you should've graduated high school. 😂😂 when did stripping become a legitimate career?

stripperina answered:

Awww, you tried so hard, but unfortunately I can’t hear you over the sound of my debt-free college degree and massive disposable income.

image

dontyouforgetaboutm
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.)