#but the idea that harry is trying to paint himself as an innocent victim or william as a devil is other people's projection

[book-extravagance]

1. For me, by far the biggest takeaway from Spare was Harry's claim that it was Clarence House that did most of the leaking against him and Meghan—and, too, that it was Charles and Camilla also fed the press the story about Will's alleged affair with Rose Hanbury.

As someone who had previously thought William was behind most of the Sussex-related leaking, that was... interesting.

2. Another great point of interest for me is Harry coming to William's defense on the issue of his "laziness"? Harry claimed it was unfair that the papers ragged on William for being "work-shy" when in fact Will could only do the work that Charles funded.

I find claim #1 pretty plausible. I think Harry is still very biased in favor of his brother when it comes to #2 (but I'm keeping an open mind as I continue my royal studies, perhaps he is right. Certainly it's a factor to keep in mind.)

[vivithefolle]

Love isn’t a Deus Ex Machina thing, it’s literally the core theme of the series, hence why Love Magic exists

Love Magic is never a concept at any time in the series. It’s only about “Lily Potter’s spell”. But what’s so special about Lily Potter? What’s so great about her? She did the thing any halfway decent mother would do for their child: she gave her life for them. Molly would’ve done it for any of her sons. Narcissa would have done it for Draco. Mrs Granger the nonentity would have done it for her daughter had she not been lobotomized instead. Lily Potter’s sacrifice isn’t anything special. It’s only special because Rowling decided so, because the Plot needed it to be.

Love isn’t a Deus Ex Machina thing? Then how come Quirrel conveniently burned to death at Harry’s hands? How come Harry had to live at Privet Drive because reasons so he could be abused so naive readers like you could feel very sorry for the poor widdle orphan and pat themselves on the back because wow, aren’t you special for feeling sorry for the poor widdle orphan?

And I didn’t misunderstand Harry. I literally explained him to you

If you don’t like him, I don’t care. Just stop giving his uniqueness to other characters

And you literally showed me exactly why you don’t understand him.

Harry’s superpower isn’t teh special uniqueness of his luuuurve, or the absolute pure pureness of his heart, it’s that he has FRIENDS. Friends who’d die for him, friends who’d sacrifice themselves for him, friends who’d do anything for him. THAT’S the power of love, not some bullshit ~special pure pureness of the heart of Harry Christ our lord and savior~. Harry isn’’t unfailingly kind or uniquely loving or whatever the shit. Harry is a run-of-the-mill teenager who has such obscene luck I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he was conceived under the influence of Lucky Potion.

You just showed me you’re a member of the Church of Harry Christ and I’m not interested in joining. Dear God I thought I was too attached to fictional characters but wow am I glad I’m not at your level.

Also one more thing: “tortured” someone?

Sure. A painful stunner is DEF torture (that’s legit all his Crucio did; it acted as a painful stunner. It threw Carrow backwards and hurt him while it did. Crucio isn’t even close to that when performed properly)

............ you... you fucking little hypocrite.

You filthy, lying, little bitch cunt of a fucking hypocrite.

Remember when I said the next person who’d try to lie to me to pity poor wee widdle Hawwy would be sorry? You pathetic little piece of shit. If you’re so in luuurve with your precious cuntfuck of a camera archetype you’d accept EVERYTHING about him, wouldn’t you? Haha, but noooo. “Oh wee poor Hawwy only used a painful stunner :)))))))” you fucking little bitch. Oh you accuse ME of trying to “make Hawwy not special :(((” but you... YOU... Hahahaha sorry everyone. I have a slight aversion to people blatantly trying to gaslight me. You may find me getting a little bit angry if you happen to trod on this trigger of mine.

Let’s see that again shall we? Open your eyes and your chakras, bitch, we’re going for a ride.

“It’s not a case of what you’ll permit, Minerva McGonagall. You time’s over. It’s us what’s in charge here now, and you’ll back me up or you’ll pay the price.” And he spat in her face. Harry pulled the Cloak off himself, raised his wand, and said, “You shouldn’t have done that.” As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!” The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. “I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, “you need to really mean it.” - Deathly Hallows

If I could reach through my screen to force you to look at the relevant bits, I would. And I’d also slap you in passing. Yknow, just so you think twice before being a stinking fucking hypocrite again in the future.

Now, let’s do some actual literary analysis that isn’t your ~wah hawwy puwe of heawt luuurrrve~ diarrhea you’re still trying to paint my poor innocent blog with.

Now let’s see that PaInFuL sTuNnEr in detail:

He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain 

In bold so you can see it very well. Admire the curve of each letter, the angles and the lines. And most of all, interpret the meaning of each and every word. Watch how he’s compared to “a drowning man”, do you know how excruciatingly painful and distressing it is to drown? How the air fills your lungs as you claw desperately for the surface, trying to find something to cling to, anything, the feeling of your lungs filling with this foreign substance you cannot spit back out? The feeling of fading away as all your oxygen is consumed by the futility of your hopeless flailing, your muscles losing their strength, your panic dulling as you slip into unconsciousness and water claims yet another victim...

Of course, drowning people don’t thrash and howl in pain. Because all they’re focused on is trying to BREATHE. But Amycus’ focus isn’t on trying to breathe. Amycus is only focus on Harry’s Crucio and the pain it’s bringing him.

But sure Anon. A pAiNfUl StUnNeR. Fuck you.

and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass 

Now I’m aware Dummywood has made you believe that glass can be traversed easy without any consequences but real glass doesn’t work like that. Real glass takes some force to shatter. Real glass shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces that embed themselves into your flesh and skin, kinda like... oh! Kinda like that glass chandelier that fell on Hermione, once. After she herself was Crucio’d if I remember well. Hmm, by whom exactly, I have it on the tip of my tongue...

“I see what Bellatrix meant,” 

Ah yes. By the woman who tortured to insanity Neville’s parents and whom Harry is literally acknowledging as having taught him this particular lesson.

Harry himself is TELLING US HE LISTENED TO BELLATRIX’S ADVICE. ON FUCKING TORTURING PEOPLE. But “a PaInFuL sTuNnEr He’S aN oRpHaN :’‘‘(((((”. Fuck off. Fuck off, Anon. Fuck off and learn to fucking read.

Ah but I got ahead of myself! We’re not even CLOSE to the point!

he smashed into the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor 

So Amycus gets tortured - or, as Anon astutely put it, pAiNfUl StUnNeR - smashes through a sheet of glass, and gets knocked out.

Hmm. Now if Harry just took out a knife and brought it to Carrow’s neck, he’d be worthy of being called Bellatrix’s faithful apprentice.

And now I’m gonna quote one of my Quora answers again because my followers deserve better than to see me completely lose my mind at some anonymous cowardly cunt trying to lie to my fucking face.

On the topic of Harry’s Crucios:

This could mean that Harry is scarily proficient at casting Crucio, that Amycus has low pain tolerance or that he was knocked out when he fell, but regardless of the meaning, IT’S NOT GOOD. EVEN IF IT’S A DEATH EATER, EVEN IF HE PROBABLY DESERVES COMEUPPANCE - IT’S NOT HARRY’S JOB TO GIVE OUT SAID COMEUPPANCE.

(Like, can I please remind everyone that Harry is supposed to be the Jesus Christ of his story? In the Bible we never have Jesus Christ torturing the pharisees or any of those who didn’t believe in him. Just… you’re telling me Jesus “Peace and Love” Christ would torture people… what the hell, Joanne?)

“I see what Bellatrix meant,” said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, “you need to really mean it.”

…………………….. Um. Harry, what the fuck are you doing???! He’s taken Bellatrix’s advice! He actually relates to the insane sadistic terrorist! He is capable of using a curse that literally requires sadism to work!

(Again, when someone tells me “Jesus Christ”, “sadism” isn’t the first word that would come to my mind.)

At least there’s some sort of reaction. “the blood thundering through his brain”. But that’s a very… nondescriptive reaction. Is it the “adrenaline pumping in my veins” blood? Is it the “holy shit what have I done” blood? Is it the “I could get used to this” blood?

We don’t know. We’ll never know.

Alright, skipping to the part that interests us -

She struggled to pull herself together. “Potter, that was foolish!”

Eh, I’d have said “tactically unsound” (what if Amycus wasn’t knocked out), “monstrous” (that’s Bellatrix’s favourite curse you’re using, Harry), “insane” (re: Bellatrix), but yeah, I guess “foolish” would also cover it.

“He spat at you,” said Harry.

Ever heard of Disproportionate Retribution, Harry? A few fascists regimes all over the world were especially fond of it.

Then I’m skipping over the one thing that causes the most outrage because I’ll go back to it soon, just let me finish with this:

“[…] but don’t you realize — ?” “Yeah, I do,” Harry assured her. Somehow her panic steadied him.

I guess we can imagine that McGee is saying “don’t you realize what you’ve just done?”

Harry “assures” her he realizes. Harry knows. Harry has just used the literal goddamn Torture Curse and he’s totally cool with it. Or, if he was uncool with it, now he’s cool with it. Because “her panic steadied him”. So seeing McGonagall panic makes Harry think “yeah, using Crucio was the right thing to do”.

Well then! Onwards then, Dark Lord Potter! First it’s just one Crucio, then it’s just three, then it’s just one little murder of one lowly little naysayer, then it’s only a little more murder…

And now we’ll go back a smidge, because how are we supposed to react?

How are we supposed to reconcile the idea of Harry, who’s supposed to save us all through his Power of Love, with the Harry that has just tortured a man into inconsciousness?

Even if that man was a Death Eater, Harry is supposed to be the Christ-like figure. He’s supposed to be love and forgiveness incarnate. Heck, not a hundred pages later he’ll offer forgiveness to freaking Voldemort! He forgives Draco Malfoy, he forgives Albus Dumbledore, he forgives Severus Snape!

So how do we reconcile Harry Potter The Forgiver with Harry Potter The Torturer? Tell us, O Author! Tell us how to navigate the murky, twisted depths of human morality!!

“Potter, I — that was very — very gallant of you — […]”

…

…………………

………………………………………………

That was… gallant?

Gallant?

Wait, doesn’t gallantry imply some form of honor?

As in, not taking your opponent by surprise -

Harry pulled the Cloak off himself, raised his wand…

As in, facing your opponent head-on instead of hitting them in the back -

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted…

As in, not torturing your opponent???

He writhed through the air like a drowning man, thrashing and howling in pain

That’s… unless the definition has changed, nothing about this is gallant…

Let me just -

(of a man) polite and kind towards women, especially when in public

showing no fear of dangerous or difficult things

Alright, so, Amycus isn’t a woman, so Harry can’t, by definition, be “gallant” to him.

Still, being “polite and kind” to a woman didn’t involve “torturing someone who disrespected her”, last time I checked. Punching an asshole harrassing her, definitely *pats Ron*, but torturing that asshole… no, just no.

And well, I guess casting Cruciatus is a difficult thing to do… and Harry didn’t seem very afraid to do it… that’s not supposed to be a good thing, but apparently, now it is…?

What made that

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, “Crucio!”

more gallant than

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!”

After all, they’re the exact same thing. Torture. Inflicting tremendous pain upon someone for the heck of it.

Why do people lose their heads over Harry using Crucio, when they seem to neglect the fact that Draco Malfoy cast it?

Well, easy enough - Draco Malfoy is an evil little cockroach. The guy wished death upon people, he bragged about the fact that his Daddy dearest was a terrorist who killed people. It’s not too surprising that an evil little cockroach like him would find it acceptable to torture someone he considers “not human”, isn’t it?

What’s more surprising however, is that the hero, Harry Potter, who has been subjected to the Torture Curse, whose only use of the Torture Curse previously was when he felt distress and pain unlike any other, that Harry Potter whom is supposed to be a hero and some sort of role model, would actually manage to use said Torture Curse even though it requires real sadism to actually work.

And what’s even worse is that Harry Potter casts that curse, that literal Torture Curse, and instead of being rightly horrified, instead of being terrified by the boy’s use of such a heinous spell, instead of saying “alright Harry, you’re not doing this again, ever, right?”, instead…

Instead McGonagall calls Harry “gallant”, instead of telling him off for using such a curse. She briefly calls him “foolish”, but it doesn’t register, really, since she ends up calling him “gallant”.

That’s what angers people. That the Torture Curse is the most horrible, awful thing you can do to people… unless you’re Harry Potter, in which case it is a little “foolish”, but mostly “gallant”.

