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h e l l o

@araniaexumae / araniaexumae.tumblr.com

Elsa, 22, Hufflepuff. Mostly Harry Potter. I (sometimes) make moodboards and (rarely) write fanfiction. I am quietcloud on ao3.
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lungthief

not to sound like a medieval peasant or a catholic but i resent anti-carb propaganda so much like bread will never be evil it is holy it is divine it is one of life’s most simple yet decadent pleasures. love is stored in the bread

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I just remembered my second Pride, where I made different flag themed daisy chain bracelets/necklaces to hand out. I need folks to understand something:

They were free.

They were fucking free.

They were maybe ¢60 of acrylic yarn each at the most, and the whole ziploc bag of them took 2 hours max.

Three people gave me sad eyes until I took their money.

Someone who was clearly the mom friend of their group made me take a $5 and gave a 10 minute pep talk.

At least four more people insisted on getting change to pay for the, once again, free bracelets.

In spite of all these shenanigans, the absolute best was this one person who I can only describe as, “queer surfer dude who looks like a boyfriend who looks like a girlfriend.” I can remember nothing of the outfit, only the impeccable vibes. I did the same thing I did with everyone else, explaining the bracelets were free, and they nodded along as they took the last 6 strand rainbow bracelet. As soon as they had it on their wrist, they pointed at something over my shoulder and, like a fool, I looked.

Next thing I know, they’re running off cackling, yelling, “YOU’LL NEVER CATCH ME!” and I’m holding a fucking $20. I had to stop at least two people from chasing them, cause they thought the person stole something, and then they tried to give me money cause they thought it was funny seeing me flail over people being Too Nice.

That was the year I got reverse-robbed at Pride. I hope everyone out there is having a good time and, in particular, that queer surfer dude is out there still causing benevolent chaos.

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cdrcdiggory

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

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drst

That went somewhere far happier than I expected it to go, whew!

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lets have phone sex over walkie talkies

“bend over” “bend what? over”

I hate this place

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the peeta mellark girls were right. at the end of the day love is about who will follow you to your ruined home and plant a garden there

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