zeldathemes
Rainbows and Fabulous
Hi! I'm Helena. I live in cold rainy England and enjoy doing a number of things including reading and playing the clarinet. I like many things including Sherlock (especially Moriarty), Supernatural, various musicals, Doctor Who, Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter :) Feel free to come and have a chat anytime, I can always do with distraction from school work and the various productive things I should be doing.
RAVENPUFF
{ wear }


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tardistoaster:

raydelblau:

benedictedcumberbabeof221:

petition for the next companion to not be a white girl in her 20s who crushes on the Doctor 

petition for the next companion to be a grumpy chinese-american grandma who complains about plot-holes and knits the doctor horrific time-travel-themed sweaters to wear when she thinks it’s cold out (most of the time)

reblogging because this is the best idea ever

pocketpadfoot:

scaredpotter:

the slytherins making a drinking game where they take a shot every time draco malfoy talks about harry potter

They start the game Friday afternoon and Saturday morning half of Slytherin is in the hospital wing

thewanderingtardisonbakerstreet:

timelordwithachristmaslist:

I know where I need to move, then.

crownkind:

dana-cardinal:

Carlos getting accidentally poked in the eye with a boner in college and henceforth refusing to preform oral sex without safety goggles to this very day

and Cecil’s weirdly into it?

They’re making out on the couch and Cecil’s like ‘do you have protection?’ and Carlos just straps on some safety goggles he was carrying with him for that purpose and Cecil’s just like ‘… okay.’

image

image

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

lazykryptonian:

allybearlove:

peachberrylove:

souleeater:

babysbreathflower:

sharpedos:

Medusa and her blind boyfriend go out on their first date and he panics because he cant tell her she looks pretty so he says something really stupid like “I REALLY like snakes”

This is so fucking cute

this should be a young adult romance novel right now

image

image

image

image

Had a sudden urge to draw this.

Omg i need more

oh my god

w is not a vowel
every message in my inbox for the next 16 years (via corporateaccount)

corporateaccount:

iowa is the only state that consists entirely of vowels

accidnet:

single and ready 2 flamingle

image

coloneldapper:

you-numpty:

gabenewell-thesexdragon:

georges-ear:

hippity-hoppity-brigade:

Why do I feel like this needs a Dr. Suess rhyme to go with it?
Then the Dark Lord gave Draco a pat. 
It wasn’t a hat. 
It wasn’t a cat. 
Draco did not like the feel of this pat. 
It was a strange pat and he did not like that. 

It was a strange pat and he did not like that. 

Draco would rather a hat to that pat,
A cat or a rat, or even a bat.
But what Draco received was no cat nor no hat,
It was simply a pat, and that was that.

shaking and crying.

oh my god

coloneldapper:

you-numpty:

gabenewell-thesexdragon:

georges-ear:

hippity-hoppity-brigade:

Why do I feel like this needs a Dr. Suess rhyme to go with it?

Then the Dark Lord gave Draco a pat. 

It wasn’t a hat. 

It wasn’t a cat. 

Draco did not like the feel of this pat. 

It was a strange pat and he did not like that. 

It was a strange pat and he did not like that. 

Draco would rather a hat to that pat,

A cat or a rat, or even a bat.

But what Draco received was no cat nor no hat,

It was simply a pat, and that was that.

shaking and crying.

oh my god

quibblrs:

do you think when people heard the marauders talking about remus’ ‘furry little problem’ they just assumed that he had a shit ton of pubic hair