......................

But of course, little Anon over here isn’t angered. Because little Anon is a faithful devoted member of the Church of Harry Christ Our Lord And Saviour. Little Anon can say enormities like A pAiNfUl StUnNeR and believe it with the whole force of their little Anon heart, because uwu Hawwy speshul orphan pure lurve uwu.

Little Anon, please get the fuck out of my blog and never, ever come back. I’m sure this arrangement will be beneficial for everyone involved.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, HARRY! You’ve been accepted for the role of HAMLET. Admin Jen: Ah, Harry, you can’t imagine the sheer thrill I felt while reading your application. In general, we were very excited to see Hassan but more than anything, we were excited to see a genuine understanding of him as he is such a nuanced character. And you gave us everything we were looking for and more! I could really feel your passion for Hamlet as I read and that was the main factor that amplified your portrayal and made Hassan’s voice shine. I could sense the connection you’ve felt towards him - especially in the interview which made it such a delightful sight to behold. Your analysis of his mannerisms was brilliant and I was so in love with the way you portrayed the eloquence in his speech and the way he vocalized his thoughts. I’m so enamored by your take on him! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character Alias | Harry Age | 18 Preferred Pronouns | They/them Activity Level | I’m a full-time college student with a job and am involved with student government. However i love Shakespeare more than anything so I’ll be on literally whenever possible. Timezone | MST Current/Past RP Accounts | pucky-goodfellow.tumblr.com (the group has recently closed so my activity there has stalled however I still adore the character and the way I wrote him. It’s a lot more dialogue heavy than I imagine my writing for this being as well) In Character Character | Hamlet What drew you to this character? | Hamlet is a character that has always been torn in more directions than any man could survive and it’s this aspect that was really emphasized in the skeleton that brought me in. I feel like this particular version of Hamlet is a fusion between Prince Hal from Henry IV and the Hamlet Shakespeare originally penned. Instead of focusing on the events that occur in the source material, the skeleton takes those same things that drove the play to happen and builds upon them. What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

Blood and Loyalty: The same pleading in Hassan’s heart that begs him to avenge his father also begs him to not abandon the mob. A requested hit sends Hassan into an emotional tailspin where the two desires of his heart collide in spectacular fashion, threatening to burn the young heir into a shadow of himself.

What to do? What to Say?: Not all problems can be solved with a clandestine knife to the ribs, no matter how much Hassan wishes. An impossible choice is presented to him, where innocence could die no matter which choice he makes. The bottles are piling high and he’s no closer to a solution. What on Earth should he do?

The Weight of the Past: It wasn’t easy for Hassan to get where he is now. He blazed his own path, using only his father’s name, the bottle, and an will stronger than iron to send him into such a powerful position. But getting here wasn’t easy, and the past has come to enact its toll. The deeds Hassan has tried so hard to bury have returned, and this time, threaten to drag him down with them.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yeah, I’m completely ok with that. It could be very interesting! In Depth TWs for torture, death, violence, and alcoholism. In-Character Interview: What is your favorite place in Verona?

Hassan was in a chair no more regal than any other, but he sat in it like it was a throne. “I seem to think you believe this to be a difficult question,” Hassan pondered as he fixed the small interviewer with a calculating look. “And I don’t know why.”

He let the silence hang from the heavy tapestries like a bad omen, before he cracked that infamous smile known for putting allies and victims at ease all at once. “The family I serve has an excellent library,” he lightly joked. “And sometimes the tangled mess of my mind needs to quietly work itself out without outside interference.”

Hassan left his statement at that, choosing to allow his words to create the image of a man in quiet contemplation surrounded by the knowledge of others. He hadn’t lied, per say, but he did omit that his most frequent companion in that library was a bottle. What does your typical day look like?

He laughed. The sound was completely devoid of mirth and was only a laugh by the barest of definitions. “You do know what I do, what I control?” He laughed again. It was as cold as the last one. “There is no such thing as a typical day for a captain of the Montague family. Yes, I wake up and eat twice a day. But the time that fills those few constants is as variable as is possible in this world.”

“Why, before I came here, I tortured a man for information on a plot I think he might be planning. I haven’t the concrete proof yet, but I know it’s there, somewhere.” Hassan leaned forward, bearing down on the person across from him like an angel of death waiting to whisk away some unlucky soul.

“Yesterday, however?” He questioned without pausing for an answer. “Yesterday I was in meetings from dawn until dusk, hearing about more problems than I can possibly ever address. I wasn’t even allowed a bottle to help paint the problems into clarity. I was pointed to an impossible mess of problems and told to fix them.”

He shook his head. “And how can I fix them? I cannot look at them with clear eyes when possibilities tie themselves into knots in front of me.” Anxious fingers whirled around the man’s head as he tried to convey the chaos held inside.

“And so it is each and every day,” Hassan says. “I cannot escape the tasks given and I cannot fix the problems that arise with those tasks.” He tried to smile, though it was a desperate thing. “How can I have a typical day when each dawn is lost among the problems that arise from it?” What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

Hassan stiffened and stared at the interviewer with a cold gaze. “I fail to see why this is relevant information to you and whatever publication you represent.” His fingers itched for the knife hidden in his boot and Hassan was forced to tighten his hands on the armrest to avoid planting it into the person across from him.

He took a deep breath. And then he took another just so his body stopped itching with the desire to spill blood. There is a time and a place for every action, Hassan reminded himself. This is neither the time nor the place.

“I will tell you,” Hassan slowly says to the person across from him. “But this is on a strictly confidential basis. If you spread this, you will regret it.” He cracked his neck, the sound sharp in the heavy air of the room. And then he opened his mouth and began.

“I was sixteen when this happened. I had been successful enough that my father thought I could be trusted to conduct a full investigation into a series of protests that had disrupted trade.” Hassan snorted, the sound shocking in its unusuality. “The Itani family has an odd training program, I won’t deny that.”

The sudden flood of mirth fades as quickly as quickly as it comes. “I won’t give you the gory details. Not for my own sake, but for the person I got killed. I was wrong, you see, and a girl close enough to be like a sister to me paid the price. I visit her grave as often as I can, and I tell her what’s happening around Verona. It can help lay things into an order I wasn’t able to see by myself.” A small smile briefly flew across Hassan’s face. It was heartbreaking in its intensity and pulled at the heartstrings of whomever saw it before it was quickly crushed under the heel of steel control. “The dead are also the best secret-keepers we have. It would be a waste to not utilize that skill.” What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

Hassan looked blankly ahead, fixing the wall with a heavy gaze. Despite his silence, his mind spun, trying to create an answer that could both tell the truth and keep his secrets tucked away in their dark closet. The answer was there, heavy on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t know if he wanted this stranger, this invader, to look into his carefully-ordered life and pick it apart as was no doubt inevitable.

“You know this answer. It’s unavoidable for someone in your position, but perhaps I shall tell you the story anyways. It is no doubt better than letting you listen to the rumors that fly low and heavy across this city.” He fixed the person across from him with a glare. “If you tell anyone of this, just as if you tell anyone of the previous question, I shall know. And I can only promise that you will be very sorry.”

He sighed, intensity lost as soon as it came. He was slumped in his chair and tried to ignore his fingers and heart that itched for a bottle.

“I was always destined for the throne I hold, and though it causes me pain each time I sit upon it, I cannot help but find comfort in it. But there are no true kings, not anymore, so I could not simply expect my father to hand me this position. This is why when I was asked to kill a boy, I couldn’t say no.”

“I was thirteen when my father called me into the office and told me it was time to prove I was an Itani. There was a boy who was spreading lies about the Montague family. Usually, my father would have let this slide. But this boy was smart, and he knew exactly how to use words to paint the exact picture he wanted. And worse, he was gaining traction.”

“He said he hoped I’d be able to take care of the problem before he was forced to bring it to Lord Montague’s attention. He handed me a picture, a name, and a knife, and told me to take care of it.”

“I found the boy’s family before I found him. I claimed I was an admirer of his work and they joyfully pointed me to where he conducted his work. I entered that broken-down building, unfit though it was for rat and beast. The boy looked up at me with green eyes alight in passion. Those same green eyes quickly faded and I lunged forward and buried my knife into his throat.”

“He couldn’t say much, not as he bled out on that filthy floor. But I held him as he passed, and I couldn’t help the gentle song that poured from my lips.”

Hassan shuddered, rubbing his arms as if he can stave off the scent of blood that still haunted his nose. He composed himself after a brief moment, spine so straight it seemed likely to snap.

“It wasn’t until afterwards that I learned the boy was a month older than I was at the time. His name was Ali and he carried a locket with the photo of his younger sister inside.” A wry smile twisted Hassan’s handsome face. “I send her money each month, posing as Ali. I don’t think she’s figured it out yet. As far as she knows, he moved to a different city to pursue a lucrative career as an author.” The smile shifted into something tragic as Hassan continued.

“I still have the locket, you know. I couldn’t give it back to the family without incriminating myself. So it’s currently tucked away in an old trunk that hasn’t been opened in years. Maybe one day I’ll be able to decide what to do with it.” What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

Hassan rolled his eyes. It was the first display of the man under the shell of the captain that the interviewer saw. It was a shame that the interview was so near its end. “I am hardly surprised, though the fact that it has come to this causes me no small amount of pain.”

He leaned forward, fingers steepled and legs crossed as he tried to convey his beliefs without spilling any secrets. “I cannot tell you why it doesn’t surprise me, but even a citizen such as yourself must know that the tensions that have frayed the bonds of friendship and loyalty had to eventually reach a boiling point.” A brief flicker of sorrow sneaked across Hassan’s brow. “I am truly sorry it was Alvise that served as the catalyst for the fire we now find ourselves in. But we cannot allow the past to cloud our vision, as difficult as that may be. We must simply survive.” Extras:

It’s not my playlist, but the Spotify playlist Hamlet; The Fresh Prince of Denmarkdid not stop playing through the entire writing process of this app.

[trisscar368]

Spend a few hours driving along the winding highways through the Appalachian mountains and you might just wind up in Asheville.  It’s a small city, sort of quaint (older buildings, small streets) - though far more alive than what I’m used to up by Detroit.

It’s also apparently very haunted.

There’s a house in town that belonged to a man named Thomas Wolf.  Sometimes there are figures in the windows, they say.  Doors slamming for no reason with people sent flying if they try to interfere, odd figures show up in photos (one, they say, not three weeks ago, hard horns and looked like the devil himself), and not so very long ago the people across the street called the cops because old Thomas Wolf, dead a hundred years, was sitting on the porch with his two sons and yelling at the passersby.

Just up the street a ways (past the old mortuary, and my there’s a story there) stands the old Vanderbilt office.  White stone, finished in 1928, going up twelve stories - there’s a thirteenth, a sort of balcony, and two more half floors to house the elevator machinery.  Two of the men who worked there for old Vanderbilt got a brilliant idea - they borrowed $75 million (in ‘28, mind) from the mayor of Asheville to invest in the stock market.  And they did so very well, one year in and they’d quadrupled their money.  By October 1929, they’d made almost $350 million.  And after the crash, all that was left was $15 million of it.  They not only destroyed their own fortunes, they beggared the city.  They say over the next few weeks, thirteen men jumped from the thirteenth floor of that office.

They still jump, they say.  The fire station is right next door, and the EMTs have seen a man jump, heard the body hit the ground, and found nothing.  Tourists have called in to 911 in a panic because someone just jumped and then the body vanished.  The locals have very helpfully put a bullseye into the sidewalk, about where a grown man’s body would land.  Sometimes they catch orbs on film in that spot.

Back in the 1900s, a man named Will Harris escaped from prison, bought himself a rifle and a gallon of whiskey, and came back to Asheville to find his girl.  In the end, she was about the only person safe from him.  He found her sister and followed her home, beat her up, and when her fiance went for the cops he killed two policemen and winged a third, and then screamed up to the sky “I am the Devil himself and I have come to bring Hell on earth.”  And then he walked up the street killing everything that moved before vanishing into the mountains.  The official record says he was caught nine days later, shot a hundred times and then twelve more in the face for good measure, but the locals disagree.  All his victims walked that street for two years, they say - running into pedestrians and then vanishing.  And so did the man reported as Harris; he kept saying he was innocent.  After all, the body that was brought back... he didn’t match Harris’ description.

