Okay Literally Everyone Knows This But The Fact That Harry Was Saved By A Mother’s Love Twice And Both

✎ regulus black

you're not just misinterpreting the characters, you're misinterpreting the entire story because you're thick in the head. once again i have to bear the burden of having every correct opinion in the world.

I absolutely love this artist’s styling. All art by Irenhorrors on deviant art featuring the Blacks, the Lestrange clan and the Malfoys

what do i have to do to get some peter pettigrew content over here

fleabag (2016–2019) art by @ratsandlilies.art

Megan Arkenberg

voldemort: where’s severus?

regulus, remembering that severus got his head stuck in a tuba after narcissa told him to leave it alone, and that he's supposed to cover for narcissa and lucius as they frantically work together to free severus’ head from the tuba: who's severus?

Skeletons dancing, R. Stamper.

evan rosier was mentioned one (1) time in the harry potter books in passing and somehow i can write a 30 page essay on him now

Sirius and Remus, in the poetry of Richard Siken;

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you. I touch myself, I dream. Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands…

I swallow your heart and it crawls right out my mouth. You swallow my heart and flee.

There are many names in history but none of them are ours.

All I can do is stand on the curb and say Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine. I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.

And maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

Tell me we’re dead and I’ll love you even more.

I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything.

I’m sorry I came to your party and seduced you and left you bruised and ruined.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.

Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying.

I said my arms are very long and your head’s on fire. I said kiss me here and here and here and you did.

In these dreams it’s always you: the boy in the sweatshirt the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge.

You are a fever I am learning to live with.

I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.

Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.

You, the moon. You, the road. You, the little flowers by the side of the road.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling,  but he reaches over and he touches you,  like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you don’t even have a name for.

Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. (My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me.)