that-one-huffelpuff
Autumn Black
At this point, it's just me and my books.
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in the next batman movie selina is back in town to con bruce wayne which he knows but he missed her so much and obviously he can afford it so he just lets her
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literally if you’re new to tumblr: reblog shit
“it wont fit my aesthetic” make a sideblog. reblog to it.
“i hate tagging” don’t tag then. reblog it anyway.
“but my likes are public” ppl here dont fucking look at your likes. they dont do anything anyway. reblog it.
“you just want attention” jokes on you, I dont make shit anymore. I’m talking about other artists.
“it’s embarrassing” tumblr is an anonymous platform. make a sideblog if you’re too cowardly
“but on twitter its fine to have lurk accounts” well they suck ass here and are assumed to be bots. reblog.
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I Didn’t Think I Shipped It But The Fic Writers for This Ship Really Brought Their A Game: a memoir.
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Guys do centaurs have to eat both horse food and human food?
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Lost and Found
A/N: Hermione turns 40 today - so I wrote fic about it ☺️ Thanks to @aloemilk for giving it her magic touch.
Summary: Two birthdays, thirty years apart.
Word Count: 3,404
Rating: K+, just for the verrrry brief implication that two married adults might be about to have some sexytimes (scandalous!) 😜
FFN | AO3
***
September, 1989
Hermione walked slowly through the rows of desks, her patent-leather saddle shoes ringing out against the linoleum floor. The stack of delicate, pale pink envelopes in her arms was so tall that she could hardly see over it, but with each desk she passed, it grew gradually smaller, and soon she could hold them all easily in her hands.
Few faces looked her way as she passed. One boy, Marcus Abernathy, picked up the envelope in his pudgy hands with a look of curiosity mixed with disdain.
“What’s this?” He ripped recklessly through the flap of the envelope, even though Hermione’s mum had told her not to bother with sealing them properly, with the glue, since they weren’t going into the post.
“It’s an invitation to my birthday party,” said Hermione, feeling her cheeks go pink as Marcus stared at her, his expression blank. “It’s on Saturday, the sixteenth of September - well, my actual birthday is on the nineteenth, but since I’ll be ten, my parents said I could invite everyone in the class-“
“Oh.”
Marcus shoved the invite, pink envelope and all, into his rucksack; the paper caught on the zipper and tore. Without another glance at Hermione, he spun in his seat and started a conversation with Henry Grant.
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I wish I knew the exact time and date that harry told snape ‘there’s no need to call me sir professor’ so that I could take a moment of silence to remember the moment each year
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Tell me this wasn’t how The Lost Hero started
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My stage career began when I was a little under two months old, when I took the spotlight as Baby Jesus in a Christmas pageant. I’m told that I did a wonderful job and slept calmly through the whole thing, which can only speak to my talents as an actress, because I was 1. the wrong gender 2. a colicky screaming demon of a baby and 3. about as far from divine as it’s possible for an allegedly-human child to be.
I continued to be actively involved in theater as a kid (and frequently played roles of various small animals, because I was tiny for my age). Around the age of ten, I was cast as the lead character in a musical about cowboys that I no longer remember the name of. It was my first real lead role, and I took it very, very seriously. And because I am myself, that means I maaaaybe went…a little overboard.
My character’s introduction was early in the play, accompanied by the crack of a bullwhip. This was more-or-less pre internet (or, at least, our director was not tech-savvy enough to find sound effects online) and we didn’t have a sound effect track for that noise. There were plans to acquire the appropriate sound effect before opening night, but I rapidly tired of making my entrance during rehearsals to the sound of someone yelling “BULLWHIP NOISE!”
This, I thought to myself, is a problem I can solve.
I learned early in life that it’s good to be friends with people who have skills; they always come in handy eventually. After rehearsals one day, I put on my cowboy boots and biked a couple miles over to my friend Grace’s house. I went down to their basement and knocked on her older brother’s door.
“Hello,” I said. “I need to learn how to use a bullwhip.”
“….Okay,” he said. It did not seem to occur to him that he might ask further questions about why I, a tiny horrible munchkin composed exclusively of rage and pointy elbows, needed to be weaponized any further. Clearly, I had come to the right person.