There’s something in the old jailhouse too, they say.  The man who was Sheriff when Harris went on his rampage, he was a right bastard.  He had control of the city during Prohibition, when Asheville was producing most of the moonshine for the east coast.  He helped the local morticians move their used ice (complete with occasional body parts) to the local speakeasies, killed five of Capone’s men and fed them to the local bears.  He killed himself in the old jail years later.  They can’t rent out that building anymore - there’s something in there, something angry, something mean.

There’s a woman in a white dress up on Black Mountain.  She’s looking for her daughter.  You can drive up there, up the narrow gravel road to the old bridge, but oh you really shouldn’t.  Wasn’t that long ago at all, they say, a fellow took his girl up for a nice little fright.  His car died, and after they rebuilt the computer system (it mysteriously fried), they found two small handprints pushed into the paint of the hood.  Right over the engine.  She shows up in photos sometimes, hands outstretched, fingers curled, snarling.

There’s a woman in black too.  There’s a road called Church Street that was paved over what used to be the church graveyards.  The bodies were moved.  Or some of them were - five thousand headstones were moved, but the records only exist for a thousand caskets, and sometimes body parts still wash up when it rains hard.  The last grave dug, though, was used to hide a murder.  A young nun who had an affair with a local priest went missing, and when they came through to put in the road, they found the body of a woman in a black habit, lying over the body of an infant.  She still comes to church, though, a hundred years later.  Floats through the walls during sunday service, smiles softly, and sinks through the floor.

And the old basilica in town, that has a ghost too.  The architect died on the front steps just after it was finished - heart attack - and there’s still a man with a bushy mustache who asks visitors whether they think the basilica is beautiful.  He tends to vanish after they answer.

[drarrydrabble-blog]

The Words I Didn’t Say

Pairing: Drarry

Warning: Suicide mention, Death

Word Count: 9k+

Dedication: To all of my lovely betas who made sure my story wasn’t a hot mess!

A/N: The trope I used is based on this idea here! I thought it was very interesting, but don’t look now if you don’t want any spoilers!

The grounds of Hogwarts stood bleak on that particular Saturday on a snowy December. The sky, a mirky, ugly grey peeked into the eighth year common room windows, not minding any of its business as the forty-something students lounged around, doing absolutely nothing. Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan sat in one corner, swigging from a shared bottle of contraband firewhisky. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger coddled each other, hands entwined. While the bushy-haired nineteen-year-old aimlessly stared into the fire, her counterpart supported her weight, looking just as crestfallen. The few Slytherins that dare returned sat amongst themselves and those who were forced back under punishment, such as Draco Malfoy and Gregory Goyle, stood aside, separate from everyone else.

The eighth years were in a particularly sour mood, except for Draco Malfoy, who’d been that way for quite some time.

Since those who fought in the war returned to Hogwarts eighth year under official Ministry instruction, Draco stood aside as someone who no longer withheld his typical spunk and flare. He answered particularly tricky questions in class if he rose his hand before Hermione Granger and no longer had access to studying Defence Against Dark Arts. Draco was bricked up in a sturdy cell of his school, his sentence for making the idiotic decision to step into his father’s shoes. Though he walked free like the others who were instructed to return, there remained a heavy restraint that pinned him to the ground by his shoulders, and he didn’t enjoy it one bit.

No one associated themselves with him either. The mere mention of hanging out with a Death Eater would’ve sent rumours, quite literally, flying around the school. The victim would’ve been prosecuted at the hands of the patriotic students of Hogwarts, the teachers standing aside because they took a disliking to Malfoy and anyone who would lessen themselves to his liking.

Even Goyle, Draco’s once best friend, wouldn’t get too close to him. Given, the past few months had been entirely rocky, but Gregory wouldn’t even glance in his direction any further.

Because of this, because of the war he fought on the wrong side of, Draco remained completely friendless.

Sometimes, when the loneliness became all too overwhelming, he would visit Moaning Myrtle. For some odd reason or another, she still greeted him with a high-pitched giggle and a kiss to each of his gaunt cheeks.

Other times, he would venture off to the kitchen, where the house elves aimed to please. He would sit in there, hours at a time, doing his work, taste testing new sweets the house elves concocted. Remaining in the kitchen became a win-win situation. They fed him while he studied.

Despite the few instances of kindness, he received anything but in the common room. Angry sneers and glowers shot his way from time to time and nothing else. There wasn’t any intention to prove himself, either. Not that he didn’t want to, but he hadn’t any idea where to start. No matter what, he’d be painted as a villain and the good that he did do disappeared with Harry Potter.

Suddenly, a wail disrupted the bothersome silence collected in the common room. The first two to stand were Weasley and Granger, followed by all of the Gryffindors who returned. Draco stood as well, pulled from his stupor. Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his left hand, he could more clearly see Ginevra Weasley clutching a Daily Prophet to her chest. Tears strew down her cheeks, relentless to fall. Stumbling towards Ronald, she shoved the paper into her older brother’s arms and collapsed at the feet of Granger. Obviously startled and sympathetic towards the seventh year, she crouched down, scooping the mess of a teenager into her arms.

“What does it say, Ron?” Granger asked, voice trembling.

Draco hadn’t realized it, but he was gripping onto the back of the chair he stumbled towards quite ferociously. Observing the freckle-faced man clutching the paper, Malfoy held his breath. Many thoughts shot through his mind, but they all fell on one person: Harry Potter.

Terror whiplashed itself across Weasley’s face. Dropping the Prophet, he sat down and buried his face in his hands, looking as if he would have to accept what the newspaper had told him.

Groping for the paper that fell out of Weasley’s hands, Granger fetched the Prophet and opened it, flashing the article that shot grief through both Ronald and Ginevra Weasley.

The Boy Who Lived, Found Dead?

A whir in Draco’s stomach surged a sense of nausea through him at the thought of Harry Potter found dead somewhere, and who knew where? Even his cronies hadn’t any idea where the boy had gone, and they had searched everywhere they could think of. He was to return to Hogwarts or start training as an Auror. When he hadn’t returned to do either, people grew worried.

Now, no one knew where he was and was presumed dead at this point.

But Harry Potter couldn’t be dead! He was the Boy Who Lived, after all. He wasn’t allowed to die, not yet.

Surprised and upset, Draco wiped the tears in his eyes away, not wanting to make a spectacle of himself.

“Oi, Malfoy, why are you crying?”

Too late.

Trying to withhold a sense of entitlement and dignity, he jutted his chin upward just slightly but allowed the tears to roll down his cheeks. “I’m merely sick of Potter playing hide and seek. We know he can’t be dead.”

“He’s dead, Malfoy!” Ginevra Weasley bawled but was hushed by Granger.

“According to the Prophet,” she said, folding the paper and setting it aside. For once, and without malice, Granger glanced his way. “Both you and I know that it is not entirely reliable.”

The inevitable wave of sorrow in the common room filtrated slightly.

“But we can’t listen to the wireless on school grounds!” Weasley unintentionally yelled, then shrunk when he caught himself. “Sorry, ‘Mione,” he said, voice cracking. “It’s just, you know…”

“Come on, now, you lot!” Seamus Finnigan said suddenly, standing from his chair. He thrust the bottle of firewhisky into Dean Thomas’ hand. “Think. We’re eighth years! We have full access to Hogsmeade before sunset!”

“Yeah, that’s right!” Thomas cheered, standing up next to his fellow Gryffindor. “Potterwatch!”

Potterwatch? That term was new to Malfoy, but he knew already that it had to be invented during the war while the trio was in hiding.

The dampness collected in the room began to dry as the morale lifted slightly.

“Who wants to come?! We just need to let McGonagall know and we’ll be on our way!” Finnigan said, a little too happily as he sauntered towards the exit of the common room.

In side conversation, Draco heard the younger Weasley ask her brother if she could come along, only to be denied for obvious reasons.

A rally of voices echoed through the common room, which disoriented the intoxicated Seamus.

“Okay, who is not coming?”

Only one hand stood in the air, and it was that of Gregory Goyle. Obviously surprised that he was the only one to raise his hand, his eyes finally landed on Draco.

“You’re not staying behind, Draco?” Goyle said with a rich amount of indignance. “It’s Potter!”

“And?” Draco cocked a brow, stepping towards the crowd gathering at the exit. “I’m tired of being an enemy. War is over. There are no longer sides to pick.” And if there were, he would pick Potter’s side on any given day.

Draco Malfoy did not want to be his parents, not any longer.

“What would your father say of this?” Goyle laughed, which only provoked Draco.

Cheeks flushing, the room falling silent as he inched closer to Goyle, Malfoy could feel rage course through his veins. “He’s in Azkaban. Besides that, I really don’t give a hippogriff’s arse about what my father would think. He’s a criminal that deserves to rot in prison.”

This surprised Draco himself, but after all of those years of attempting to live up to his father’s expectations, he discovered just how much he loathed the man. Not only was he a coward, but he was also a cheat. Draco knew he had to be accountable for his actions, and he didn’t want to conform to some rogue agenda that would kill others off. Draco finally knew who he was. Nothing like his father.

“Like you didn’t do anything, Saint Malfoy,” Goyle spat, stepping up, their puffed chests nearly brushing.

“I know I did wrong, Goyle! I am not innocent! I know that! But you know what?” Draco said sharply, leaning in. “I am not going to let my past skew my future. I asked for forgiveness. I may not receive it, but I made my peace. I don’t want to be a monster like my father.”

Turning on his heel, Draco found himself staring back at the forty-something eyes of the other eighth years and Ginevra Weasley. Surprise, shock, and confusion reflected back at him, and if he were in any one of their shoes, he’d certainly peer at himself the same way.

But enough of that, they had “Potterwatching” to do.

“So? Shall we ask the Headmistress if we can commence?” Draco looked at his fellow classmates, disregarding their blank stares and gaping mouths shot in his direction.

Stepping up, he headed straight to the exit until a sturdy hand wrapped around his twig of a bicep. Attempting to pull it from the person’s grasp, he turned around to face Weasley.

“What’s it to you, Malfoy?” he asked, flustered, blue eyes blazing intensely back at him. “What’s Harry’s status got to do with anything that pleases you? Why do you care?”

“I prefer to keep my intentions between me, myself, and I, Weasley. Now, if we could, let’s see if the Prophet holds any truth.”

For all Potterwatch knew, it didn’t and after that, no one ever questioned Draco’s motives. The team of eighth years, at least those who were interested, asked on the next several Saturdays at precisely two o’three if they could run into Hogsmeade to listen to Potterwatch. The Prophet, like several had detected, was nothing but a phoney. That didn’t ensure anyone that he was safe either. Now, all Potter was a guessing game, a myth, a legend. Despite the fact that Harry Potter disappeared just as fast as the war ceased and had to be long gone from the Wizarding World, Draco continued to find himself attending the weekly ritual of sitting around an old, dusty wireless, hoping, and almost praying for some sort of news on his existence to ricochet off the walls of Hog’s Head Inn.

As the weeks passed, no longer were only students attending Hog’s Head religiously, but the entire proffessor-body of Hogwarts and those who had permission into Hogsmeade. While Filch remained at the castle to watch those under third year, students streamed along, wanting to know where the Chosen One was and if he was, indeed, alive, but as those weeks came and went, the high morale settled into something of a limbo. Some, Draco included, maintained hope while others weren’t too sure if Potter could’ve done as much as move a finger without being noticed. Though true, Potter had that invisibility Cloak Draco had used against him in sixth year. Whilst those who doted on Potter lamented over him, he always remembered to bring it up.

“There’s no way he can still be alive,” little Weasley had moaned as they tuned out of a Potterwatch for the day the weekend the Hogwarts students were to return for their studies. It was a nippy, frozen afternoon with an overcast sky and loads of snow blanketing the ground. Whilst the most logical of the Hogwarts students remained in the castle, the Weasleys, Granger, Malfoy, and the oaf of a Gamekeeper meandered into Hogsmeade, finding themselves in the Inn. Aberforth Dumbledore, though busy, had tuned in with them, and said his peace already: “The Prophet’s calling it suicide, but he has a head on his shoulders. He’s smart. If he were dead, they would’ve found him already.”

At first, Draco agreed with this statement. If the world-famed Harry Potter was, indeed, dead, they would’ve found him somewhere, someplace, keeled off. But then again—and this was when Draco grew nervous—what if he was killed, only to be covered by his own protection: the Cloak?

Malfoy didn’t know he was displaying any sign of conflict until he was nudged by Ronald Weasley.

