I bought the illustrated version just for this portrait. So sad and haunting.

I forget just how abusive the Dursleys were, jesus...

Friendly Reminder

That Dudley Dursley had two bedrooms and the Dursleys still made Harry sleep in the cupboard under the stairs.

Agreed

I 100% believe that Harry was physically abused by his aunt and uncle. Uncle Vernon strangled Harry for just listening to the news in Order of the Phoenix, so who knows what he would have done before he was scared of a bunch of wizards killing him?

(graphic by @hookedonce!)

What if Harry only imagined Hogwarts? What if his scar... wasn’t from Voldemort?

It was winter. Underneath the threadbare spaceship blanket, Harry had rolled himself into the fabric so tightly that only his neck was free to move. He couldn't really see the stars and planets on the print anymore – it had all faded to a homogeneous gray – but he could still imagine rocketing past them as he tried to drift off to sleep. On the wall next to him was the circuit breaker for the entire house, which whirred incessantly and clicked at random times. It gave him the cover of background noise that he needed to talk to himself without the Dursleys listening. There were shelves behind him, too, and Harry regarded their contents as landmarks for his own personal possessions. His khaki trousers lay underneath the dishwasher soap, his gray sweater on top of the screwdriver, his navy shirt held down by the broken TV remote, his underwear and socks tucked behind the box of cleaning rags. He kept his favorite paperbacks under his mattress, flat against the two storage crates. He also had a couple of three-legged model horses, which he had rescued from Dudley's rubbish bin and propped up on the highest shelf. Sometimes he would ask his friend, Alastair, to ride the horses into battle; she wouldn't mind that the horses were injured, of course, because she had plenty of legs to spare. That night, Harry couldn't sleep. He squinted in the flickering light of the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, but he still couldn't make out any words from his copy of James and the Giant Peach. When the lightbulb failed, he was left in total darkness; Uncle Vernon had slammed the little shutters in the door shut before locking him in. He reached overhead for Alastair's silken abode and smiled as her spindly legs pattered down his fingers into his palm. "G'night, Alastair," Harry whispered. "Why are you still awake? I hope you had enough to eat today. I'll try to leave the door open in the morning. That way some bugs might make it inside. I know there haven't been many flies lately." At that moment, sawdust cascaded from the ceiling and Alastair scuttled away into the darkness. Harry sat up with a start just as the door flew open. A dark silhouette was standing in the hallway with a torch in hand, towering over Harry's bed. "Get up," Vernon snarled through his teeth, reaching down to grasp Harry by the collar before tossing him to the opposite wall of the hallway. Harry found a certain comfort in knowing that he hadn't actually done anything wrong, that Vernon didn't need even a triviality to justify the motions of his fist. It had taken Harry a while to figure this out. He landed with a thud on the hardwood floor and scrambled to his feet. "You – " Vernon pointed a pudgy finger at Harry's throat. "You – " "I didn't do it," said Harry, taking a step back toward the kitchen. He resisted the temptation to roll his eyes – he wasn't sure how much Vernon could see with the torch aimed shakily at the ceiling. "Of course you did, boy," Vernon spat. "Who else could it be… just like that wasteman father of yours… a ball of rubbish, you are. At least a crapstained scrap of underwear can be washed – but you are nothing but a parasite in my own house!" Harry shook his head slowly. Creativity was not one of Uncle Vernon's strengths. "Uncle Vernon," Harry said steadily, "It's past midnight. You have work tomorrow." He could smell it now, the sickly-sweet mist of Jack Daniel's wafting toward him. He needed to be extra careful. "Are you disrespecting me?" Uncle Vernon leaned forward until his nose was inches from Harry's. "You know, I could make it a lot worse for you… withhold meals until your stomach rots from the inside… lock you back in the cupboard and tell your school you're ill with the flu… those revolting eyes of yours won't see daylight for another week…"

ok but how fucked up is it that harry potter, when he was caught illegally flying by mcgonagall, initially thought that the ‘wood’ she was looking for was a stick to hit him with

The Eve I Prepared to Sign Up for the Muslim Registry

It’s Christmas Eve 2016. I’m visiting my aunt’s house; I should be looking forward to Pakistani sweet dumplings and halal General Tso’s chicken, but instead I’m trying to ignore the mist of dread clinging like burned syrup to my skin.

