Thank you, theme designer for customizeable header text :D Now I just have to settle on something definitive to put here. (file under: #about me #decisions decisions)
Down to Watson’s hair and stripey jumpers, and Sherlock’s coat and manner and the purple shirt (or in this case, pants) of sex. Even the height difference, though not quite as pronounced.
And there is even enough to suggest johnlock.
As much as I imagine it’s inappropriate to cast real-life people and friends in a fem!AU (and then ship them), I just want to take a moment to appreciate this happy collision of random things.
brb, just imagining the case of The Red-Bearded league, featuring the aforementioned cast, my best friend as the guy whose beard got accepted, and me as the assistant who gets him in a chokehold and tugs at his beard furiously. After all, we have been before deceived by wigs and dyes, and once, paint.
….You realize, of course, that Hermione Granger lit a teacher on fire when she was eleven, and kept a person alive in a jar for a year when she was fourteen, and studies dark and forbidden magics for kicks, and is one of the brightest and strongest witches of her era. If she came at me, even wandless, I would aparate to Neptune to get away from her.
Hermione Granger also:
- punched Draco Malfoy in the nose for being an idiot
- purposefully performed a confundus charm on whatshsface WHILE HE WAS FLYING just so Ron would win (omfg that is so fucking dangerous)
- literally pulled a fucking Bourne Identity on her parents and managed to set them up in fucking Australia (jesus christ she literally made it so that she NEVER EXISTED wtf that’s so fucking 007)
- Convinced the Ministry of Magic to give her an incredibly dangerous and volatile device that allowed her to ALTER TIMELINES COMPLETELY (just because she was so smart, literally, that is the reason, her “potential”)
- Has enough basic survival skills and badass magic to literally disappear to the middle of nowhere and flourish AND figure out Voldemort’s plot with Harry
- Hermione also figures out not only what Voldemort’s plan is, but generally how to beat it, WAY BEFORE VOLDEMORT EVER DOES. Why? because she is just that much smarter and better at magic than everybody else
in conclusion: Voldemort wishes he could be as awesome as Hermione, that’s why he wants to kill her so bad.
Can we rehave this series with hermione as the protagonist.
Hermione Granger and “That Time I Used the Power of Research and Deductive Reasoning to Make Sure Harry Didn’t Die”
Hermione Granger and “That time I figured shit out and literally ended up petrified for the cause and it took my friends weeks to figure out that I had the research on me”
Hermione Granger and “That Time I Was a Time Lord”
Hermione Granger and “That Time I Realized I was Hot and Smart and Saved Harry’s Ass with Research. Again. All the Time. Really, He Would Have Died Without Me.”
Hermione Granger and “That time Harry was too emo to actually do shit so I did shit in his name because I am the power behind the throne clearly also PS fought evil deatheaters and won”
Hermione Granger and “That Time I told Harry about the Dangers of Copying off Somebody’s else’s work that wasn’t mine and OH LOOK I WAS RIGHT”
Hermione Granger and “That Time I let Harry Decide Where to Go and What To do and we ended up wandering the forests of dean for like 5 months before saving his ass at Hogwarts”
OH LOOK I WAS RIGHT
all of the above ^^
after a while i became convinced that the words were mocking me
I WAS PROMISED A BATTLE
*throws down gauntlet*
Edit: Went back. This is the best thing to happen to my dashboard ever.
Reblogging again because my followers need to see this. To be clear, rebog, go to your actual blog, then click the picture.
Level 38… I am panting…
A man broke my heart today.
I do not know who he was, nor his name, nor that of the sweet child he used as a weapon upon my sensibilities. The crime was unintentional, but wounded all the same; and he will never know.
A little boy and his father came into my store and, noticing the kid’s bright blue headband and the tiny cochlear implants it was holding up, I could not resist asking about the child’s deafness. Were the implants new? Does he sign? How deaf is he? Typical questions.
He was born profoundly deaf (if a lawn mower turned on within five feet, he wouldn’t have heard it), and implanted after his first birthday (surgery is the perfect gift) in both years. There are two blue bobbles dangling off the side of his tiny ginger head; two holes were bored through his skull; two cochleas were ripped up and adapted to eugenic perfection by technology. The child was taught to sign at first, a new language for him and his parents both: taught to communicate with his visual mind and curious fingers.
“We’re breaking him of the habit,” said the father, “of things like ‘please’”—rubbing his chest—“and ‘milk’”—squeezing his fist in the air. The parents are breaking habits they have taught their child. Suddenly, his world is wrong. Suddenly, his way of communicating his incoherent wants and needs is reprimanded. Suddenly, that waggling red thing in his mouth is supposed to make sense of a universe previously explained by fingers and palms.
“He can hear now,” says the father, “and he’s doing really good with speech.” He calls the child over to show me, but the boy barely responds. “Can you tell her your name?”
The father wonders what it would be like to hear through a cochlear implant—do I know if there is a way to find out? The sound and success varies by individual, depending on the scared cochlea and the responsiveness of the brain. (Your son will never hear as you hear)! A cashier cannot tell him how to raise his son, nor can a partially integrated visitor of the Deaf World; professionals cannot be wrong, and nor can his fatherly instincts. They know best. We know best.
I see the child before me, his fuzzy red hair and his bright eyes, growing up in a bubble of isolation. He will be rejected by our culture as a robotic imitation; and by his own for his conditioned perspective on his own qualities. In time, he will develop the same blank expression perfected by another friend of mine, with eyes long since grown out of curiosity about the world babbling on around him, unaffected by his lack of participation. His parents may never know of his limbo-bound mind, of the culture-clash he cannot escape; may even envy the support he receives from the government and schools. They’ve rescued him.
Who am I to talk, a hearing daughter of this “be yourself” generation?
As they leave, the father encourages his son to speak again, “Can you tell her ‘thank you?’” A happy, yet uncomprehending face turns towards us, roaring like a lion. “Can you tell her ‘thank you?’” He looks at me.
The father’s back is turned.
I sign, THANK-YOU
Oh, that smile. that recognition of communicative commonality. That world of fingers and wrists and palms.
His little hand signs, THANK-YOU.
My heart breaks in two.