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.
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)
Or, you know, you could just stop saying sorry.
I take it you don’t have anxiety.
You can’t “just stop saying sorry”. You do something, something so little, like accidentally bump into someone. You feel horrible about it. Your brain starts panicking and you have trouble trying to breathe. You stutter an apology. They say it’s okay, but you accidentally do it again, and you apologize again. They just say “Aha, you can stop saying sorry.” And you feel horrible that you’ve probably made them angry or upset, so you mutter out an apology for the third stupid time, and they just say to stop saying sorry. Stop saying sorry.
You can’t just tell someone to stop saying you’re sorry.
I want that comment on flyers so I can hang them in my school
reblogging this one for the GOOD commentary.
If you’re going to tell someone to stop saying sorry say, “You don’t have to apologize to me.” and smile. If they say sorry again just say, “You’re fine.” and keep smiling and move on. The faster the situation is resolved the faster the person with anxiety can start to calm down. Please don’t get angry at someone for saying sorry, sometimes that’s all the person feels like they can do.
Super orange at work today. Got a call from CAMH. Could have my top surgery within the next six months!! One month away from two years on T. Oh how time flies!
It’s funny to me how rarely I can have a conversation with people about anything without them bringing up my race. It’s like white people are incapable of having a conversation with me about legitimately anything without bringing up my race and using it as a weapon to make some sort of point. News Flash: white people who stood by black people during the civil rights movement did NOT stand up and say “wow shut up about that whole racism thing, i’m not racist”. They listened to what we had to say and then used their whiteness to amplify the voices of the people they were allying. That is your job as an ally. Your job is not to tell the people you’re allying how to act or how to go about progress. We know what we need to succeed in this world. We’re not children who need to redirected towards a better way of going about things.
Seems like a lot of activists think that with the internet they can be educated enough on racial issues without actually consulting black people like the white allies had to to get any info back in the sixties and seventies.
See, that’s the thing. White people remember having that one month out of their twelve years of school where they talked about the civil rights movement. They deduce it down to the simplest thoughts and then use the oppression of black people as a framework for their oppression. The truth is that these people could legitimately give a fuck about black people outside of using them as an example to make a point. People who are educated about what actually went on during the civil rights movement know that allies used their privilege to forward the needs of African Americans but all these people can say is “well you’re black right… well what about racism?”. It’s frustrating. Racism is one of those conversations you probably shouldn’t bring up with me and honestly the more times people bring it up to forward their ideology or frame their oppression that will never compare to how blacks were and are treated in this country, the more problematic this feels to me.