if you ever feel left out just remember that you weren’t the fifth gryffindor guy in the marauders’ dormitory
I don’t know if the timeline works even a little bit but my headcanon was always that that fifth dude was Kingsley Shacklebolt and that he immediately made a conscious decision to stay the hell away from whatever those four idiots were up to and everyone was like “Yeah, good kid, studies hard, probably gonna be Minister one day if he manages to last his entire school career without committing four murders”.
Kingley Shacklebolt is probably the best roommate ever. The reason he never gets mentioned as the fifth is because he doesn’t ask questions. The other five start disappearing all night every full moon during fifth year? He doesn’t care and doesn’t want to know. Walked in to find Sirius talking to a fucking deer in the dorm like it was James? Just keep moving and don’t make eye contact. James, Sirius and Peter leaving shit all over the floor? Combine forces with Remus to politely yet firmly remind them that we’re not living in a goddamn barn and your dirty underwear shouldn’t spend three weeks straight on the floor James.
Kingsley was, naturally, invited to the Potter-Evans wedding. The invitation was accompanied with a formal apology for the Everything, signed by the Marauders. Enclosed was a little trophy, with the plaque reading ‘best roomie ever’
It may or may not permanently live on his mantle. Kingsley Shacklebolt does not inform Harry Potter of any of this. He has enough people that knew his parents, Kingsley’s not going to make it weird. Keep moving and don’t make eye contact. Besides, he already gave copies of all his pictures of them to Hagrid to go into a photo album for Harry back in first year.
Fact: Everyone who ‘works with dragons’ in the Harry Potter universe is asexual – Newt, Charlie, Luna it’s a pattern
Headcanon: It’s a common thing among wizards that those with little to no interest in sex seem to have a talent for dealing dragons and other magical creatures. So much so that it eventually turns into a euphemism.
“Hello darling! My, how you’ve grown. I dare say you’ll settle down and have a family of your own soon?”
“I don’t think so, auntie Beryl. I work with dragons, you see.”
So back in the eighth grade (a good eight years ago) I thought of this scenario where the Marauders wanted to find a loophole for the ‘No students out of bed at night” rule. And I came to the conclusion that they would absolutely sit on their beds and levitate them throughout the corridors so that they were never actually technically out of bed. And it’s been eight years and I just remembered this headcanon and I still think that they absolutely would have done this.
someone please write a fic where they debate the technicalities of this with McGonagall
“Out.” McGonagall was practically vibrating, the tip of her hat quivering like a compass needle; from yearly observation, Sirius was reasonably sure its four Cardinal Directions were What Is Going On Here, Stop, Ten Points From Gryffindor and Detention, and there was no doubt the wind was currently blowing a strong North-North Detention. He grinned. Knowing they were going to lose eventually didn’t make this any less amazing; there wasn’t even room in the corridor for all four beds to float abreast, and Peter’s was behind his, listing like a boat in rough waters with his inevitable nervousness. Peter hated detention – the rest of them pretty much took it in their stride at this point. Besides, Sirius thought impatiently, he was enjoying it a minute ago. It was probably him giggling that woke her up. Or Remus, bouncing the end of his bed into one of the portraits by accident. That guy must have been pretty square in life; he went off like a roman candle.
Like always, in trouble, he felt giddy; it would be bad, but the consequences here were so easy compared to what he’d left behind that he could never help the hysterical weightlessness that came hot on the heels of the scandalised gasp of a teacher. Fifty house points still hurt a lot less than fifty other things. But James was talking.
“- and it’s good practice,” he was saying, leaning precariously forward over the edge of his bed, an earnest ship’s figurehead in striped pyjamas. “A simple levitation spell wasn’t strong enough, Professor, we had to do research.” The bed between them shook a little; Remus, laughing, trying to cover it up with a cough. James said research the same way Slughorn might say diet. Peter’s bed bumped into the back of his and it almost set him off, too. He bit the inside of his mouth, tried to focus on something not funny – James’s thin ankles, poking out of the ends of his pyjama bottoms, that would do. Guaranteed to stop him laughing, that was.
“Research,” said McGonagall, not at all the way Slughorn might say diet. “We did,” Remus protested evenly from a nest of blankets – nobody was seeing his ankles. “We spent four hours on it in the library. In a way, this is just a practical experiment.” “Yeah,” said James, “Those are encouraged. Professor Flitwick was just talking about it on Monday.”