I hear my mom talking to my aunt next to the fireplace. They’re chuckling about two YouTube videos they just watched on their laptop: one that involves singing “Supercallousfragileegoextrabraggadocious!”, and another that describes how a pair of controversial male politicians from different countries have entered “a cozy relationship.” They shake their heads at the meaningless folly that has become our nightly entertainment. Then the laughter fades, and their voices drop to a whisper.

“We’re going to have to register, you know,” my aunt nods. Her voice is calm as if she’s speaking of menopause, or the inevitability of empty nest syndrome. My mom nods back and says nothing.

We’re going to have to register, you know.

Those are the last words that run through my mind before I fall asleep that evening, leaning back against the headrest of the shotgun seat as my dad drives my family home.

When I open my eyes, we’re on the right lane on a two-lane freeway, and a cargo truck is on our left. The truck begins to change lanes. On our other side is a steel railing. There’s no shoulder to veer into, no side road to claim as refuge. Sandwiched between two bodies of metal, we watch as the head of the truck aims directly for our left wing mirror. The metal walls between us spark and collide, bending like molten taffy, and

I shut my eyes and scream, and scream, and scream. Then I gasp for breath, and I scream again, until the highest notes have shredded my vocal cords, and my throat burns with the fire that friction has created, the black smoke that consumes all that exists –

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay!”

My dad reaches for my shoulder with his right hand as he continues to drive with his left. Our car continues to drive on a sparsely-populated two-lane freeway, with no trucks in sight. My mom and sister are in the back seat, still leaning their heads against each other, groggy-eyed, safe.

“You just had a bad dream,” my mom says quietly, before drifting back to sleep.

I stay awake for a little while longer, watching the moonlight reflect off the ocean as we drive past. My dad holds my hand until I can breathe again, without my throat burning from every gulp of air.

***

I imagine my little sister standing in front of me, dressed in her ridiculous bumblebee-yellow top, matching hijab, and Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner necklace. She’s at the awkward age in which she could pass as either nineteen or twelve, and she often reaps the advantages of both. In this moment, however, I wish that she was much younger than twelve, so young that she could fill the space between the crook of my elbow and the palm of my hand.

“Sis, what if we do have to register?”

I’ve thought through this scenario multiple times. Each attempt ends with me leaving this lazy limbo between consciousness and dreams, and drifting off into the latter. But this time is different.

“My love for the country of my birth isn’t measured by how I respond when everything is going according to plan, but how much I stand by her side when her values are threatened,” I say. “If I have to register, I’ll stay, and take what I’m given. But I’ll also keep doing what I’ve pledged to do every day of my life. I’ll read to the kids in the chemo infusion room. I’ll walk the hallways of the psych unit and bring ice cream to an anxious grandmother. I’ll squeeze my patient’s hand as his eyes close, and be the first to congratulate him when he walks out of the ICU on his own two feet.”

My sister doesn’t look surprised. “I’m not leaving, either.”

In lieu of holding hands, we take out our wands from our back pockets. Hers is an official replica of Hermione Granger’s wand, with twirling vines carved down the length of the wood; mine is a maple branch I found at a wilderness medicine conference last year. My throat is still raw, so she is the first to speak.

“We are the Order of the Phoenix, and we are not going to fight back,” she says. “We are better than that. We are going to heal back.”

We raise our wands to the sky, and for a moment the tips are blazing with a fire of their own.

“Heal back,” we say together. “Heal back!”

“It’s knowing that I shouldn’t even be complaining about this because the residents have it so much worse.”

This.

Why do I feel this way?

I should probably not feel so burned out right now, but I do.

The days are long on this rotation, sure. But the environment isn’t toxic, the residents are perfectly nice, and the attending is also pleasant. They teach without pimping us or making us feel stupid. I am learning a ton. It’s a third year’s dream.

