S: And that’s why I would tell my past self about you, John.
It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed is you.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald (via hardcore)
Neville’s office isn’t in the castle. Well, there is technically a room assigned to him (third floor, fifth door on the right, mind the re-located portrait of Sir Cadogan). But if you needed help with your Herbology assignment or were sent to see the Head of Gryffindor House about that parakeet you snuck into the fifth floor girl’s toilets, you would never find him there.
Neville had a small cottage near the greenhouses. There had been some grumbling about its creation when Neville first started teaching, but it was hard to argue with the Minister’s favorite advisor who just happened to be a hero. So the cottage was built and young Mr. Longbottom and his new wife moved onto the Hogwarts grounds.
There was a steady stream of students coming in and out of the little house during class breaks. Some carried odd potted plants, some looks of guilt etched on their faces, and some simply dropped by to say hello. The windows had bright curtains and the chimney always cheerfully puffed smoke. It was hard not to feel welcomed by the cozy exterior.
Things were different after night fell. Students still weren’t allowed to wander the grounds at night, but everyone turned a blind eye to those who knocked on the cottage door under cover of darkness. These students carried no gifts and bore no cheery smiles. Their faces were tear-stained or bruised or fearful. They were hunched over, trying to make themselves as small as possible. They knocked on the door with shaking hands and trembling lips.
When they entered they would find a crackling fire, a squashy armchair, some of Hannah Longbottom’s famous ginger biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. And they would find Professor Longbottom, smiling kindly. He heard stories of homesickness, of bullies and taunts, of fears and failures. He dried tears and patted backs. And most importantly, he listened.
He might quietly find a bully and intervene. He might Apparate from the Three Broomsticks to the nearest Muggle town and place a call to a concerned parent. He might consult with Madam Pomfrey on the best way to help manage the anxieties of an overwhelmed fifth year. He might simply sit and give a firm and thoughtful piece of advice. But this is not why students came to Professor Longbottom’s house when life was bleak and Hogwarts was too much to bear.
They came because he had once, so many years ago, been like them. And because they, unlike him, would never have to be alone.
(written and submitted by ppyajunebug. This is another very sweet submission from this author. ppyajunebug’s wizarding world always feels like ultimately a good place, where wrongs are righted and people do kind things. It’s an inviting, pleasant look at canon; thank you, ppyajunebug!)
We all saw that and we didn’t realize …….
SHERLOCK WANTED JOHN TO IMITATE THE NOISE!
AS EVER WE FANGIRLS SEE BUT WE DO NOT OBSERVE
Did he just
Martin Freeman managed to get a middle finger in the movie after all.
The Best Birth Control In The World Is For Men by Jon Clinkenbeard
If I were going to describe the perfect contraceptive, it would go something like this: no babies, no latex, no daily pill to remember, no hormones to interfere with mood or sex drive, no negative health effects whatsoever, and 100 percent effectiveness. The funny thing is, something like that currently exists.
The procedure called RISUG in India (reversible inhibition of sperm under guidance) takes about 15 minutes with a doctor, is effective after about three days, and lasts for 10 or more years…
Oh, and when you do decide you want those babies, it only takes one other injection of water and baking soda to flush out the gel, and within two to three months, you’ve got all your healthy sperm again.
The trouble is, most people don’t even know this exists. And if men only need one super-cheap shot every 10 years or more, that’s not something that gets big pharmaceutical companies all fired up, because they’ll make zero money on it (even if it might have the side benefit of, you know, destroying HIV).
can this replace the normal contraception methods we have pls
This has existed for YEARS. They ran an article about it in WIRED magizine but I don’t think anyone read it .-.
(Guys I wrote my first little fan fic/short story…Had to express my parent!lock feels somehow. Feedback would be lovely! Please don’t repost, only reblog if you so desire)
Sherlock and John take Hamish to a dinosaur museum. Hamish, by age 4, has decided he wants to be an archaeologist. Sherlock spends the whole time pointing out the gaudy fakes and complaining about the irrelevance of dinosaurs to real life, and John gets mad at him for ruining Hamish’s imagination. While they stand there quietly bickering, Hamish runs circles around them in awe, shrieking “Daddy, Poppa, look!!” every few seconds and earnestly asking them questions. Sherlock and John forget about their argument when they see their son so happy and engaged, and they continue around the rest of the day with wide-eyed Hamish on Sherlock’s shoulders; John walks right by their side, explaining all the signs and pictures. They even buy him a little archaeologist’s hat in the gift shop, and he wears it when he goes on cases with Sherlock and John, dark hair sticking out from underneath the brim while he helps them “uncover clues”. John doesn’t let Hamish near any human bones, but Sherlock hides some chicken bones from their dinner a few nights previous in a plot of dirt to keep him entertained while working on a particularly time-consuming case. John protectively watches Hamish digging from the window, murmuring detached agreement to Sherlock’s ramblings about the possible murderer of the corpse in the corner. The little boy uncovers the bones and, shrieking with delight, sprints inside to Sherlock and John with them clutched in his tiny grubby hands. Hamish carefully sets them on the table and the little family takes turns brushing the dirt off of them and guessing what they could be. When Sherlock ‘deduces’ they’re definitely valuable, Hamish beams with pride, because he knows his dad is never wrong. John and Sherlock tell him how proud they are of his discovery, chuckling and grinning at each other when Hamish runs out the door to find more treasures.
John, surprised, says, “Sherlock, you just fabricated an irrelevant story to make Hamish happy.”
“Yes,” answered Sherlock, abruptly turning back towards the dead body on the other side of the room.
John sauntered over to him, smirking. “So, you’re not worried that he’ll grow up with foolish fantasies? Waste his time worrying about planets or archaeology or, God forbid, emotions?”
Sherlock uncomfortably turned around to face his spouse, replying, “John, I know you had an inexplicable affinity for dinosaurs as a child. Frankly, their only relevance is in the form of fossil fuel that often causes diplomatic tensions and murderous corruption, but ancient giant lizards aside, Hamish is our son. If he was just like me, devoid of imagination or inherent happiness, he wouldn’t be much of a person, would he?”
John took the final few steps between him and Sherlock, slipping his arm around his waist and leaning against his thin but muscled chest. Sherlock set his head on John’s, and they gazed out the window at Hamish, who was bursting with excitement and covered in a layer of dirt, begging a sheepish Lestrade to come help him with his archaeological work.
“I don’t know,” murmured John lazily, “I think he’ll turn out just fine.”
i think i’ve changed my mind about superwholock
plot twist: an alien invasion isn’t how Eleven dies, it’s the Winchesters
This brings back my thesis that every fanfic — every fanfic on every subject in every fandom — can be improved by adding “And then the Winchesters shot them” to the last line.
Go on. Try it. I’ll wait.
If you insist.
"May the undeserved kindness of the Lord Jesus Christ be with the holy ones. And then the Winchesters shot them.” (Revelation 22:21)
The last trace of steam evaporated in the autumn air. The train rounded the corner. Harry’s hand was still raised in farewell.
"He’ll be alright" murmured Ginny.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absent-mindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
"I know he will"
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years.
All was well.
And then the Winchesters shot them.
we have a winner.
so im shopping for make up for the girlfriend bc valentines day and holy fuck how do you girls afford this shit
$80 for eye shadow???
is it made out of unicorn shit
what is naked 3
why is it called naked
will it make her look naked
why is it $50
that’s 50 cheese burgers
i can’t deal with make up good bye