Remus looked at Sirius; Sirius looked back. On no account, Professor Flitwick had said on Monday, do any practical experiments outside of the classroom. He could feel Peter getting ready to say it, too; they both could, both turned to look at him at once. He’d been raising his hand. Sirius shook his head once, both discouraging and also giving him up as a hopeless case. For being the one who’d come up with the word marauders in the first place, Peter was awfully coy when it came to doing any actual marauding.
Being a person confronted with four large pieces of floating furniture suddenly seemed to become too much for McGonagall, and she snapped again, “Get down. Get out of those beds at once.” “But Professor,” James explained patiently while Sirius’s stomach did that swooping drop thing again, “Then we really will be breaking the rules. No students out of bed. But we’re in bed.” “Out.” “Of bed?” “Out of her favour where I am in bed,” Remus murmured and Sirius let out an unnecessary and, in retrospect, unwise shout of laughter. (They’d done a dramatic reading of the play when Remus brought in a battered Complete Works after the last holidays; James still occasionally greeted bemused students with Do you bite your thumb at me, sir? and they’d got a good amount of mileage out of Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, as well.)
Later, the rules were amended to read or out of their bedroom, and they did all have detention, and there was a miserable business with a Howler, and they lost a significant number of house points – but it was worth it, for the looks they got when they explained what they’d done, and for Remus quoting Shakespeare in the middle of a crisis, and for James’s wretched ankles and his scruffy, innocent face as he almost fell out of his hovering bed. And for being one of four, Sirius thought, looking around at the others in said detention: Remus’s hair in his face, the way he gripped his quill like it was trying to get away from him; James frowning in concentration as he tried to clean up the inevitable ink stains he always left on the desk; Peter’s misbehaving roll of parchment that wouldn’t stay flat unless he leaned all of his weight on it. It was always worth it for being one of four.
The most hilarious thing about the fact Buckbeak had a trial and lost is that later on JKR resolves the issue by having Hagrid take him in again and renaming him Witherwings. That’s literally all it took. What if in POA, Hagrid simply said, “Sorry, Buckbeak flew away.”
“There’s a hippogriff right there, Hagrid.”
“A different hipprogriff.”
“I’m… pretty sure that’s the same hipprogriff.”
“Prove it.”
no dna tests we die like scientifically underdeveloped societies
Prisoner of Azkaban continues to be the most frustrating book
Someone should have just adopted Sirius and started calling him Gerald.
Remus: Erm… this is our new order member, my… cousin Gerald. Gerald White.
“Mr. Lupin that is Sirius Black with glasses!” “Oh come now Minister, Sirius Black doesn’t wear glasses. That wouldn’t make sense.” “Well have Mr. White take off his glasses then!” “He can’t he needs them to see.”
it got better
It’s honestly a miracle to me that wizarding society doesn’t collapse every other week because like
You’ve got this world full of people who can destroy whole buildings or turn people into beetles or make vehicles fly just by waving a stick at them
And there is literally no common sense
Anywhere to be found
Voldemort would never have had anyone find out he was back if he just went around calling himself Steve
Okay, see, I thought I saved this post to comment on it but I’d like to bring up
The Minister would NEVER EVER disbelieve in Gerald White. He’d buy it hook line and sinker. The wizarding world would buy it hook line and sinker. The GOBLINS wouldn’t but wizards have been shown to be pretty blindingly clueless. Still, Gringotts would grudgingly give Sirius access to the Black fortune.
But, but, but, you know the one person
the one person
who Gerald White would drive AB-SO-LUTELY FUCKING BATSHIT?
Severus Snape.
Snape would do everything, EVERYTHING, to get people to believe that it’s Sirius. But the Order would ignore it (they accepted Sirius as Sirius before anyway) and Remus would just be so… so affronted.
‘Severus, he is my cousin.’
And Sirius would love it. He’d love the fact that Snape just hated it. He’d be the BEST DAMN GERALD WHITE EVER b/c Snape is doing everything from dropping veritaserum into his firewhisky to capturing a dementor in a box and releasing it on Sirius when he least expects it
That one causes problems for a bare minute because SHIT A DEMENTOR ATTEMPTED TO GIVE GERALD THE KISS MAYBE SNAPE IS RIGHT except Harry comes forward and is like ‘excuse me, I’ve never committed a crime and dementors are ALWAYS attacking me, I think they’re attracted to glasses’
and the magical community is like ‘shit, yeah, you’re right’
and just
Spare. Snape goes spare.