My friend’s older brother would have been an SCA nerd, if SCA was a thing where we were. Instead, he was one of those unsupervised 4H kids with weird hobbies, largely oriented around ancient forms of combat. He was somewhere in his late teens at this time, and he liked to make stuff. It was an urge I, even at age ten, could sympathize with. His name was Aron.
Aron got out his bullwhip (which I had noticed hanging on his wall on a prior visit, and had filed away mentally under a for future use tab) and we went to the backyard.
“Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron began, “Swinging the bullwhip.”
We rapidly discovered that since I was god’s tiniest, angriest creation, a full-size bullwhip was way too long for me to use. Aron’s shins suffered for my attempt.
“…Step one of using a bullwhip,” Aron said, “Making a bullwhip.”
So we went back inside, found a tanned cowhide (that he just…had? I don’t remember if there was a reason for this.) and some razor blades, and I learned how to cut and braid a bullwhip. It took a few tries, and I wound up coming back for a while, because I kept getting frustrated with the bullwhip-braiding process and Aron kept distracting me with bait like: “Hey kid, wanna learn to make some chainmail?” and “Hey kid, wanna fletch some arrows?” and “Hey kid, wanna try doing horseback archery?”
Obviously the answer to these questions was “BOY, WOULD I EVER!” Some delays are necessary to the artistic process.
(At one point my mom asked me “Hellen, what are you doing over at Grace’s house all the time?” And I, perfectly innocent, said, “Making weapons!” and my mother, who never understood why I was like this, but accepted that a girl has needs and those needs occasionally involve stocking a personal armory, said “Okay! Have fun!”)
Soon, the bullwhip, size extra small, was finished. The lessons on actual bullwhip use commenced.
It should be noted that Aron was self-taught, and really had no idea what to do, so this was mostly an exercise in the two of us standing twenty feet apart and flailing wildly with our respective whips until snapping noises happened. And then we figured out what we’d done to make the snapping noises. And then we kept doing that. Extremely vigorously. So vigorously that at one point one of the bullwhips launched into the air and caught on a tree branch and we hand to drag the trampoline over so Aron could bounce me high enough to grab it. But we persisted!
Eventually we reached a point where we could line up pop cans on a fence rail and hit them off three times out of five.
Feeling extremely accomplished and like I finally understood method acting, I packed my bullwhip into my backpack for the next play rehearsal. Soon enough, it was time for me to make my entrance.
I leaped on stage in my cowboy boots and cracked the bullwhip as hard as I could, immediately launching into the song despite the fact that the sound of five feet of braided leather breaking sound barrier had startled the accompanist so badly she’d keysmashed on the piano.
The director shouted something she probably shouldn’t have shouted in a room full of small children, and then demanded, “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT!”
“I made it!” I declared proudly. “I’m a cowgirl! I can make my own bullwhip noise!”
“You…made it?”
“Yes! Because we needed a bullwhip sound effect. And bullwhips are where bullwhip sound effects come from!”
This was, of course, impeccable logic.
It is apparently difficult to argue with a gleeful ten year old who happens to be armed with a bullwhip longer than she is tall. After some negotiation, the director agreed that I could use my bullwhip for my opening song, provided that I didn’t pop it while anyone was anywhere near me on stage and I didn’t let anyone else play with it. These terms were acceptable to me.
Somehow, no one was injured and the play went off without a hitch. We can only chalk up these things to the magic of the theatre.
Nearly a decade later, an unsuspecting college classmate asked me, “Hellen, wanna take a class on bullwhip combat with me?”
And obviously I answered, “BOY, WOULD I EVER!”
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Alice Lee Roosevelt Longworth, daughter of Theodore Roosevelt, was known for smoking in public, swearing at officials, riding in cars with men, late-night partying, and owning a pet snake during an era where women were expected to conform.
When an offended dignitary asked the president if he could control his daughter, he replied, “I can do one of two things. I can be President of the United States or I can control Alice. I cannot possibly do both.”
(Source, Source 2)
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As a certified fan of 2000s pop punk, I can most definitely vouch for the accuracy of this review.
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