AU where Minerva McGonagall has a little less faith in Albus Dumbledore so she does agree to leave Harry at the Dursleys.
But then proceeds to move right in next door with her wife because Albus never said that she couldn’t.
So Harry grows up with two grandmalike aunties next door, who basically finnagle him into living with them in all but name. It’s great, until he gets to Hogwarts because he keeps accidentally calling McGonagall Aunt Min instead of Professor.
The more I think about this the better it gets because suddenly a small biracial orphan appearing on the Dursley’s doorstep is less scandalous and gossip worthy in the
pasty ass white suburbia of Privet Drive, when it’s compared to the elderly lesbian interracial couple who moved in next door.
The comments on this poet are filled with white nerds being misogynistic lmao, surprise
I know. So many angry white nerds in my inbox after posting this, its hilarious. So here’s some more excellent commentary since the Hardwick story broke:
he comes home ever six months or so. the house feels empty, but it always has, ever since the day his father didn’t come home (a little light protesting, he says, leave the dinner warm) and there’s his sister Lupe, off running rifles, and his sister Niambh, still not much more than a teenager, with fingers clever enough to put those weapons together blindfolded.
and there’s a woman who’s seen more ghosts in her life than anyone should, who gets up in the morning and does her duty because there’s bloody well nothing else to do aside from get a move on with things, another mission another weapons run, though she’s older now, mainly just organises things, keeps tabs on the stock and guards it, if necessary, with a very quick hand
but every half year or so, her son come home, every time with a few more ghosts in his eyes and unspeakable things in his heart, every time a little more like his father, like Cezar was,
and every time she puts the kettle on and makes a cup of tea and holds him while he cries
and then one day, it’s a holo and not a son that’s sent home
I have never doubted Captain Andor’s abilities or his dedication to the rebel movement. He is truly one of our best and brightest, and I trust his judgment on this mission.
Mon Mothma to Captain Draven (Star Wars: Rogue One Dossier)
For Day #1 of Cassian Andor Appreciation Week, I was kind of struck with the idea of how Cassian might react to hearing Saw’s last words and realizing, at the heart of it, they were all chasing the same ‘dream’
“Save the Rebellion! Save the dream …”
Cassian hears the words, distant — yet oh-so-loud, echoing off the chasm growing deep in front of them. They sting, for a heartbeat … because, well… could he?
It’s what he’s fought for, all he’s known since he was six, but still … could he?
He stows away the thought, registering Jyn’s breathing behind him, ragged and rough as she pulls Bodhi upright beside her. The monks are close behind and there’s no time to shout orders, no time to think anything other than run, so he keeps running towards the shadow of a U-Wing and hopes beyond hope that it’s the one that will get them off of this planet in time.
The landing gear’s down, and he’s so happy he just might cry, but he’d rather wait til they’ve hit atmo for that. So instead he plants himself at it’s entrance, ground unsteady, and ushers his new crew up into it’s belly with arms thrashing wildly so as to make it out through the sand cloud enveloping them.
He’s tumbling towards the cockpit when the ramp slams closed and he sees the frantic citizens below, like tiny pin-pricks, hurtling towards anything with wings and a hyperdrive that might just grant them a second sunrise.
Kaytoo’s babbling nonsense about unfinished calculations before Cassian finds himself yelling “Come on!” at the controls, both in anger and frustration that while the mission was successful he’d still failed, they were too late, the planet killer was real …
He pulls the lever calmly, and they scream into hyperspace.
The viewport is dark and behind him is quiet, grief. Mourning, perhaps … but there isn’t time, not for that, not for him. He scrubs a hand down his face and steadies his breath — they’re in Imperial territory, he can’t comm Draven just yet, so he stands from the cockpit and makes his way to the cargo hold … and hears the tail-end of a conversation.
He’s always listening, observing in silence, and yet his heart betrays him now, pounding wildly at the words pulled straight from a dream. Like hope, from her.
Rebellions are built on hope 