Picturing Snape as Mr. Crocker from the Fairly Oddparents now.
Gerald White eventually becomes a fully registered animagus. When he turns into his animagus form right in front of Snape, Snape’s bursting at the seams, just pointing at him and spluttering:
‘HE’S A BIG BLACK DOG! A DOG – THAT IS BLACK. SIRIUS BLACK. BLACK DOG DOG BLACK.’
And Remus calmly says: “That’s absurd, Severus. Sirius Black was never an animagus and besides which, people’s names don’t have any influence over their animagus forms or anything like that. That’s ridiculous.”
And Snape yells: “Shut it WEREWOLF MCWEREWOLF!”
Everyone looks at Remus, who blinks and sighs as Gerald White turns back into his human form.
“Pure coincidence,” Gerald says. “My aunt was into Roman mythology. Has to happen sometimes.” Then he pauses to give Snape an overly concerned look. “Are you alright, Severus? You’re looking a little red.”
alright so i know we are all into punk sirius who is hot on slumming it in his teens, showing just how connected to the working classes and the great unwashed he is by living in a tiny poky flat in London, BUT I submit, for your delectation:
everyone lives au in which sirius decides to reverse stick it to his fam by joining forces with andromeda to become the hot new socialites in magical britain, hosting charity balls for postwar rehabilitation and like, vampire & werewolf charity fundraisers – lavish affairs in which the rich and the beautiful are subtly pressured into outbidding each other into donating more and more absurd amounts of money or else risk being socially ostracized FOREVER because they won’t receive one of those EXCLUSIVE invitations to number 12 Grimmauld Place & this INFURIATES narcissa who CLEARLY is the HEIR to the social lives of the black family and will not be USURPED by her black sheep of a sister and the family’s wild canon and dissolute disowned heir, her cousin lbr she probably bitches about this to Bellatrix’s portrait ad infinitum and Bella’s just like why don’t I have my WAND why can’t I cast spells and make her SHUT UP she and Draco grow very close in those months with Narcissa’s wailing incessantly about how NO ONE will attend any of the Malfoy’s social events and also FANCY!!!! ANDROMEDA HAVING THE AUDACITY TO DISINVITE ME FROM MY OWN ANCESTRAL HOME!!! AN INSULT NOT TO BE BORNE!!!!
anyway, Sirius obviously throws each and every single piece of furniture in Grimmauld Place out and strips it down, knocks down a couple of walls and adds in some elegant french windows and with Fleur’s help redesigns the place entirely because for god’s sake, victorian gothic is SO last century and besides, if we’re really doing pureblood decadence the only way to go is French Rococo lbr and everything is now MIRRORS and GILT and frankly ridiculous furniture that is IMPOSSIBLE TO SIT ON but everyone adores even when they’ve been standing in six inch heels for three hours running. Walburga Black obviously has kittens over this redecoration and this meticulous stripping away of their HISTORY (we can trace our family all the way to the Norman conquest! Your great great great great great great great great great great grandfather fought alongside King William at Hastings (unlike the Malfoys who only LIE about their involvement, just so we’re clear) she shouts until Sirius reveals his party trick aka the elaborately brocaded silk curtains he’s installed to be pulled over his mother’s painting so she becomes yet another one of the #quirks of Grimmauld Place, an entertainment set piece and nothing more).
Meanwhile in the library Sirius probably donates half the books to Hogwarts and then redoes the entire place in homage to the Brighton Pavillion (You see I’m not entirely unpatriotic, he tells the portrait of his fuming father) and then installs CARD TABLES at which the rich and the famous can do things like LOSE ENTIRE FORTUNES and also the family diamonds – all in the name of charity.
Also, most importantly is the draw Sirius exerts on the entire wizarding world because he obviously cultivates an eccentric and bohemian persona and insists on receiving guests for one hour only from a chaise longue in one of the parlours where he reclines in these hideous brocaded silk dressing gowns, with bottles of sal vol and assorted smelling salts around him and he only ever extends a single well-manicured hand to everyone: twelve years in Azkaban, he says faintly to everyone who visits, but the healer says I should recover my nerves soon (no one knows when ‘’’’’’’’’soon’’’’’’’’’ is, but this goes on for at least ten years after the war.)