“What, Malfoy?”

The last few weeks proved themselves to be monumental, as the eighth years actually began to hold simple conversation with him. Though he wasn’t on a first name basis with anyone quite yet, he was acknowledged and accepted as an individual for once, and the compliments were enjoyable. Hogwarts felt less and less like a prison and more like a home, which was a new and enticing feeling evoked while thinking of his school. Never quite feeling accepted because of his parents, Draco finally had a taste of freedom and it was there, in the walls of his very confinement.

Some days, Draco would browse the libraries and study with Granger. Others, he would visit the pitch and play some Quidditch with little Weasley. She was a helluva Seeker, but nothing compared to Potter.

Ronald Weasley, however, was notorious for grudges. No one had any idea when he’d come around, and Draco didn’t expect him to. He didn’t need to be forgiven, though his hand was out if Weasley ever wanted to shake it.

However, in times of crisis, such as now, all grudges were set aside and anyone who attended the Potterwatches was treated as a friend.

“What if...What if Potter was covered with the Cloak? What if he did die and was covered by the Invisibility Cloak?” Draco said, voice deceiving him with a crack. “What if Potter’s dead?”

Little Weasley paled at the mere mention, despite always groaning over his possible demise. “W-what if…”

“That is always a possibility,” Aberforth said, looking downcast at Draco’s revelation, “but we don’t know. As far as we know, he’s simply blending in with muggles at this point.”

The lot left Hog’s Head Inn that day, feeling as gloomy as the wintery day before them.

The powdery poof of snow that accumulated over the winter began to melt away as buds began to blossom. Spring brought a plethora of hope, promising chances of crystal-clear skies and bright, sunny days.

A perfect evening presented itself to the quartet of the newly acclaimed “Potterheads”. A slight breeze rolled through the courtyard as they wandered towards the newly erected rose garden herbology students have been magically accumulating. Red roses were to bloom any time of year with special enchantments and were closed off to everyone but eighth years and the students creating the garden.

Although Ginny technically was not allowed in the garden, the four Potterheads ventured to the garden every day to discuss their shared favourite subject: The Boy Who Lived. Ever since the garden was put in place, the Weasleys, Granger, and Malfoy would recollect every night, discussing ways they could try and find Potter themselves. When Potterwatch failed them, when Aberforth said that Potter would’ve been found by now, when Hagrid stopped visiting Hog’s Head altogether, the four of them decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. At that moment, only the four of them still sought the truth, but that would change if any of them could help it.

“Remind me again, Malfoy, why you’re even here,” Weasley said when Draco sat in the circle they formed on that particular evening. Granger, attached to her red-headed git of a boyfriend, held a piece of aged parchment, practically inked from end to end. At first glance, Draco thought it to be homework, but upon further inspection, the writing was far too infrequent for it to be anything for her required classes. (From what he’d learned about her, she wanted to work for the ministry—of course she wanted to.) Little Weasley sat, dejected and on her own, knees hugged tightly to her chest. Malfoy ignored this and turned to her brother. He went to open his mouth, but before he could answer, Granger spoke for him.

“Can’t you tell that Draco loves him?” she said, everyone but her freezing at the statement. Straightening her posture slightly, she looked around, surprised, continuing, “What? Has no one noticed how he looks when anyone mentions Harry’s name?”

Draco’s brow furrowed. Was he really that bad at disguising his inner monologue?

“Please tell me she’s joking, Malfoy,” Weasley groaned, taking his girlfriend’s hand into his. “Please don’t like my best mate—”

“And my boyfriend!” Ginny whimpered, jealousy sharpening the blow of her words.

Draco shrunk slightly at the angry siblings as they berated his affections towards Potter. He never asked to be interested in blokes, or that one in particular. Everyone knew Harry Potter wouldn’t go after a former Death Eater, after all, or a boy for that matter. Draco called it wishful thinking.

After a moment of sitting there, staring around at the two gawking faces that peered back at him, he said, shifting slightly in his seat, “It’s not like anything would come from it. First off, he’s probably dead somewhere and who would love a Death Eater?” Tugging his robes around his slender body, his eyes diverted to the grass-clad dirt. He carded his fingers through the green blades, not wanting to speak any further of this...crush he developed on Potter. Like he said, nothing would ever come of it, and it was stupid for him to have a crush on that bloke anyway. Though their perspectives no longer opposed, necessarily, his parents’ did.

Then again, he stopped caring about what they thought months ago.

Still.

“Former Death Eater, Draco. That much is clear,” Granger said, breaking the moment of silence.

And for some reason, white heat coursed itself right through Draco’s body. Brow furrowed, bottom lip jutted out, his attention turned to her. “Why, out of all people, have you forgiven me?” Without much thought, he thrust himself from the ground. “I’ve hexed you, I’ve thrown several slurs in your direction...I...I almost killed Dumbledore and you forgive me first out of every one of the eighth years?!” At this, Draco began to pace, wringing his hands together anxiously, insecurely.

How could such deplorable sins be forgiven by a Muggle-born, his main victim? How could Hermione Granger ever forgive such terrible actions?

“Draco!” Granger screamed, snapping him out of his dread-ridden thoughts. From what was evident, Granger must’ve been beckoning him for quite some time. Standing, fists balled at his side, she stared at him with an intimidating amount of intensity.

Hoping he didn’t appear too ruffled, he smoothed at his robes and crossed his arms, jutting his chin up as he typically did. “Granger.”

With a disdainful look, she said, “That’s who you used to be. It’s clear that you’ve changed…” Sighing heftily, she took a seat. “Now, sit down. We have actual business to attend to.”

Draco sat without argument, smoothing his robes out against the grass so it fell in a graceful way. Then, he turned his eyes upward towards his counterparts. “Is that a list, Granger?” He nodded towards the parchment now on the ground with his chin.

“Yes, actually,” she replied, holding it out for the Slytherin to take. Snatching it, he gazed over the signatures as she said, “those are the people who want us to find out where in the world Harry is.”

Several slanted signatures glared back at him, including Longbottom’s, Lovegood’s, and everyone, as far as he knew, was once in Dumbledore’s army. No professors were listed; this militia was entirely student-made.

“Are you going to sign this, Malfoy?” Weasley asked, nudging an inked quill towards him.

“Of course, am I not a part of the Potterhead committee?” Draco said indignantly, grabbing the quill with haste. He signed with a large, scripted hand and handed the quill and parchment to Granger. “Now, is this all?”

Without a word, the parchment was passed to Little Weasley, who took out her wand and tapped it against the signature page. For just a second, the paper shimmered, golden flecks radiating off the ambient light of the garden’s torches.

“Just a jinx. Makes sure no one can betray the others without consequence,” the Weasley sister informed her, placing her wand back in its pocket.

Not that Draco didn’t expect it, but there always came disappointment with not being trustworthy. “Is it the same jinx Miss Granger used on Marietta Edgecombe? Bit juvenile if you ask me,” Draco noted.

“Far worse, trust me,” Little Weasley replied darkly, handing the parchment to Granger. “You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of this jinx.”

Understood, Draco thought.

“One more thing before we dismiss,” Granger said suddenly, catching him mid-stand. Taking a seat, he propped his chin in the palm of his hand.

“And that is?”

The muggle-born pulled out a Galleon, handing it to Draco first. “Faux Galleons. Protean charm, as you know.”

Turning the coin in his hand, Malfoy let out a low whistle. He never thought he’d use something connected to that certain charm again. “Why don’t we just gather? No one would stop us.”

“Makes things easier,” Hermione said plainly, standing. “I’ll let you know now that our first meeting is on Saturday, two-thirty.”

The meetings were as frequent as the Potterwatches. Every Saturday at two-thirty, one hundred an forty-two Hogwarts students of all Houses—Slytherins, not including Malfoy, included—meandered to the Room of Requirement to find themselves in a type of Potterwatch Headquarters. While some students brainstormed places to search, others plotted places already explored. Many kept in touch with those who had thought to see Potter and they had their outside sources as well, including Lee Jordan and George Weasley of the radio programme. Potterwatch had become a very sturdy system, Granger, Malfoy, and Weasley all at the head.

The next big project coursing through the Headquarters consisted of hefty, well thought out plans and possibly dangerous ventures. The Hogwarts students wanted to do the unthinkable: set out to a location in a different part of the British Isles. London, England to be exact. Several thought it would be a good place to look around. But Draco, Draco highly doubted that Potter—though thick at times—would be idiotic enough to find himself in the same Muggle city that hosted both Diagon Alley and the Ministry of Magic.

“It hasn’t been pinned off,” Ginny argued, gesturing to the map they had hung up on an empty wall in the room. While standing, other students sat in chairs in quasi-rooms, searching through Prophet articles, sorting through dates and places Potter was “spotted” or searched for. The two had been at it for a while, deciding whether checking London would be wise.

“Yes, but Potter isn’t a buffoon. He would’ve been spotted if he’s been in London this whole time, Muggle or otherwise,” Draco said shortly, placing a pin—a muggle invention—over London. “Case Closed.”

In retaliation, Ginevra Weasley tore the pin from the map. “No!”

“Put. It. Back.” Draco went to grab the pin from her, but before a squabble erupted, the elder Weasley took it and glared from his sister to Malfoy.

“We cannot mark it, but I think you’re onto something, Malfoy.” Handing the pin to Granger, who came up behind her boyfriend, he found Hogsmeade and pointed to the mountainous terrain surrounding the quaint village. “What do you think, ‘Mione?”

For a moment, her face scrunched up, brow furrowed and unsure until her eyes scanned over its surroundings. Like an epiphany rolled through her entire body and shoved her into motion, she jolted towards the map and circled Hogsmeade and the terrain surrounding it several times with something she introduced as a red marker—another muggle invention.

“Brilliant! That has to be it, Ron! It’s where Sirius camped in fourth year!” Capping the marker, Granger turned to Weasley and pressed a sickly-sweet kiss to his cheek. “Good eye.”

“That’s rather close,” Longbottom said suddenly. Draco turned slightly to find him standing awfully close. The git in Draco attempted to coerce him into shoving Longbottom away, but he refrained, maintaining his poise. Turning back to the map, he scanned the area to be searched.

“So,” he said, eye falling on the thick of the jagged lines imposed as “mountains”, “you think he is in the mountains somewhere.”

“One place in particular,” Granger explained, marking a particular region inside her vast circle. “A cave. I remember exactly where it is, too…” Almost bemused, she heaved a sigh and ran her fingers over the mark. “We’ll find you, Harry. We’ll find you.”

A hush rolled over the students. Nothing but the sound of the grandfather clock the room oddly provided ticked for the first time since Potterwatch at Hogwarts banded, and as it did, its face began to mutate.

“What in the—”

“Ron,” Granger said, “it looks like the clock at the Burrow.”

Gawking, Weasley walked up to the clock and ran his finger along the only hand on the face. “Almost just like it,” he confirmed. “It’s on travelling.”

“I didn’t think about it,” Granger said, a smile remaining on her face as she turned to the Weaslette. “Ginny?”

“I did… I’m surprised,” she said, eyeing the clock in amazement.

“Why? The Room of Requirement provides you with what you need, does it not?” Draco asked, walking up behind Weasley with his arms firmly crossed over his chest. Standing beside him, he gazed at the face of the clock. Intricate, yet plain to see, the lightning bolt-shaped hand with Harry’s scripted name carved into it rested on travelling.

“Ooh, how peculiar,” a new, but familiar voice dreamily gasped from the other side of Weasley. Loony Lovegood stepped into view, running her finger over the hand. “Where is home for Harry, you suppose?”

“Just something else we need to figure out, I guess,” Weasley replied, clapping his hand on the girl’s shoulder. “As for now, I think we should check the cave. He’s still alive, I think. Fred’s hand fell off after a while...Dad found it a couple of weeks ago, so if it runs the same way ours does—”

“Harry’s alive,” Draco said more to himself, but out loud. Warmth filled him with the thoughts, as the vivid daydreams of Potter being found, safe and out of harm’s way. Of course, he’d be peaky, as he always was at the start of the year, but he would be there, with them, and alive, so, so alive.

“You really care about him, don’cha?” Seamus Finnigan said from across the room. Silence engulfed the entire room, every last ear ready to hear the answer, to hear the former Death Eater’s position, why he was actually there, if you will.

