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.)
African American flappers and Jazz Age women
HOLY SHIT I HAVE NEVER SEEN BLACK FLAPPERS BEFORE!
There were many fabulous African American flappers. No wonder - it was African American musicians who put the Jazz in “The Jazz Age”! The Charleston dance iteself, which so epitomizes the era, made its debut in the all-Black musical “Runnin’ Wild”, and no one danced that flapper number better than Josephine Baker…save possibly for fellow Black artist Florence Mills, who claimed credit for inventing it (she said she debuted it in her “Plantation Revue” in the early 20s, developing it from a dance popular among slaves). The Charleston song was written by Black composer James P Johnson. Without women and girls like those above, the 1920s would never have roared.
I think it’s so easy to forget that we, WOC, were there in history too.
The flapper movement was originally started by WOC, and that was part of the reason why it was so scandalous for white women to be flappers at first—because they were dressing and acting line WOC. But of course you’ll never see that in a high school textbook.
I will reblog again for commentary.
Also think about it like this. I am 36 years old. THIRTY SIX and beyond Josephine Baker prior to these images I had never seen Jazz Age WOC.
Let that sink in.
36 years old and it wasn’t necessarily for lack of effort.
a drawing about optimism
I don’t know why but that last line made me laugh really hard
"My body, my choice" only makes sense when someone else’s life isn’t at stake.
Fun fact: If my younger sister was in a car accident and desperately needed a blood transfusion to live, and I was the only person on Earth who could donate blood to save her, and even though donating blood is a relatively easy, safe, and quick procedure no one can force me to give blood. Yes, even to save the life of a fully grown person, it would be ILLEGAL to FORCE me to donate blood if I didn’t want to.
See, we have this concept called “bodily autonomy.” It’s this….cultural notion that a person’s control over their own body is above all important and must not be infringed upon.
Like, we can’t even take LIFE SAVING organs from CORPSES unless the person whose corpse it is gave consent before their death. Even corpses get bodily autonomy.
To tell people that they MUST sacrifice their bodily autonomy for 9 months against their will in an incredibly expensive, invasive, difficult process to save what YOU view as another human life (a debatable claim in the early stages of pregnancy when the VAST majority of abortions are performed) is desperately unethical. You can’t even ask people to sacrifice bodily autonomy to give up organs they aren’t using anymore after they have died.
You’re asking people who can become pregnant to accept less bodily autonomy than we grant to dead bodies.
reblogging for commentary
But, assuming the mother wasn’t raped, the choice to HAVE a baby and risk sacrificing their “bodily autonomy” is a choice that the mother made. YOu don’t have to have sex with someone. Cases of rape aside, it isn’t ethical to say abortion is justified. The unborn baby has rights, too.
First point: Bodily autonomy can be preserved, even if another life is dependent on it. See again the example about the blood donation.
And here’s another point: When you say that “rape is the exception” you betray something FUNDAMENTALLY BROKEN about your own argument.
Because a fetus produced from sexual assault is biologically NO DIFFERENT than a fetus produced from consensual sex. No difference at all.
If one is alive, so is the other. If one is a person, so is the other. If one has a soul, then so does the other. If one is a little blessing that happened for a reason and must be protected, then so is the other.
When you say that “Rape is the exception” what you betray is this: It isn’t about a life. This isn’t about the little soul sitting inside some person’s womb, because if it was you wouldn’t care about HOW it got there, only that it is a little life that needs protecting.
When you say “rape is the exception” what you say is this: You are treating pregnancy as a punishment. You are PUNISHING people who have had CONSENSUAL SEX but don’t want to go through a pregnancy. People who DARED to have consensual sex without the goal of procreation in mind, and this is their “consequence.”
And that is gross.
This has been added to since I last saw it, so reblogging again.
Busted wide open.
someone is going to say “i have to go to the moon” in a bored, defeated tone one day
Frankenstein enters into a body building competition and finds he has seriously misunderstood the objective
Many classic horror icons and other disturbing creatures share common characteristics. Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like. These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.
Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree home, predators could be hiding in the dark, heights could make poor footing lethal, and a spider or snake bite could mean certain death.
The question you have to ask yourself is this:
What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could effect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?
To be honest that last question frightened me more that the picture.
That question is what always catches me and makes me want to reblog this
MY GOD THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE
THE MAGIC BEGINS - Scene you really wanted to be in the movies, but wasn’t.
Nina Simone, during a performance of “Mississippi Goddamn”
They saw the opportunity…and took it.
"The Birth Of Suburbia" by Rosaleen Ryan
I think this might be perfect