Aug 22 - 1 week ago - 10,207 notes hpedit /  

thelethifoldwitch:

Overwhelmingly in therapy I am finding the words “it’s not fair” cropping up. From Miss. Chang, over her treatment years ago grieving for her boyfriend, to Mr. Creevey, mourning for his brother. 

When asking the patients to explain their reasoning, however, markedly different reactions can be found.

When the question was posed to Mr. Creevey the young man produced his brother’s camera and a sheaf of undeveloped and developed photographs, simply saying, “There was so much more he had to give.”

When the question was posed to Miss. Chang she explained how her behaviour was read as irrational in comparison to that of The-Boy-Who-Lived’s, who had personally witnessed the death in question.

When the question was posed to Mr. Weasley the books on the shelves flew in every direction before falling to the floor at a muttered apology from the patient.

Other patients have likewise offered variants of “it’s not fair”, Miss. Brown, who attended her session with her close friend Miss. Patil (for “moral support”) spoke of the terrifying lack of motive for her mauling, indicating vaguely at her still-bandaged face. Miss. Brown is still being treated to try to hide as much as possible of her scars, to little effect.

Several students of Slytherin house, whose names I shall not list even here, spoke of the unequal treatment they were given, despite fighting for the school, even against their own parents. One patient, who lost their brother, and parents in the battle has spoken at the snap judgement all other students still give them, refusing to allow them to grieve in peace, insisting that their parents, and even their brother who fought for the school, were merely “bringing it on themselves”.

Certain muggle-borns, who have been retrieved at last from where they had been placed in Azkaban, are still undergoing treatment for their physical ailments, which number from malnutrition and exposure, to outright physical abuse. Healers on their wards however have been heard gossiping about the nightmares many of these patients have, so much so that it can be found on the clipboards of every ex-Azkaban patient “Bespell beds with silencing spells between 9pm and 8am.” 

In preparation for any treatment these people may need I have been looking into Healers notes from the previous war, from Grindelwald’s conflict, and am increasingly finding references to something listed in muggle journals as “PTSD”. 

Perhaps the warmongering muggles know more than us about something after all.

— From the private notes of St. Mungo’s therapist, Muta Echo.

(Image Source)

(Was clearing out drafts and found this which is the post which inspired this piece.)

livesandliesofwizards:

Following the death of her mother, Luna spent more and more time playing near the thestral paddock.

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.)

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.)

theodore nott/luna lovegood - requested by anonymous
    With a sudden rustling and the heavy beat of hooves Luna’s eyes snap open. Thoughts of her mother are chased from her mind by the sight of the Thestrals taking flight, parting the canopy of leaves and the drizzle to disappear into the grey sky. She makes to shout after them, but then hears the footsteps behind her and, turning, sees the form of a Slytherin sixth-year crash through the foliage. She doesn’t know his name but the shock of anger she feels at the sight of him alarms her. This boy is a stranger and has driven the Thestrals away
    from her. He almost doesn’t notice her, because his eyes are fixed on the skeletal horses and the way their wings beat the rain aside, but when he sees her standing there it’s like the shock of being doused in cold water. Loony - the only name he knows her by - tears her eyes away from him to watch the Thestrals vanish, and it is
    all his fault. The Thestrals are hers and hers only and he made them leave. But, like her, he is watching them too, and she realises that he
    can see them too. Is he really not the only one? Loony can see them too - Loony, from the year below, with her spectrespecs and her necklace made of butterbeer corks. Her bare feet. Has she lost
    someone too? Luna does not know him, but she knows he has seen death
    just like him. She must have seen someone die too. He’s not the only
    one. There’s another now. Her and Harry and Neville and this boy, they’ve all
    got horrors in their past. Her and Potter and Longbottom. At least they’re all mad
    together. They’re not the only ones. She breathes out, relieved, because sometimes it feels as if she
    was going mad. Seeing things. But now he knows
    Thestrals aren’t much to be scared of anyway.
    Theodore realises he has been holding his breath and finally exhales, panting, a sharp pain in his chest from the force of the run. He had been thinking about his mother again. The Thestrals are gone now, out of sight, and the girl’s frown has gone with them. Vanished entirely and
    of all the things to do, she smiles. 

Aug 22 - 1 week ago - 62 notes hpedit /  

doctorhooper:

"we’d better upgrade their surveillance status"

inspired by x

the clever detective in the funny hat

It’s all true. Everything they said about me.

no need to worry. it’s all good, sherlock.

nataliedurmer:

When you’re a kid, they tell you it’s all… grow up. Get a job. Get married. Get a house. Have a kid, and that’s it. But the truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It’s so much darker. And so much madder. And so much better.

GET TO KNOW ME MEME » [1/5] favourite tv shows: Doctor Who

tardissea:

Yeah, well, she does like to…interfere sometimes.

grumpy-phia:

Maybe okay can be our always.

HZ