And obviously each and every single one of his relatives stuck in their portraits are clawing their eyes out or shrieking in horror about WE HAVE BEEN REDUCED!!!! REDUCED TO BEING NO MORE THAN THE LAUGHING STOCK OF BRITAIN!!! except possibly Regs who is amused at just how terribly transparent & crude his brother is at the art of provocateuring.
What if, when Petunia Dursley found a little boy on her front doorstep, she took him in? Not into the cupboard under the stairs, not into a twisted childhood of tarnished worth and neglect–what if she took him in?
Petunia was jealous, selfish and vicious. We will not pretend she wasn’t. She looked at that boy on her doorstep and thought about her Dudders, barely a month older than this boy. She looked at his eyes and her stomach turned over and over. (Severus Snape saved Harry’s life for his eyes. Let’s have Petunia save it despite them).
Let’s tell a story where Petunia Dursley found a baby boy on her doorstep and hated his eyes–she hated them. She took him in and fed him and changed him and got him his shots, and she hated his eyes up until the day she looked at the boy and saw her nephew, not her sister’s shadow. When Harry was two and Vernon Dursley bought Dudley a toy car and Harry a fast food meal with a toy with parts he could choke on Petunia packed her things and got a divorce.
Harry grew up small and skinny, with knobbly knees and the unruly hair he got from his father. He got cornered behind the dumpsters and in the restrooms, got blood on the jumpers Petunia had found, half-price, at the hand-me-down store. He was still chosen last for sports. But Dudley got blood on his sweaters, too, the ones Petunia had found at the hand-me-down store, half price, because that was all a single mother working two secretary jobs could afford for her two boys, even with Vernon’s grudging child support.
They beat Harry for being small and they laughed at Dudley for being big, and slow, and dumb. Students jeered at him and teachers called Dudley out in class, smirked over his backwards letters.
Harry helped him with his homework, snapped out razored wit in classrooms when bullies decided to make Dudley the butt of anything; Harry cornered Dudley in their tiny cramped kitchen and called him smart, and clever, and ‘better ‘n all those jerks anyway’ on the days Dudley believed it least.
Dudley walked Harry to school and back, to his advanced classes and past the dumpsters, and grinned, big and slow and not dumb at all, at anyone who tried to mess with them.
But was that how Petunia got the news? Her husband complained about owls and staring cats all day long and in the morning Petunia found a little tyke on her doorsep. This was how the wizarding world chose to give the awful news to Lily Potter’s big sister: a letter, tucked in beside a baby boy with her sister’s eyes.
There were no Potters left. Petunia was the one who had to arrange the funeral. She had them both buried in Godric’s Hollow. Lily had chosen her world and Petunia wouldn’t steal her from it, not even in death. The wizarding world had gotten her sister killed; they could stand in that cold little wizard town and mourn by the old stone.
(Petunia would curl up with a big mug of hot tea and a little bit of vodka, when her boys were safely asleep, and toast her sister’s vanished ghost. Her nephew called her ‘Tune’ not ‘Tuney,’ and it only broke her heart some days.
Before Harry was even three, she would look at his green eyes tracking a flight of geese or blinking mischieviously back at her and she would not think ‘you have your mother’s eyes.’
A wise old man had left a little boy on her doorstep with her sister’s eyes. Petunia raised a young man who had eyes of his very own).
Petunia snapped and burnt the eggs at breakfast. She worked too hard and knew all the neighbors’ worst secrets. Her bedtime stories didn’t quite teach the morals growing boys ought to learn: be suspicious, be wary; someone is probably out to get you. You owe no one your kindness. Knowledge is power and let no one know you have it. If you get can get away with it, then the rule is probably meant for breaking.
Harry grew up loved. Petunia still ran when the letters came. This was her nephew, and this world, this letter, these eyes, had killed her sister. When Hagrid came and knocked down the door of some poor roadside motel, Petunia stood in front of both her boys, shaking. When Hagrid offered Harry a squashed birthday cake with big, kind, clumsy hands, he reminded Harry more than anything of his cousin.
His aunt was still shaking but Harry, eleven years and eight minutes old, decided that any world that had people like his big cousin in it couldn’t be all bad. “I want to go,” Harry told his aunt and he promised to come home.
Rebellions are built on hope 