With its medley of magical faculty and its ever-changing rotation of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors, Hogwarts could use a little RateMyProfessor action—and we felt obliged to answer the call. If Snape’s rating doesn’t make you laugh out loud, then you have a Horcrux for a heart.
Tags:
#Harry Potter #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog
It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.
She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.
Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.
She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.
When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.
Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.
When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.
Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”
“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.
“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”
“Be taught what, Albus?”
But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.
Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.
When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.
“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”
“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”
Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.
Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.
In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily… strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”
Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.
“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”
He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.
Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.
Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”
Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.
“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.
“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.
“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”
Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.
When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.
They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.
As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?
Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.
The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.
Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?
Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.
Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.
Tags:
#Harry Potter #recs
I’VE BEEN FRANTICALLY TWEETING ABOUT THIS ALL MORNING BUT HERE ARE ALL MY “THIS WILL NEVER HAPPEN” star trek series ideas:
– alexander rozhenko, summer camp counselor
– two ensigns get stuck in a galaxy-class ship’s luxury bathroom for a full series
– starfleet academy’s terrifyingly dedicated and obsessive marching band corps
– something about garak’s post-canon political career???
– elderly quark finally gets a moon and tries to build a theme park on it. MEETS FAILURE ALONG EVERY STEP OF THE WAY
– star zek
– fake reality tv series where every contestant but one person is a weyoun
– the adventures of lwaxana (this would require time travel or recasting lwaxana, but that isn’t an option, so)
-Captain Nog
-Dax’s 10th host
-an entire show that’s just about holodeck LARP group drama on an entirely unremarkable Starfleet ship
-Klingon Iron Chef
See, I really think if they’re smart they could do a lot of ideas like this with webisodes to accompany the main series, or to fill in gaps between seasons. Star Trek is such a rich universe and there’s so much room to spend a little budget and time exploring stories beyond the main ship and crew.
Tags:
#Star Trek #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(‘fake reality tv series where every contestant but one person is a weyoun’) #((I mean there are some other gems on that list)) #((but that was the one that cracked me up))
When Petunia Dursley refused to take Harry in she forfeited his birthright protection, so Dumbledore took the baby to the safest place he knew: Hogwarts.
The applicable staff (mostly just… not Snape) took Harry in on a rotating schedule as he grew from baby to toddler to child. They traded extra credit for babysitting among the older students, and Harry grew up knowing a few dozen different laps that were safe and warm to nap in.
This was a Harry who grew up among books, among old transient walls and learned professors. They gave Binns night duty sometimes, and let him talk young Harry to sleep. This was a Harry whose world changed, on principle, daily. The stairs moved. The walls became doors. You had to keep your eyes open–you had to pay attention. So he did.
He grew up in a school. Knowledge was power, but knowledge was also joy. This was his sanctuary. There was magic in his world from birth.
“The castle will keep him safe,” said Dumbledore, when McGonagall came into his office to complain for the eighth time about Albus’s rather cavalier take on child-rearing. “That’s what it does.”
“Then why do we bother with chaperones ever,” McGonagall said, tempted to shriek it. “Should we let all the children run about willy-nilly at all hours, or just the orphan waifs?!”
“He’s not a student. He’s a ward of Hogwarts. It will take care of him, Minerva.”
McGonagall walked off fuming. A cat with spectacle markings followed Harry almost constantly from ages three through four. At some point McGonagall was far enough behind on her paperwork, and had seen enough suits of armor carry the kid back to his room, enough draperies lift off the wall and tug Harry away from edges, and enough stairs creakingly shift their slope for his tiny toddler legs. She gave a grumpy sigh, stole some of Albus’s lemon drops, and resigned herself to a magical world.
The Grey Lady, the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, didn’t really like boys but she liked children. She especially liked patience, and politeness, and Harry had been raised by McGonagall’s stern table manners, by Victorian portraiture and quite a few House Elves. He said please, thank you, and ma’am, and as a child he was very cunning in how he got bedtime stories and bedtime snacks out of most every adult he met.
The Grey Lady told the best stories, you see, the ones with riddles in them. You had to think and ask questions to get all the way through them. So he hunted her down with big patient eyes and plates of very smelly cheese, and she told him stories that made him think.
When Harry was stable enough on his feet to walk, and then to run, Sir Cadogan would race him through the castle, the knight scattering banquet tables and galloping across landscapes, twisting through the abstract gallery up on the seventh and a half floor. Harry stumbled and sprinted up stairways and didn’t notice for years the way Cadogan waited at the end of corridors for him to catch up.