I think it’s the heaviness of pediatric oncology that has really gotten to me. I think it’s the cumulative effect of the 3 busiest rotations in a row with only a weekend off here and there. Knowing that winter break is so close. It’s missing my family. It’s knowing that I shouldn’t even be complaining about this because the residents have it so much worse. It’s the subjectivity of third year grading and evaluations. It’s the useless busy work we’re made to do. It’s turning down seeing my friends (whom I haven’t seen in weeks) to study because I still don’t even know how to study for clinical shelf exams. It’s coming home after a 14 hour day on 4 hours of sleep knowing that I have to push through some UWorld questions. It’s being angry with myself for not doing all the things I set out to do during third year. It’s loathing Sunday nights more than anything else. It’s knowing all the ways to fight burn out and maintain mental health during medical school, but paradoxically not having the mental energy to do these things.

This post is depressing, whiney/complainy/woe is me, but I created this tumblr in an effort to give people a real picture of what medical school is like. This is what it currently feels like for me. I don’t regret going to medical school. I don’t want to leave medical school. I know that this is only a temporary feeling. It’s just that right now… in this very moment…I feel it. 

Open toilets? That's it, I'm a Ravenclaw.

One night I couldn’t find sleep I realised hogwarts bathrooms were never described (and I was craving onsens because since I discovered them I’m obsessed) and I was thinking onsens would super fit hufflepuffs ! Then I tried to imagine the other houses’ bathrooms … So here it is ! It was a great exercise for me as I never design backgrounds ! (uh tumblr presentation is shitty ;_;)

When people say, “maybe DT will make a good president”

I think, “I haven’t forgotten, Minister...”

How I felt about that surgery shelf exam

Fiddlesticks.

Congrats to all who submitted residency applications today!

Also, it’s my turn in exactly one year. 

*throws up*

How To Be A Good Med Student In The Clinical Years

A doctor once told me that the best instrument we have is medicine is the retrospectoscope.  Basically he was saying that often it is easier to make sense of things when looking back from the vantage point of the future.  This is true of life too.  After being an intern for two months I suddenly understand what things make for a strong med students, and what things do not.  Unfortunately, I feel like I lacked many of the qualities that would have made me a helpful med student.  Though I cannot rectify my own mistakes, perhaps I can pass my advice on to future generations of third and fourth year medical students.  I now present, how to be a good clinical med student:

Show up.  This seems obvious.  When you are there to work, then be there to work.  It is so frustrating when medical students are mysteriously absent all the time (only to be found later in the cafe or cafeteria) or when they are there but totally disinterested in what is going on.  I understand that sometimes as a medical student things get slow - like when the interns are putting in orders and notes or when there is a slow call day.  But at least bring something to read.  Don’t play Pokemon Go.  Don’t spend all day on Uworld.  Make an effort to learn real clinical medicine.

Take initiative to learn.  When I was a third year I would wander the hospital to find learning opportunities.  I made friends with the telemetry nurses and they started a folder of good tele strips to give me each day.  I would go to other teams and see if their patients had good exam findings.  I found the cardiology fellows and asked if they had good patients with murmurs.  There is so much learning that can happen if you are willing to experience it.  Now, referring back to number 1, make sure you always let your residents know where you are.  Personally, I would be ecstatic if my students went to hunt down murmurs rather than playing Pokemon Go. 

Read your patient’s chart.  This can be very helpful and will make you look like a star.  Residents are busy taking admissions and sometimes don’t have the time to hunt down records that are three and four years old.  You can stand out by doing that  Look at a patient’s past hospital notes or their specialty clinic notes.  For example, you might be able to alert the resident that an old echocardiogram demonstrated a below normal ejection fraction, which in turn might change how much fluid the patient is given.  Or perhaps you found that during a hospitalization in the past the patient became delirious and needed a one-to-one sitter.  Find ways to add information in a helpful, non-prescriptive, non-judgmental way.  I guarantee your reviews will benefit.

Read about your patient’s condition.  Even if you just browse Medscape, UpToDate, or some other curated source, make sure you understand the basics of your patient’s primary diagnosis.  If they are there for heart failure, read over the basics of treatment.  If they have autoimmune hepatitis look up some info on diagnosis and prognosis.  These things will get noticed, especially when you ask intelligent questions on rounds.  Do not be like a med student I had who, when asked, reported for 4 straight days that he had not read about his patient’s disease.  He instead responded he was too busy with Uworld so he would get a good shelf score.