Turning towards the sound of the Scottish man’s voice, Draco, for once, let those cold, steely walls of his collapse at his feet. Everything in this room was in confidence, after all.

“Yes, I do care about him,” Draco replied, voice cracking just enough to make him sound pathetic, but what was new?

“But you were a—”

“I know what I was,” Draco roared, shaking slightly. His hands found his way to his wand and began to wring it, trying to keep his sudden flare up at bay. “No need of reminding me of my regrettable mistakes!”

A gentle hand caressed Draco’s shoulder, motherly in its warmth and grip. He turned to look right into the vibrant eyes of Ginny Weasley, and for the first time ever, he felt that they could see eye to eye.

“Sit down,” she said, still rubbing his shoulder, “and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

The table in the middle of the expansive room was occupied with those who searched for dates and places, and once the true six ringleaders of the operation approached the table, linked together in one way or another through touch, the students dispersed, allowing them to take a seat. Ginny sat next to Draco, holding a steaming cup of tea out for him to drink, and he gratefully took it, muttering a, “Thank you.”

“Now that we have a location,” Granger said, tapping the tips of her fingers together as she thought, “I say we go and search. We’re allowed out, the eighth years—sorry Luna, Ginny—and we can go searching—”

“I’m going to go and look for Harry,” Ginny spoke vivaciously, staring Granger down with her fists in a clutch. “Besides, Draco can’t even go! Parole, remember? He can’t go past Hogsmeade!”

“I’m going,” Draco said himself, an ample amount of stubbornness in his voice. “I can't just sit back again. That’s all I ever do.”

“You could go to Azkaban, Draco,” Granger said, brow furrowing in concern as their gaze met. “He might not even be there and if you get caught—”

“Disillusionment charm, Granger. It’s not quite Potter’s magic Cloak, but if we keep to the shadows, I can sneak right past,” Draco said, determined. “Please, let me do something good.”

The entire table-full of people sighed.

“Say, what all comes with your parole?” Dean Thomas asked, leaning against the back of Longbottom’s chair. Finnigan plopped next to him, behind Granger.

“No magic outside of Hogwarts, no Defence Against Dark Arts—figured I might ‘gather some ideas’—completion of eighth year, O’s and E’s on my NEWT’s—more of my parents’ bidding—always being accompanied by an adult—which I believe every single one of the people on this mission are—I could inform you of all of the ins and outs of my probation, but I would rather not waste my breath for a nosy few.”

“We needed to know whether your risks are worth it and I think, with reason, one would understand if you snuck out with us. Maybe lose a few house points, a rather severe scolding, and we’d be on our way,” Granger said reasonably, surprising him with a congenial smile.

“When are we going?” Ginny asked, still plainly terse from the way her shoulders drew upwards.

“Wouldn’t today be as good as any other day?” Longbottom suggested, eyeing around for feedback.

“Might as well,” Weasley replied looking at Granger.

For a moment, she thought. Brows knit, she tapped her fingers together, nodding. “We’d have to leave right now.”

“Fine by me! Let’s go!” Ginny said, and stood up, jerking Draco upwards as well.

“Hold on, Ginny! We can’t leave just yet,” Ron stated, but stood up as well.

“Why can’t we?” Finnigan asked, which earned him a nudge in the ribs from his friend hanging off the other chair.

“We’re not going, are you barmy? Someone has to keep an eye on the clock,” Thomas said, nodding towards the clock. “Ginny is going whether Ron likes it or not and Luna, well….” Gesturing towards her, it was obvious that she was in another world. Eyes scanning the ceiling, she looked around, somewhat bobble-headed.

However, she glanced in the boys’ direction and smiled. “What about me?”

“Nevermind,” Thomas said, turning his eyes towards the ground.

“The key is to not look suspicious, Draco,” Granger spoke, nudging one of the boys off of the back of her chair. Standing, she allowed Finnigan to take a seat before she began to pace, and suddenly, a whiteboard appeared. With that red marker still in hand, she wrote:

Agenda

“Planning never gets us anywhere, plus you just said we could leave now,” Weasley said, taking the marker from her clutch. “Might as well leave and return before nightfall.”

For a moment, an argumentative stance flared within the woman. Puffing her chest slightly, she seemed ready to fight, but as soon as Weasley cocked his head and rose a brow, she backed off. Everyone knew the two bickered; it was Draco’s first time to witness Granger back away from a squabble.

“Okay, fine. I just thought—”

“I know, you want to be thorough,” he simpered, resting a hand on her shoulder.

“On our way, then?” Draco asked, wrapping the newly thought of cloak around himself. “The sooner we search, the sooner we’ll confirm or deny his residence in that hell-hole the lot of you assume he’s located at.”

“It’s not a hell-hole,” Granger argued.

“Well, you’d think he’d have a little more dignity,” the Slytherin assumed out loud, sipping the tea Ginny produced for him.

“He’s in hiding.” Granger shot him a worn glare before pulling out her wand. “We better be on our way.”

With that, the elite team of five—Luna remained in the Room of Requirement—departed.

“How far up the mountain did you say this was again?” Draco asked, growing tired from walking so much, especially since he couldn’t properly see himself. At least thrice he ran into Granger, merely because he could just barely see the outline of his body that camouflaged against the greenery of the mountainside.

“You asked two minutes ago, Draco, and the answer is still ‘I don’t know’. Be patient,” Granger groaned, tromping on the first path they found, used by what seemed like animals.

Just before Draco could throw an arrogant retort in her direction, the lot stopped in front of an indent in the side of the mountain. A lopsided smile embraced Weasley, whilst Granger bounced on her toes. They were obviously in front of the place they needed to be, but weren’t doing much other than ogling the site. Growing tired of standing behind an overexcitable crowd, Malfoy walked around the lot and straight into the cavern….

Where he found nothing.

Just a dim light found its way into the cave which could support a few larger animals, and absolutely nothing was there. The floor barren, Draco found nothing of importance. But as the others spilt in, they began to investigate the walls.

Granger was the first to find something.

“Look here!” she said, waving the others over. Draco moved among them, peering at a few drawings, obviously Potter’s. They were fresh on the stone, and markings of things no one else would draw: an owl and a lightning bolt. Both appeared to be ingrained with wandwork, which hadn’t been weathered down. Though he wasn’t an expert at this sort of thing, he couldn’t deny that it was less than a month old.

“The prat’s been in Hogsmeade, probably laughing at our misery!” Draco gasped, rushing up to run his hands over the stone. “He’s been here!”

A hushed sound of whispering emerged from the other four as Draco desperately groped at the stone, feeling its indent, feeling for any sort of warmth or life. Harry Potter had been there, a month or less ago. Where could he be now?

“Let’s go to Hog’s Head,” Ginny said after a moment, gripping Draco’s bicep. “We can discuss it with Aberforth, maybe he’d gather an idea of where he’d be.”

So the five of them ambled down the mountain and towards Hog’s Head Inn. By the time they approached the heart of Hogsmeade, Draco was no longer invisible. Not that anyone took much notice: he was allowed to remain within the boundaries of the village.

With the tinkling of bells, the front door of Hog’s Head burst open and the young adults filled with a newfound amount of vigour rushed in. Longbottom smiled sloppily, arm around Weasley, who held Hermione close. To them, it was a minuscule victory, something that could let them keep a close eye on the cave. Every day, Granger would check for any sign of life. They believed they were on to something.

But Draco, on the other hand, couldn’t quite believe that he would stay when he’d so easily be sought out.

“Mr Dumbledore!” Ginny gasped, rushing towards the Innkeeper behind the bar who was washing his butterbeer mugs.

“Aren’t you supposed to remain at Hogwarts, Miss Ginevra?” he asked, giving her a patronizing look. Then, his surly cornflower eyes shot in Draco’s direction. “What about your parole, boy?”

“We found where Harry was hiding out, Aberforth. They were only helping!” Longbottom added, which seemed to resonate with the old man. He softened, setting the glass mug aside.

“Let me guess: the same cave Sirius used as a hideout?” Aberforth said.

Weasley looked alarmed. “How did you—”

“I just do,” he answered, continuing with cleaning the mugs.

“Why?” Granger asked in a polite tone, leaning against the wood of the bar. “Did you know he was hiding out there?”

“I would think him a fool if he actually did. Maybe he did stay there. Maybe he knew you were wanting to find him. It happens that people who try to hide never want to be found. Now—”

A sudden thump from upstairs startled everyone, all nearly jumping out of their skin. Dumbledore, however, looked the most startled.

“What was that?” Ginny asked, clearly uneasy by the way she hugged herself in a sense of security.

“I hadn’t checked a room out to anyone—”

“Harry!” Granger cheered, then threw herself towards the stairwell, bolting up each step with increasing speed.

Weasley followed in tow, then Ginny, then Longbottom. Draco was last in line, other than Aberforth, who simply stumbled slowly behind them.

Granger flung open every door, finding nothing until she reached the last. She took a minute to compose herself, an inane smile on her face, but the minute she pushed the door open, the delighted visage slipped into a look of absolute terror. Before she realized it, she let out a scream so loud, the Inn practically shook with her sound waves.

Shocked, Weasley peered in, only to yell, “No!” just as loud if not louder than Granger. He ran in immediately, while Granger remained behind, slipping slowly down the painted room door. Ginny couldn’t look in. She hid in Longbottom.

And Draco…he stood frozen, too shocked to take anything in.

This much was obvious: Harry was in that room, dead. He had to be.

Walking towards the open door very slowly, Draco looked in to see a bloodied figure splayed across the floor. Dead, clearly, and with that mess of curled, raven-black hair. Glasses broken and on the other side of the room, the entire area was a mess, but a beautiful snow-white bird perched itself on Harry’s back, hooting quietly, sadly.

Finally, Draco took in what had really happened.

Harry Potter, the boy he loved so much, was dead, forever lost.

They said it was a suicide. He was cremated only a few minutes after he was pronounced dead, which took the Healers only a few minutes to confirm. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived was, indeed, found dead and lost in his mind. All the glory that came with the title had a cost.

And Draco thought he had it hard.

All through the year, he thought that having the world against him was so terrible, but really, when he thought about it, several people were on his side.

Granger, Weasley, Ginny, his parents. They were all alive, all well, all wanting him to prosper.

Not that Harry Potter didn’t have those people in his life, but several more died in his name.

Guilt, Draco guessed, lead him to a permanent state of dread that could only be cured with Death’s sweet kiss.

Draco didn’t want to romanticize anything so painful; no one could take the severity of the Boy Who Lived’s death lightly. The entire school was a wreck. Several little wizards and witches lost a hero. The Weasleys practically lost another son. And Draco, though it would always be unrequited, lost his first and only love.

A memorial for Harry Potter was approaching, and everyone was holding onto each other much tighter than ever. Just the other day, Ginny spent a good hour clinging to Draco, crying those dull but beautiful eyes out. She wasn’t the only one, he cried with her, and without her.

He no longer recognized what it was like not to cry. Tears were always in his eyes, spattered on his cheeks, drenching his uniform collar. He didn’t care what others thought.

Yes, he was crying about Potter.

No, he didn’t hate him.

Yes, if he could bring him back, he would.

And it was driving Draco mental, knowing that there wasn’t any way to bring him back. He was long gone by now, cremated and buried along with his parents.

If only he could’ve begun to experiment, to create some sort of potion that brought back the dead. Though Death was unbeatable, he would’ve done anything to best it, to spit in the face of such a cruel being. But there wasn’t any need, there wouldn’t be any need. Not any longer.

It was a cool, rainy day at Hogwarts, wind rolling through the lush courtyards and gardens of the grounds. A single paper flew through the air, spinning, falling, landing at the feet of Draco Malfoy, who was watching a statue of Harry being erected in the rose garden.  He was just behind the bushes, seeing that silver boy sparkling in the sun that just barely peeked out from the dense thunderclouds, but the paper caught his attention. Reaching down, he took claim of the sodden newspaper and found that it was a Prophet. The head article said:

The Scandalous Life of Harry Potter: What He Didn’t Want You to Know

Rage struck him through like lightning, his heart pounding angrily against his ribcage. Who could sully Harry Potter’s name like that, especially after finding him in such a way?! How dare they?!

Too angry to look at the words written on the front page, Draco wadded it up and threw it as far as he could, a choked out sob emitting from him with the throw. Knees buckling, suddenly weakening, Draco collapsed, helpless in any attempt to get up.

