yknow the more jk rowlings world falls apart in america (race relations, international history, population, etc) the more i like to think that america just straight up doesnt have the statute of secrecy. european countries are falling over themselves hiding magic but come to georgia and theres a drunk redneck wizard wingardium leviosa-ing the shit out of a tractor to the delight of his drunk redneck muggle buddies in a walmart parking lot.
wizard on muggle violence is prevented by virtue of there being like a 50/50 chance that muggle is packing heat. muggle on wizard violence is prevented by knowing that wizard can give you boils spelling LIL BITCH on your forehead if you try to start something.
america is the weird redheaded stepchild of the magic world.
im not gonna stop reblogging this until this is the next Hot Fanon
english muggles come back to england and suspicious wizards meet them at the airport.
‘did you witness any strange or inexplicable acts while you were in america?’ they demand.
the english muggles just laugh in their dumb fucking faces. mate, it’s america.
what’s the difference between a werewolf and an animagus?
english wizard: *two hour lecture on legal history*
american wizard: six beers
@jumpingjacktrash congrats ive read hundreds of comments on this dumpster fire of a headcanon and yours is the best
thank you my patronus is a monster truck
Not gonna lie, I kind of love this. It also explains the hell out of a lot of county fairs.
“How do you fry cola?” a tourist asks, looking askance at the booth promising Deep Fried Coca Cola as well as fried cookie dough balls. “That seems impossible.” They still hand over the dollars for a paper cup full of hot fried balls of cola, dusted with powdered sugar. They are incredibly delicious, the cola somehow still fizzing.
“Family recipe,” Darlene says with a smile, brushing her bangs off her forehead. It’s hot even in September. Her wand is tucked in her belt, beside her giant belt buckle for winning the state barrel racing championships twenty years ago. She has another one at home, for winning the barrel racing championships at the wizard rodeo as well. When her daughter asks whether it is harder to ride horses or magical barrels, Darlene just shrugs.
“The horses definitely bite less than the barrels.”
I vividly remember the scene in like the second movie where the Weasleys were looking at their school supply list and Molly was like “I really don’t know how we’re going to afford it this year” after they had just risked life and limb to rescue Harry and Harry was sitting there eating their food like ¯_(ツ)_/¯
Harry ‘Dickhead’ Potter through a mouth full of Wizardburger Helper “idk…….that’s……wow that sucks i guess lol so i’m thinking about buying this solid gold cauldron what do yall think? a little over the top?”
“oh that’s wild lmao… hey check this out I’m gonna buy all the candy off the cart on the train”
“dude you guys haven’t been able to buy new robes in like 10 years….wow that sucks i guess kek but hey lets go get some butterbeer my treat but fuck you :)”
He was literally 12 years old at this point in time, as well as the fact that he always felt extremely bad about their situation and even tried to pay for things for Ron numerous times, however he knew that Ron was ashamed and prideful over his lack of money.
Not to mention he gave Ginny all of Lockharts Defence Against The Dark Arts books, and gave Fred and George his triwizard winnings in the fourth book.
And if you think, for even a second, that Molly or Arthur Weasley would have ever taken money from him then you don’t know that family at all.
Oh, and when he got all the candy on the train, he was extremely malnourished after being mistreated and abused from living with the dursleys, and made sure that he got enough for himself and Ron, whom he had literally only just met.
a literal child who, only hours prior, was in the process of being starved and abused by his relatives in a room with bars on the windows: *eats food*
a Not Happy thought: the “you look so much like your father"s die off as harry gets older. by the time he’s thirty, he begins to miss it.
Implying both that people who remember James Potter are dead and that James Potter did not get to be old.
Harry Potter ran a hand through his hair, staring at his reflection in the lift doors. Was it him or was it beginning to thin?
Ginny used to tease him about it, when he nervously ran his hands over it out of old habits, saying he’d rub himself bald. She didn’t tease him about it now, though, which might mean it was actually happening.
He sighed; how old his reflection had gotten. The years passed and he knew that well enough, but each reflective surface still came at a bit of a shock.
He remembered the first time he looked in a regular mirror and saw his father staring out. Not approximations of his father, not the oft-comment of “you look just like James” from some adult, but actually looked in the mirror and saw the same man he knew from photographs.
And he remembered when he looked in the mirror and his father was gone and he was back to approximations. Looking like James Potter never had a chance to.
It was a morbid way of counting birthdays. This year I’m older than my father got to be. This year older than Remus and Snape. This year older than Sirius. In a few years he would be older than Alastor Moody.
No one ever said he looked like his father anymore.
The doors opened onto the floor for The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The Department had two settings: chaos when some magical mishap had to be brought in to be dealt with, and silence when everyone was off tackling the mishap in person. Today was the latter but that was fine. It was James’ turn on desk duty, which was the reason he’d come down, brown bags in hand. It was the only time he could ever seem to wrangle his oldest son for lunch.
Only when he got to the desk, a young witch – a child who hardly looked old enough to be at Hogwarts much less to have graduated from it – smiled up at him.
“Mr. Potter! I have a message for you from your son. They had a catastrophe that really needed his expertise so he had to go.”