See your patients.  I literally had students who, on rounds, tried to present without actually having seen the patient in the morning.  This is a huge no-no.  Get to work early enough to see your patients, review their labs, and their overnight events.  

Practice your presentations.  Even if it is on your own or with other medical students, spend time working on your presentation skills.  Heck, even ask the residents to watch you.  I would be happy to do that for any of my students.  Unfortunately, none have taken me up on that offer and instead bumble through their presentation each day making the same mistakes.  By the end of medical school you need to be able to make a good presentation. 

Spend time working on note writing.  Compare your notes to your residents’, your attendings’, and the specialists’.  Everyone has a different style.  Look at lots of notes to determine a style for yourself.  

Forget all the step 1 stuff you learned.  I find many students perseverate on the terrible stereotypes and patterns they see on step 1.  Not all black people with cough have sarcoidosis.  Not every patient with acute kidney injury needs urine eosinophils.  These are good associations, but realize that step 1 has little overlap with real clinical medicine.  Take those associations with a grain of salt. 

Don’t just look for zebras.  I cannot tell you how many times students opt not to follow a patient because the case “doesn’t seem that interesting.”  The majority of medicine is made up of mundane and common diseases such as heart failure, pneumonia, COPD, cirrhosis, etc.  It is pretty rare to get the exciting cases, like disseminated histoplasmosis or a crazy paraneoplastic syndrome.  A lot of learning can happen on cases that are “bread and butter” medicine.  Make sure you follow those cases too. 

Be gentle to your interns/residents.  The transition from 4th year to being a doctor is swift and brutal.  It is easy to criticize when you aren’t the one taking 5 admits.  Find ways to help your intern/resident, because in return they will help you.  I learned this lesson the hard way my 4th year, when I unintentionally threw an intern under the bus while trying to look smart.  Afterwards she took me aside and reminded me that she controlled much of my fate while I was a student under her.  I learned my lesson and we went on to become very good friends.

The clinical years of medical school are daunting.  You constantly feel like a tap dancing monkey, trying to impress people you barely have time to get to know.  But personally, I am not looking for someone who knows everything about everything.  That’s why you are in school.  The best thing you can get out of third and fourth year is how to do a good history and physical, how to write good notes, and how to triage patients.  The best students are interested, willing to learn, and know their patients well.  If you keep that in mind, the clinical years are much simpler.  I promise, if you follow your patients you will learn much more than just doing qbank questions.   

Best of luck on your clinical rotations.  Don’t make things too complicated.  At the end of the day have fun, treat your patients right, and keep an open mind.  The learning will happen whether you recognize it or not.

Perhaps the most heart-wrenching mentoring scene in the entire Harry Potter series. The pain in Harry's words is something to behold.

The queen of all trollfics

“Harry could barely respond. This was the most beautiful young woman he had ever come across. So different from all the girls in public school; who were focused on trying to be like the career women they saw on The Sex and the City. This little one was the picture of innocence and godliness.” - Hogwarts School of Prayer and Miracles I just died. 😂

Alecto’s hand flew to her wand, and there was a collective gasp from everyone as she held it just inches from Ginny’s face. “It’s only the first day, Professor,” Ginny said quietly through gritted teeth. “What are you going to do to shut me up tomorrow?”

A Call to Arms, by My Dear Professor McGonagall https://m.fanfiction.net/s/8078750/2/

The best way to take a break during a Friday afternoon lecture. If only I could figure out how to smile smartly...

This is fabulously written; the author understands the characters better than Jack Thorne himself!

CURSED CHILD ACT FOUR, SCENE FOURTEEN REWRITTEN To read as text instead, this fic is also available on AO3.

[A/N of sorts: I watched the play during previews, so I’m going off the actor’s characterizations. I think Scorpius could have a little thing for Rose and a much deeper thing for Albus, while Albus is largely oblivious to any feelings he may have. As always, I’m a big fan of ambiguous, hopeful possibility.]