So, he lay there, sobbing until someone noticed his drenched, robe-clad figure lumped in the grass.

Gently, the person tugged on his arm and upon rolling onto his back, he looked into the eyes of Ginny.

Though red and puffy, those bright umber eyes of hers stared into his. Slowly, she crouched by his side, sniffing. “The article?”

“How dare they do that to him?!” Draco seethed, tears returning to his steely eyes. “The audacity!”

“If it makes you feel any better, Skeeter got sacked for writing it and the editor is apologizing profusely…”

“That’s not enough!” Draco boomed, standing up suddenly. “They can’t do that...t-they can’t—”

“Shh,” Ginny said, standing, pulling the taller boy into her arms. Propping her chin on his shoulder, she heaved an exhausted sigh. “Those who know realize that Harry was one of the best Wizards who ever lived.”

Shaking, crying, Draco nodded, burying his tearstained face into the mess of ginger hair.

For a while, they stood, embracing each other with the utmost intimacy a friendship could provide. She forgave him, all the Potterheads had, but a question burning a hole in Draco’s mind demanded to be asked.

“Ginny?” Draco said, breaking the silence.

She looked up, wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. “Yes?”

“D-do you think Harry would ever forgive me if he hadn’t died?” The question set Draco in another set of hysterics; he nearly crumbled in Ginny’s grip. “I was such a terrible person, Ginny! How could anyone forgive a filthy Death Eater like me? How could anyone ever risk being seen around me? I should’ve died! Not him! Not Harry!”

Grief pulsed from Draco, drawing attention to himself unintentionally. Those in the outdoor corridors began to pool around the pillars, looking into the garden.

“Oh, Merlin! I should’ve died! I should’ve been the one!”

“Mr Malfoy?” A concerned voice from far off called, but he was too far away, too caught up in his dread to focus on anyone or thing.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Ginny said in a strained voice. “He’s grieving, but he’s speaking nonsense.”

“We’ll take him to the hospital wing, get his head on straight,” the voice said.

Pale blue was not supposed to be dull, but as thousands crowded the Great Hall, Draco wanted to do nothing but stare at the enchanted ceiling. It was a week after the mishap in the garden, and though the potions kept his hysterics at bay, it didn’t stop the brutal attack from making an impact on him. What was once a boy with a hope to find the emerald-eyed saviour of the Wizarding World, became one with a deteriorating heart and a bleak mind. Everything was dull, boring, useless. He thought sixth year was a dark time. Nothing compared to how his beating heart felt like it broke with each pulse. Nothing compared to waking up with nothing to look forward to. Draco was forlorn, heartbroken, and sick.

The room was moist with the tears of Potter’s thousands of followers. The grounds of Hogwarts were jam-packed with people who didn’t even know him, but admired what he’d done.

Everyone acted like a personal friend, like they had known him all his life. They hadn’t, and not that Draco did either, but he knew far more than they did.

It was all too much, hearing everyone chatter about Harry’s life, spewing factoids, discussing his legacy cut short. Draco needed an out, so he shoved himself out of his chair and attempted to search for a way to depart, but before he could step even a centimetre away from his chair, Luna’s hand found its way around his left wrist.

“It’s about to begin, Draco. Don’t you want to be here?” she asked lightly but clearly worried.

“I can’t,” he said, bloodshot eyes turning to the podium prepared for the memorial. “I can’t.”

Luna nodded, withdrawing her grasp from his wrist. “Be safe, Draco.”

People parted as he walked right through, but with all the congestion, it took Draco a fair amount of time to escape the castle. The halls and courtyards were stuffed to the brim as well, but one place that remained vacant was the gardens. Draco supposed that McGonagall didn’t want Harry’s memorial to be trampled and placed a shield charm on the location. However, he stepped in with the slightest of ease and found himself at the feet of the life-sized statue of Harry Potter.

Everything about it was surprisingly accurate. From the arrogant but lovable stance to the glint of mischief in his eyes, the sculpture simply looked like a silver-covered version of the man.

If only.

Draco ran a hand along the bottom of the trousers of the sculpture, murmuring, “I know you would never believe me, but I miss seeing you in class. I used to look over and notice you, being the repulsive git you were, chewing on the top of your bloody quills.”

Laughing at the memory, he sat down and continued, “Also, I think you always struggled with holding a quill. You were used to your muggle devices, weren’t you?”

Fingers tracing over the gold plaque on the platform of the statue, he smiled, looking up at the face of silver. “You were an amazing person. I’m sorry the horrors of war were too much for you…” A few tears slipped down his cheeks. “They’re beginning to become too much for me, too…”

As he cried, a familiar Snowy Owl soared into view. No note was attached to it, as it hovered towards Draco. He stuck his arm out as a landing and it perched there, very gently.

Eyes turning back to the statue, he commenced with his soliloquy. “You know, the minute I knew I loved you was when you collapsed over my bleeding body. You regretted it, I could tell, and you panicked, groping desperately for a way to keep me from dying. I knew then. I knew then that if I died, it would be enough to die in your arms but I didn’t. And when the snatchers brought you to my house…”

Draco gasped, trying to keep himself from breaking into sobs. “I couldn’t let them touch you. I could never let them kill you. I’m sorry you’re not here. These are the words I didn’t say when you were alive, but I should’ve. I bloody should’ve.”

Finally, he allowed himself to openly sob, and as he did, the owl departed from his arm.

Draco didn’t notice, but someone was watching.

Gently, they grasped his shoulder and Draco froze, kicking himself for being caught. He should’ve never admitted something so private in such a public area, but he had.

So, he braced himself, turning around to face a presumably dead man.  

Harry James Potter stood right in front of him, a sheepish smile on his face. His eyes turned to the statue, gazing over his silver imposter. “They did a really good job on that.”

Dumbfounded, Draco gawked at the man in front of him. He was barely recognizable, hidden behind long hair and a thick beard, but the blazing eyes and lightning scar were enough to chart him as Harry Potter.

“Y-You’re dead. I…” Was Draco going mad?

“Oh, no. I’m not,” Harry said, grasping Draco’s wrists. “That...was a friend of mine. I’d been following him around…terminally ill, coughing up blood. He was going to die, so he agreed to let me use Polyjuice on him. My secret would die with him, as would my identity. You’re the only one who knows I’m alive.”

“You’re absolutely mental,” Draco whispered, reaching out to touch Harry. He ran a hand across Harry’s face, fingers analyzing the scar on his forehead. “Why in Merlin’s beard would you do that?”

Was Draco dreaming?

With this, Harry became a bit uncomfortable. Eyes turning to the brilliant green grass in the garden, he said, “It would be better if the world thought I was dead.”

How could he think that? So many people depended on him, worshipped him, looked to be just like him. How could he just say that?

“No, it wouldn’t!” Draco snapped, anger flaring in his silver eyes. “Why would you say that?!”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath, as if he was counting to ten. “I found out… The Boy Who Lived… I can’t die.”

Draco cocked a brow. “Wait, you mean—”

“I’m immortal.”

“And you don’t want that?” Draco whispered, stepping closer.

“Of course I don’t!” Harry retorted. “If I stay, I watch everyone I love die. If I live apart, if I’m not ‘alive’, I’m not actively sought out and found and showered with affection.”

“You want to be miserable,” Draco said, crossing his arms.

“I mean, you’re not wrong. I have to live as a bloody owl for the rest of my life,” he replied.

Draco thought about it, about the situation in front of him. Harry Potter was alive and immortal.

Immortality.

“How...how did this happen?” Draco asked, hugging Harry all of a sudden, filled with utter relief. Potter was hesitant at first, twitching in the boy’s arms, but caved and hugged Draco.

“I killed Voldemort and sacrificed my own death.” Harry sighed. “I did what I had to do...and I do  forgive you, Draco.”

Draco froze. “You heard..?”

“I’ve been acting as a second year’s owl for a while now.”

“But how?” Draco asked. “How could you forgive someone like me? I’m a bad person, Harry. I—”

“What do you think about your role in the war?” Harry asked, which hardly seemed to correlate with the subject. Through squinted eyes, Draco looked at Harry, saying, “I regretted everything I did to hurt—”

“Bad people don’t know how to regret, but good people who made terrible decisions do,” Harry said, cupping Draco’s pale, gaunt cheek.

“I almost killed Dumbledore, I’ve tortured countless people, I allowed people to get hurt, killed! I—”

“Draco,” Harry said, which silenced the boy. “You notice you’ve done something wrong. It torments you. You’re going to have to forgive yourself too. That’s the second step to redemption...if you could call it that, I guess.”

“And what’s the first?” Draco hadn’t realized, but he was entirely flushed. Cheeks red, eyes trained on Harry, who had those stubby hands on his face, he stared at the Boy Who Lived in amazement.

He felt so solid, so real, so alive and tangible.

“Knowing your faults,” he said. And then, he lessened the space between them, inching closer. “Draco?”

“Harry?” Draco whispered.

“I’ve been watching you—not just you, everyone that’s been looking for me—and I can just say that seeing you develop as your own person, well, has shown me who you really are and what intentions you have.” Gently, his free hand carded the silvery-blond strands of Draco’s hair out of his face.

“I’m not my parents,” he replied, voice rasping.

“Exactly. And, may I say, I think I’m attracted to the man you really are.” Harry smiled, genuinely, and rested his forehead on Draco’s. “I like you, and you love me. I think, if we can try, we can make something of this.”

“But Harry,” Draco whispered, dizzy and hypnotized by Potter’s mere touch, “I’ll die. I’ll have to be a vampire or something. I—”

Harry’s laughter dismissed him. “We’ll make it work. Vampire or not, we’ll make it work.” And then, Harry’s lips found Draco’s. For a split second, the world spun under his feet, the moment too surreal for it to be possible. But he opened his eyes and he stared right back at himself in the reflection of Harry’s glasses. This was happening, he was actually kissing Harry sodding Potter.

He dipped into the kiss, but before anything further could commence, Harry withdrew, looking around madly. “I heard something…I have to go.”

But before Harry could scamper off, Draco clutched his wrist. “So spontaneous...will you ever come back?”

“I’m here every day, you’ll just have to find me in the Owlery.” Smiling, he stepped back and transfigured into his animagus, that beautiful Snowy Owl, and took off, heading straight to his tower.

Draco noted a peculiarity in Potter’s animagus that mirrored his human self. A familiar lighting scar struck through his forehead, stark against his white feathering.

Draco watched Harry disappear, and as soon as he did, a bittersweet smile graced his lips. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

He would live forever.

Too bad the confrontation didn’t last longer, too bad he couldn’t ask any questions, but they kissed, they kissed! Absentmindedly, Draco ran his fingers along his chapped lips. Was this a chase? Did Draco have to find him?

He was right in the tower, he wasn’t too far.

Harry Potter was under their noses the whole time….

Satisfied, he turned towards the exit and found Ginny standing there, confused and tear stained. She didn’t know.

“Draco?” she said, wiping the large tears from her cheeks. He hadn’t any idea how far along the memorial was, but she was clearly shaken.

The man simply walked over,  hugging his younger friend, saying, “Everything will be okay.”

“How do you know?” she whimpered.

Draco’s eyes fluttered to the Owlery tower, seeing a white speck perched on the edge of the arch owls flew from. Harry’d always be watching.

“I just do.”

[ryanmeft]

My Favorite Films of 2018, part 1

Let’s make the introduction quick: these are my favorite films released in 2018. As always, the rules are simple: I don’t say they are the best or that you must agree, simply that I found them the most memorable. They are in completely random order, with no emphasis on one over another. Films released at festivals but not to the public in 2017 are counted as 2018, as are films that were not available in the United States. I apologize for not having the accents on certain people’s named; I don’t know how to reproduce them.  

 Many excellent films didn’t make the cut this year, and it was already difficult to narrow down my shortlist of 26 to 14. I had to stop there, as I could not bring myself to cut anymore. The list is in two parts this year to accommodate the additional length.

 Let’s get rolling.