Harry gave a small smile. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “Just started last month.”
“Ah. First thing you should know is to never believe James Potter, especially when it comes to desk duty. He’ll do anything to get out of desk duty.”
She gave a smile you would give to an elderly relative doling out advice. “I will remember that next time.”
Oh well, if he was playing the role already, might as well commit. “And don’t let him push you around or beg off. He’ll always have a good reason but you’ve earned your field time like anyone else. And since I brought it down, you can have his lunch.”
That got a laugh as she took the bag. “Thank you. You’re welcome to join me…?”
He waved her off. “No, no, I have paperwork to deal with anyway. But thank you.”
He was about to turn back when she spoke.
“Y’know, it’s remarkable. I would’ve known who you were from a mile off.”
Harry raised an indulgent eyebrow. Four decades had dimmed people’s immediate recognition of him as The-Boy-Who-Lived, especially among the younger crowd, but it was hardly an uncommon occurrence. Still, he acted as if he didn’t know what she meant. “Oh?”
“Oh yes. You look so much like James.”
Time seemed to stop after her words. He didn’t breathe or blink, everything paused in a moment of both newness and familiarity.
Then it was done but the weight of his shoulders had eased a little bit and he gave a brief but genuine smile. Then he laughed. “Don’t say that to him; he’d be mortified.”
“I’ll remember that if he tries to put me on desk duty again then,” she teased.
Harry chuckled and waved and got back on the lift. When the doors closed and he saw himself again, he decided it didn’t really matter much if his hair was thinning. He could do with less of it anyway.
this is lovely
That went somewhere far happier than I expected it to go, whew!
It is the year after the Battle of Hogwarts. School is starting again. And the thestrals are confused by all of the attention they are getting.
oh
oh no
you BITCH
WHY IS THIS NOT A THING I’VE CONSIDERED?
No. NO. Sit the fuck down, we’re going to talk about this.
The year after the Battle of Hogwarts. Students nervously climbing into the carriages (no first years, thank god, no one wants to think about that) and eyeing the creatures in front of them. Is this some sort of stunt? Like a memorial?
Hagrid showing the fifth years the thestrals. He wonders if he should, if this is asking too much, but he thinks it would be wrong to keep the truth from them. There are more in the class who can see them than those who can’t.
He wakes to a knock on his door after nightfall. For a second he thinks it’s those three again, but no, that’s not right. He shuffles to the door, holding Fang down behind him, and finds a wide-eyed second year on his doorstep. They came to ask about the horses.
Hagrid isn’t one to turn someone away, so he ushers the child inside and puts the kettle on. He explains they’re not quite horses. They’re gentle creatures, really. Yes, you have to…you have to have seen things to see them, too. But they wouldn’t do anyone harm.
Can he see them? Why, yes, he can, has for the longest time. Ever since his Dad…ever since…
Hagrid stops for a moment, unable to speak. But the child at his table waits patiently, understanding. This is not the first time they have heard someone’s voice catch on the words. It’s reassuring, somehow, hearing an adult share the same problem.
They drink a pot of tea before Hagrid sees the kid back to the school, Fang loping along beside them. It’s reassuring to have these two massive, almost comical forms tromping to the front door. Safe.
Hagrid warns not to go out after dark again. If you want to visit, come along any time in the day.
The next time he opens his door, there are three. Third years, this time. They know a little more, more than they ought to, he thinks. Makes him feel nostalgic.
He sits them down as before and has a long talk. They’re less open, keep glancing at each other as they speak, but he can see they have questions. It’s just a matter of waiting them out.
This goes on for weeks. Hagrid sees a steady stream of students at his door until he’s sure at least half the school has walked across his mat at some point. One day McGonagall approaches him and suggests a change in the curriculum. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to move a few things up on the syllabus? If he’s willing, of course.
Hagrid leads more students into the forest. He sees their faces, eyes wide with fear, as they see the creatures in the light of day. He patiently explains that they’re quiet animals, don’t much like a lot of noise. Easier to manage, certainly. That’s why they pull the school carriages.
He finds taking them once isn’t enough. Students keep asking to see the thestrals. Bewildered, he takes them back again and again, watching as the kids sidle up to stroke the long, black wings. They hold out bits of meat to the sharp beaks and whisper calming words under their breath.
Gradually, the looks of fear subside into something else. More than once he hears someone say these things are all right. Kids show up at his doorstep to ask about what he does and what kinds of animals he’s seen. Someone even says they might like to be a teacher like he is someday.
He doesn’t know what to say to that. His eyes glisten and he makes a sound like a trumpet as he blows his nose. He hears a giggle when he knocks over the umbrella stand with his elbow.
Things have changed, he thinks. He leads children into the forest because they ask, not because they’ve been punished. Students are clambering to get into his classes when it used to be seen as a last resort. People don’t stare up at him with suspicion or fear when he walks the halls these days.
They aren’t afraid of monsters anymore. They fear the people who become them.
holy shit, woman
d u d e
This is beautiful. I hate just a little bit. But, DAMN, this was beautiful.
Beltainefaerie's Flights of Fancy 