Sorry To Bother You

While decent-but-ordinary films got lauded with undeserved reputations for being revolutionary, Boots Riley was quietly (okay…maybe not so quietly) sliding this biting, bizarre, hard-edged satire under the radar. Where most films have simple good guys and bad guys, Riley takes furious aim at everyone in sight. Black people are exploited by a white establishment. The hero only cares about his own advancement until he himself is taken advantage of. His girlfriend rails about purity but sells out almost immediately herself. A labor organizer is mostly doing it to get laid. The film is driven by Lakeith Stanfield, whose performance as a black telemarketer who finds tremendous success by kow-towing to his white bosses is a sterling and hilarious take on the classic everyman. Supporting roles from Danny Glover and Armie Hammer, in particular, contribute greatly. Nobody escapes unscathed, leaving the film with only one viewpoint: everybody in the world is a terrible hypocrite to one degree or another. Riley’s outspokenness didn’t help the film at major awards shows, but it likely would have been shafted anyway. Like other huge, overlooked critical hits, from Inside Llewyn Davis to Lucky, it is just too nihilistic to grab people’s attention.

Paddington 2

Iron Men and super spies are nice, but they can’t approach the sheer joy, creativity, adventure, humor and heart of the Paddington series, which started out great and got better with this sequel. All the cast you loved the first time around are back, but just like the Harry Potter franchise, it’s the new faces and what director Paul King and co-writer Simon Farnaby do with them that makes this one special. Most notable is Hugh Grant, who both honors and spoofs his own career reputation by playing a washed-up former celebrity who tries to frame Paddington to restore his lost lustre. Grant devours every one of his scenes, as he skips comically between costumes and disguises. Brendan Gleeson is one of those actors who is never unwelcome, and here he plays a tough-as-nails prison cook with a heart of gold. The movie gets as sweetly silly as turning an entire prison’s uniforms pink and as genuinely thrilling as a final train chase that is the most exciting action sequence of the year. The key to Paddington is that there’s not a cynical thing about him---his movies just consistently and unerringly deliver pure creative joy.

The Sisters Brothers

In recent years the western genre has moved hard towards social commentary. Jacques Audiard’s adaptation of a Patrick DeWitt novel, co-written with Thomas Bidegain, has such unconventional heroes that it takes aim at the traditional western strongman even when it isn’t trying to. John C. Reilly and Joaquin Phoenix play a pair of mercenary brothers who are, respectively, too sensitive and too useless to have ever been stars in westerns of old. Jake Gyllenhaal is an eloquent bounty hunter and Riz Ahmed is the inventor they are all after. The wild west was definitely not a storied land of opportunity for all. The hired hands are out to kill Ahmed’s character because a powerful businessman feels entitled to his invention, and the film ends in greed, tragedy and brokenness rather than success. That’s not to say it has no trappings of the classics, as it may be the most beautiful western ever made; painstaking detail has gone into towns and saloon halls, while a wilderness stream lit up with a phosphorescent gold-finding chemical has a mesmerizing beauty. All these good looks serve to back up a dark comic story, and it is a highly effective contrast.

Capernaum

Nadine Labaki’s film about a 12-year-old boy in prison for striking back at his desperate poverty was criticized, in some circles, for not being bleaker than it is. Labaki and her team of writers, with a mostly non-professional cast, have painted a picture of life in the world’s slums that mostly foregoes easy drama in favor of being unblinkingly, ceaselessly blunt about the sheer offenses against human life that take place there. The focus of the film is Zain, named after the young actor Zain Al Rafeea, whose parents recklessly pop out kids despite barely being able to care for themselves. They enjoy themselves in a bed right next to the floor housing their seven children; in court, they insist that the existence of their kids is a burden on them. Zain ends up temporarily becoming a sort of custodian for a friend’s infant son, and we see three stops on a sad spectrum: the innocent baby unaware of life’s terrors, the broken boy he may become without help, and the adults that are the result of a life lived without hope. That the film’s bad guy, a human trafficker, is eventually foiled is not the catharsis it would be in a more multiplex-oriented movie, because we know there will just be another after him, and another, and another.

First Man

A bio-pic of a quiet man with no political message was never going to do well in the modern movie landscape, and that’s a shame. Ryan Gosling’s taciturn portrayal of Neil Armstrong is the fuel of a film that is not about the glory of space travel but about the risks and tolls it takes, all of which are recreated with bone-rattling immediacy. Damien Chazelle and Josh Singer ignore the political demands of the moment to portray one of our most important national figures exactly as he was: a reserved man more concerned with math than with press conferences, whose taciturn response to what he’d bring with him to the moon was “More fuel”. Yet what really sells the film is the time we spend in the various cockpits with Armstrong. Where Linus Sandgren could have gone for soaring vistas and patriotic imagery, he instead brings home the terror and uncertainly of space travel in a way that makes the stakes feel real and immediate. Chazelle eschews the need to see the past through the lens of the present, and an excellent movie results.

Annihilation

Some science fiction deals in lasers and spaceships. Some deals in thoughts and ideas. Alex Garland’s trippy sci-fi adventure, based on a novel by Jeff VanderMeer, is certainly the latter. A team of women, led by Natalie Portman and Jennifer Jason Leigh, enter a no-go zone where it seems the local scenery is slowly being eaten by alien vegetation. What they find there is up to the viewer to interpret, but Garland wisely decide to really let us think about it by pulling back on the horror and leaving much unexplained. The world inside the “Shimmer” is quiet and haunting, not packed with activity. When monsters do attack, it comes in small-scale, individualistic encounters, rather than wars between armies of CGi. It’s also notable that whereas a very specific kind of woman is often held up as an example of strong female characters, the women here are the opposite: ordinary people, more egghead than warrior, investigating rather than kicking ass; a movie that relegates Oscar Isaac to about 20 minutes of screen time certainly has the courage of its characters.

Roma

Another example of a film whose greatness is achieved specifically because it bucks the need to have a message or to conform to momentary fits of politics, Roma tells a simple story of a middle-class Mexican family in the 70’s and their working class servant. It commits numerous sins of modern cinema: the middle-class family is not seen as oppressors, the servant is not seen as a victim, nothing in the film is a veiled attack on systems of any kind or shape. Therein lies the beauty, captured perfectly by Yalitza Aparicio. She plays Cleo, the servant, and while the film is seen through her eyes---so that we witness only the snatches of family life she does---Alfonso Cuaron has never been given much to preaching, and that’s still true here, despite it being his most personal film. It’s also mournfully beautiful in black and white, with city houses shown as a tangle of balcony stairs and one-car garages, and an especially beautiful shot of woods on fire. The kind of film you think about for years after seeing it once, it’s also Cuaron’s most intimate accomplishment. Part 2: http://ryanmeft.tumblr.com/post/182988135292/my-favorite-films-of-2018-part-2

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: March 2020

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of March 2020 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

It turns out that proven liar Boris Johnson hiding in a mansion for two weeks rather than say or do anything when large parts of the country were flooded was merely an appetiser for his approach to COVID-19, which mainly consisted of briefly mostaking himself for Lord Farquaad when telling the nation that some people will die and it's a sacrifice he is willing to make, and then going on to state that the approach he will be taking is one of herd immunity...and approach that requires 60% of the population to contract the virus, which means that if COVID-19 had a fatality rate of just 1% that’s around 400,000 people he’s casually allowing to die - and given the fatality rate is estimated at the time of writing as being between 2-3% all of a sudden having eugenicists tucked away in his backroom staff gets a lot more sinister

So with COVID-19 panic nicely stoked, what did the panic buyers rush out to buy as they feared the possibility of having to self-isolate for two weeks?  Their own bodyweight in toilet role and antibacterial - not antiviral - hand sanitiser, as opposed to things you need if you’re locked away from the world for two weeks such as food or water

Isn’t it funny how every single journalist and pundit who was creaming about how the Labour budget pledges in their 2019 manifesto ranged from being “unworkable” to “COMMUNIZZM” were all out in force to praise Rishi Sunak for his brave and forward-thinking Budget...that simply copy & pasted the budget pledges from Labour’s 2019 manifesto

...similarly, convicted felon Darren Grimes was quick to tweet photos of empty shelves in the UK as an example of what would happen if Corbyn got elected.  Photos that were taken this month, in a country where Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson won the election, so as arguments against “soShulIzm” go that’s a really bad one

The problem with putting a brainless drone like Matt Hancock in a position of responsibility is that, when everyone is grossly overstating how many of us are going to die in agony of Chinese Death Flu, the only thing he knows how to do is try and save face for his party - which is the only logical explanation for him outright lying about the Tory government working with supermarkets to make sure they’re fully stocked at a time when the shelves are being cleared out of toilet roll and hand sanitiser by stupendously misinformed paranoiacs

...that being said, even Matt Hancock is aware that listing the Early Warning and Response System as a red line is profoundly idiotic, and has been proven to be profoundly idiotic by COVID-19 - however, because Dominic Cummings has stated that it’s a red line, we should opt out of it because of reasons

It was no surprise that Dan Hodges responded to the allegations of Priti Patel bullying Home Office staff by penning an article that did nothing but sneer, damning Labour supporters for saying they wanted diversity but then criticising a woman of Indian descent whose parents fled to the UK from Uganda...which apparently means she can’t be criticised for gross incompetence, having a remarkable streak of vindictiveness, and we definitely should not mention she should not be a minister due to the whole being guilty of treason thing

Minister of Propaganda Laura Kuenssberg continued her LARPing of Terry Gilliam’s Brazil when stating that the reason the Tories were pulling back from their insane idea of infecting 60% of the population to increase immunity was because the science had changed since they proposed the idea, rather than reporting the reality - which is her fucking job - that the science has remained consistent, it’s just the Tories were surprised when the public didn’t respond well to the idea of deliberately contracting COVID-19 so that the Tories could continue fumbling their way through it

The list of totalitarian moves from the Tory government got that little bit longer when they blocked The British Museum’s move to make Mary Beard a trustee because of her expressing pro-Remain views, which definitely isn’t cause for revealing proven liar Boris Johnson is expecting a child he acknowledges the existence of concern

Florida governor Ron DeSantis has been put in a quandary with Spring Break right around the corner even though the COVID-19 pandemic is right on top of him, so he looked for advice of how to deal with the situation - which appears to have been him watching that well-known documentary Jaws to see how the mayor of Amity Island responded to a series of shark attacks right before the 4th of July by pretending that everything was fine

Congratulations to Richard Branson for being the first billionaire in the UK to try and paint themselves as the poor, innocent victim of the COVID-19 pandemic by demanding the government give him £7.5bn to cover the losses incurred by having to pay his staff for flights which won’t take place - even though he’s more than capable of covering their pay for the duration out of his £4.2bn fortune

...as opposed to Tim Martin who merely said that pubs should remain open, because if a single Wetherspoons closes he loses money, and by the way Britait should go ahead no matter what - and when pubs were forced to close, first staff were informed via passive aggressive press release that they wouldn’t be paid a penny for the duration of their enforced closures, before Martin decided the best thing to do in the situation is post a video where he tells his disgruntled employees they may as well get a job at Tesco if money is so important

A round of applause for Matt Gaetz for proving how COVID-19 isn’t a big deal by wearing a gas mask on the floor of the House of Representatives to show how people are blowing it out of all proportion...and within a few days looking like a monumental bellend when somebody within his own district died from it

So are we allowed to talk about how, when Dominic Raab was asked about flying Brits back from Lima, his response had him believe that Lima is in the Philippines?  I have to ask, considering people are still hounding Diane Abbott about the one time she flubbed her sums in 2017 yet somehow don;t have a single thing to say about the Foreign Secretary not even knowing which continent Lima is in

Nobody told Jeremy Warner about the Telegraph having a readership primarily made up of people above retirement age, which is the only logical reason for him to make his comment about how COVID-19 “might even prove mildly beneficial in the long term by disproportionately culling elderly dependants” - and, yes, that is a direct quote from Warner

It’s almost tragic that Douglas Carswell used Covid-19 as an opportunity to tweet the ludicrous assertion that Universal Basic Income shouldn't be introduced because the Romans subsidising grain in 123 BC is what caused the Roman Republic to collapse...even though the Roman Republic lasted until 44 BC, a mere 79 years later.  For some strange reason, Carswell spent the remainder of the day blocking everyone who pointed this out...

One thing that would help Lisa Nandy is that, if she's going to say how terrible it was there were various competing factions within the Labour party under Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership, it would really help if she didn’t think she could omit the small detail of her being so prominent in one of these factions that she was front and centre of an attempted coup to overthrow Corbyn almost as soon as he was elected party leader

It took Dominic Raab less than twenty seconds of his first press conference as interim leader to show just how seriously he’s taking instructions about how to avoid infection when he started licking his fingers after touching the pages of his briefing notes, something which had been established as something you should not do for several weeks before this

Nothing sums up the BBC more than how, when looking for an expert to talk about COVID-19 on Newsnight, they brought on waffling gargoyle Nigel Farage - somehow missing the facts that he has no connections with the NHS and is neither an MP or MEP, so they may as well have brought in Larry the cat as an “expert” for the segment

As advice for aspiring boxers goes, the advice Billy Joe Saunders gave about imagining your wife or girlfriend giving you lip as motivation for attempting an uppercut to the chin throws up a lot of questions - with one of them being answered very quickly, namely the question about when his boxing license would be revoked 

Of course sentient testicle Toby Young was going to venture forth his batshit opinions about Covid-19, but he went all-out writing a piece saying that we should simply let the elderly and the disabled die as they’re a strain on our economy and, if they follow his instructions, the lockdown will be over by Easter Sunday and we can send the kiddywinkles back to school

In a single tweet Alison Pearson managed to race bait by saying that the term “Made in China” shall forever be a badge of shame...while making herself look like a clueless clod as Twitter helpfully informed everyone that said tweet was sent via her Chinese-made iPhone

...sort of like Isabel Oakeshott howling with indignant rage about how terrible it is that some private school are sending the bills for next year’s education to their pupils’ parents as if that is the worst thing to happen during the Covid-19 crisis

...although Isabel Oakeshott being Isabel Oakeshott it didn’t take long to top that by predictably turning Prince Charles testing positive for Covid-19 by twisting that into an excuse to attack Meghan Markle for her and Prince Harry not dropping everything to rush back to the UK

At some point Vanessa Hudgens should have considered that, if she's going to post a live video of her discussing COVID-19, it might have been a good idea to write down a basic structure first so she didn’t run the risk of sounding as callous as she did clueless - which naturally led to Paul Joseph Watson to tweet out the usual finger-pointing about how millennials are treating the outbreak with a laissez-faire attitude, as if noted Boomers such as Xi Jinping, Donald Trump and Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson have been the image of proactiveness 

It’s worrying that Derbyshire Police were so quick to act as if they were Judge Dredd, using police drones to harass people who were taking walks even though the lockdown guidelines clearly allow exercise as a reason to leave your home

It seems that Red Bull Leipzig have experienced one of the worst symptoms of COVID-19, namely seeing somebody of Far Eastern origin and completely losing their shit, which would explain why they booted a group of Japanese fans out of their ground on the assumption that, as they look a bit Chinese, that obviously meant they were going to infect the entire ground

According to Fiona Bruce she was surprised by the levels of toxicity surrounding Question Time, conveniently forgetting the time she egged on a hostile crowd by doing a fully routine of jokes about Diana Abbott ahead of an episode in which Abbott appeared 

Leeds goalkeeper Kiko Casilla appears to have gone to the Wayne Hennessey School of Not Knowing An Obviously Bad Thing Is Bad, since his defence of when brought up on charges of calling a Charlton player a “fucking n-word” (and, no, it wasn’t “n-word” that he said) was that he wasn't aware that calling somebody that was in any way offensive

Of course we could rely on Kirstie Allsopp to somehow make the Covid-19 crisis all about her, and naturally she responded to the lockdown by taking her entire family to their second property in Devon...including one family member who had tested positive for Covid-19

And finally, as per usual, we have Donald Trump waving around his medical degree from Trump University where he claims that he’s the most qualified doctor in the entire United States and nobody should worry about COVID-19 as he has plenty of a vaccine that doesn’t exist, and besides the virus only exists in countries that are part of the Schengen agreement so everything’s fine, and don’t forget it's actually called “Chinese flu” and must be addressed as such at all times so the blame is placed firmly on China for everything he gets wrong

[ismael37olson]

No, No, Nanette!

There's a lot more going on in No, No, Nanette! than most people realize. This first of the genuine classics of musical comedy appeared on Broadway in 1925, with a book by Otto Harbach and Frank Mandel (based on Mandel’s play His Lady Friends), music by Vincent Youmans (then only twenty-six), and lyrics by Irving Caesar (then only twenty-nine) and Harbach. Youmans was hired as the composer only because his mother made a sizeable investment in the show and demanded producer Harry Frazee hire her son, but he proved himself an outstanding composer. Youmans enjoyed the kind of harmonic sophistication and experimentation that only George Gershwin equaled at the time, along with a genuine gift for melody. Built on an old-fashioned, three-act, one-set-per-act structure, the story focused on three couples Jimmy and Sue Smith, Billy and Lucille Early, and the young lovers Tom and Nanette. Because Sue is so tight with the millions Jimmy has made selling Bibles, Jimmy “adopts” three pretty young women and finances their various enterprises. Jimmy, his lawyer Billy, and his niece Nanette all go to Atlantic City to meet the three girls who are now threatening to blackmail Jimmy. Lucille catches Billy with the girls, Tom and the rebellious, looking-to-raise-some-hell Nanette fight, everyone gets confused, and it looks like no one will get a happy ending. But sure enough, everything gets explained and after some hits songs like “Tea for Two” and “I Want to Be Happy,” all is forgiven. (In fact, the majority of Nanette’s score become pop hits.)

This was the music of the jazz age, not of Europe, not of ten years before, but of that very moment in America, music audiences could sing or dance to after the show. This story was about American now. The Act I finale was the kind of extended musical scene that would become commonplace later in the century in shows like Carousel, Into the Woods, and others, but here it was in 1925. Every moment and every song supported the plot and relationships and unlike many shows that had come before it, Nanette had something to say. The show was about money and American greed. Nearly every character in the show had some interesting and/or fucked-up relationship to money. Jimmy was a near-millionaire who loved giving people money just to make them happy, and the three gold-diggers girls were there just to con him into giving them generous handouts. Jimmy’s wife Sue was thrifty and hated the idea of spending money foolishly. Sue’s best friend Lucille was a compulsive shopper, buying things just for the sake of buying them, and to keep her husband on a leash by making him work like crazy to pay her bills. Nanette feels imprisoned because she has no money of her own and thus, no independence. The maid Pauline even had a song early in the show to set up this theme, “Pay Day Pauline” (cut from the revival). Money, Nanette was telling us, is a weapon, a source of power, a prison, and a sure road to victimization. Most interestingly, Jimmy has made his fortune as a Bible publisher, a subtle reminder of the Bible’s admonition that the love of money is the root of all evil. America in 1925 and its rampant consumerism was right there on stage to be laughed at, sure, but also to be slyly and accurately commented upon. But interestingly, this hit show didn’t start on Broadway. It first opened in Detroit in April 1924, then went on to Chicago in May 1924 for a six month run, where it underwent repeated emergency surgery. (Only after its run in Detroit did its songwriting team write the show’s two biggest hits, “Tea for Two” and “I Want to Be Happy.”) Each time the show was changed, the critics were invited back, and each time they liked it a bit more. Still, by the end of the Chicago run, producer H. H. Frazee had lost about $75,000. A second Nanette company was sent to Philadelphia and the eastern seaboard. Another company was sent west. The rights to a London production were sold while it toured and so it opened in London in March 1925, a full six months before its Broadway debut. In fact, it ran longer in London than on Broadway – 665 performances in London, and only 321 performances on Broadway. In April 1926, the show opened in France, with much more spectacle and much more dance. Then the London production toured to Berlin (1926), Vienna (1927), and Budapest (1928). Also in 1927, a few of the same folks put together a completely unrelated sequel called Yes, Yes, Yvette, which ran forty performances (apparently forty more than it deserved). Obviously something in Nanette's subtle but scathing satire connected with audiences, not just in New York, but across the country and around the world.

Nanette was assaulted... oops, I mean revived in 1971, the script ransacked, songs cut, the score fiddled with and clumsily over-orchestrated, the whole thing overproduced and gaudy, but it still ran 861 performances, eclipsing the original production. Sadly, the very funny opening number “Flappers Are We” was cut, along with both songs sung by the wise-cracking maid, Pauline, and much of the satire about Americans’ obsession with money. Nanette had been neutered and it became harmlessly cute nostalgia rather than hilariously sly social commentary. They took what had been an intelligent, well-crafted musical comedy and dumbed it down into what people in the 1970s only thought musicals of the 1920s were like, in the process losing all that was special about the original. The revival's producer Cyma Rubin (nicknamed "the Black Witch" by the Nanette company) had hired the retired Busby Berkeley to both direct and choreograph the show (figuring she could save a salary that way) but he just wasn’t up to it. So he became a "consultant" and Burt Shevelove took over as director. Before long, Shevelove was also writing an entirely new script. Everyone had agreed that the original script just would not do, but Charlie Gaynor, who had been first hired to write the new script, loved the original too much. He barely changed it, infuriating Rubin. So Shevelove now found himself writing a new script at night while he rehearsed the cast during the day, sometimes canceling rehearsals because there literally was no script to rehearse. He began by paring down the original script to its essentials – but that wasn’t as easy as it sounds. And there were more problems. Donald Saddler was called in to choreograph this tap dancing show, but he couldn’t tap dance. Raoul Pene du Bois was designing costumes but didn’t have a script yet. Buster Davis was creating new orchestrations but wasn’t sure which songs would be in the new script. Shevelove explained his intentions to the cast this way: “The world today is not a pretty place. It is filled with terrible news every day of Vietnam, campus riots, pollution, crime, inflation. The audiences that will come to see our show will have heard enough – much too much – about all those things. We must take their minds off these problems and make them concerned only with this: Will Nanette, this innocent little child get her wish and spend a weekend in Atlantic City? Nothing else, nothing else at all, is important. This warm, sunny, lovely little show must be our valentine to the audience.”

But he didn't understand the show he was rewriting. The original Nanette had dealt with more; Nanette and Tom had only been a frame upon which to hang some very insightful satire and social commentary. And Shevelove had also bought into the terrible myth that audiences want escape. They don't. They want connection. That's very different. Also, Nanette was not "this innocent little child," but a young woman who wanted some independence for herself, at a time when many women were craving that -- both in 1925 and in 1971! The revival finally opened, after a very bumpy ride, in January 1971. (Don Dunn’s tell-all book The Making of No, No, Nanette, now out of print, told the whole sordid tale.) Critic Martin Gottfried wrote in Women’s Wear Daily, “Somewhere along the way, Burt Shevelove decided to make this show ‘nice’ and instead of the potentially brilliant, he settled for the vacantly agreeable.” John Simon called the show “mendacious and stupid beyond the rights of any show, however escapist, to be in this day and age.” Musical theatre had changed; ironically, the real Nanette probably would have been better received in 1971. As other shoddily revised revivals – soon to be called "revisals" – like Irene and Good News, followed in Nanette’s percussive footsteps, the critics revolted. With mutilated scripts and composite scores taken from multiple sources, these revivals barely resembled the originals. Brendan Gill of The New Yorker called this new genre, “show-biz body snatching” and “a sort of brightly painted mummy case in which bits and pieces of other once celebrated cadavers have been made to mingle with a portion of the authentic remains.”

It's the same problem we have in the New York commercial theatre today, producers and directors who don't understand the material they're working on, especially when that material is something genuinely fresh and unique. Just look at the terribly misguided original Broadway productions of High Fidelity, Cry-Baby, and Heathers, just to name a few recent examples. Most directors of plays try to make sure they understand the play before they start directing it. Directors of musicals, especially many working in New York, don't always do that. They try to make it what they want it to be, instead of discovering what it is. And now in this new Golden Age for our art form, so many new shows are unlike any others, with their own very unique set of rules. If a director doesn't bother to figure out what those rules are, they'll do damage to the show. Just as Shevelove and friends did to No, No, Nanette. Not all comedy works the same, and not all musicals work the same. And sometimes, the shows that seem lightweight on the surface have a great deal going on underneath. Just look at Hair, Grease, and Rocky Horror, all three shows usually dismissed as shallow, kitschy, messy, unstructured, and/or empty-headed. But all three are smart, carefully constructed, insightful commentaries on incredibly pivotal moments in our cultural history. People seem to assume that if a show is fun, it can't also be substantial, but New Line disproves that over and over, with Jerry Springer the Opera, American Idiot, Bat Boy, Cry-Baby, Heathers, and so many other shows -- most recently and perhaps most notably, Anything Goes. And we're about to disprove it again in March, when we open La Cage aux Folles. Long Live the Musical! Scott from The Bad Boy of Musical Theatre http://newlinetheatre.blogspot.com/2018/10/no-no-nanette.html