Harry was a chubby-legged toddler, in this world–cute cheeks and stubby limbs. It’s a cute image, yes– but this is important. He was a chubby kid. He ate in a high chair on the teacher’s dais, getting peas and mashed potatoes on the adults beside him– Sprout laughed. Snape didn’t.
But this is important–Harry filled his plate. He wobbled up on little legs and grabbed biscuits from the table, slurped his soup, got marinara sauce on his chin and forehead and somehow behind his ear. When he was hungry, he ate. If he snuck down to the kitchens at night, it was for the adventure of it and nothing else. When he was hungry, he ate.
When he was four, they started letting him go sit down with the students. Bill Weasley, on route to be a prefect next year, took him under his wing and scrubbed his face down after meals. Harry was passed around the Hufflepuff table; theirs was the House Common Room he most liked sneaking into, with its barrels and cozy warmth. Nymphadora Tonks turned her nose a dozen different shapes to make Harry laugh, gurgling, as a toddler (and then a child) (and then for the rest of her life, honestly–it never stopped being funny).
The whole Ravenclaw table got distracted from meals, trying to solve riddles from a book one of their Muggleborns had smuggled in.Harry pushed his fork through his gravy, trying to draw out his thoughts but only making squiggles.
It was years before Harry sat at the Slytherin table for the first time–no one had ever set him down there, like they had with the others. But he liked green–it was the color of Professor Sprout’s greenhouses, where he went and napped sometimes in winter. It was the color of his mother’s eyes, from the little book of moving pictures Hagrid had given him when he was three.
All the Slytherin kids seemed big, but everyone Harry ever met seemed big–except for Flitwick, who was seeming smaller with every growth spurt. He leaned forward, teetering on the bench, and grabbed a chicken drumstick. “Hi,” he said, because he’d had a childhood full of tea parties with high portrait society– the French nobility and the tired housewife from the third floor and an old witch with her sleeve on fire but very particular table manners. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”
By the end of the meal, they were flicking peas across the table with their spoons, like catapult projectiles. Harry had been unwelcome in so few places in his life, after he’d left 4 Privet Drive, that he simply didn’t expect it. He asked Warrington, a Slytherin with shoulders like a bulldog’s, to help him with the juice, which was too unwieldy for his kid-sized wrists. Harry sat there blinking, smiling, until Warrington took the jug and poured him a brimming glass.
Tags:
#Harry Potter #fanfic #recs #dear god #forty minutes well spent
Saw another post on the DS9 tag praising the scene in By Inferno’s Light where Martok and Worf totally respect Garak for going into the crawlspace despite his claustrophobia, and say how brave it is of him.
And it got me thinking about that douche who thought Data wouldn’t make a good captain in Unification because ‘You wouldn’t see a Klingon as a counsellor’ (or a … whatever his other example was) – and I’m convinced he’s 100% wrong, and that a Klingon is as likely as any other race to be a counsellor.
Really, it’s all tied back to the ridiculous assumption (which TNG unfortunately seemed to perpetuate at times) that every single Klingon in the entire Empire is a warrior (never mind that we’ve seen Klingon scientists and judges and more) and therefore lol don’t be silly they don’t have any mental health professionals of any kind. Yeah, cause that makes sense.
As if a Klingon counsellor wouldn’t see helping their patients overcome their mental illnesses as a worthy battle.
If Martok and Worf can recognise the bravery in fighting internal fears, then there’s no reason to think that other Klingons wouldn’t feel the same.
So in conclusion, I now really want to see/read about a Klingon counsellor.
“Tell me about your fear,” Dugath said.
The Klingon youth sitting in the chair across from him shuffled nervously, eyes downcast, before looking up at the older Klingon with a practiced sneer. “There is no fear,” the youth said. “I am a warrior. Warriors do not know fear.”
“Then you are a fool,” Dugath growled. “Fear is what keeps a warrior alive. Fear tells him that danger is near, and that his life is in danger. A warrior should not be ruled by fear, but neither should he deny it.”
The youth remained silent. “To admit your fear takes great courage,” Dugath said. “Perhaps more courage than leaping into battle against many foes: for the only foe you now face lies within you, where no blade can pierce.”
The youth’s lower lip trembled, but he stilled it with a supreme force of will. “I dream of the night on Vikoth Nine,” he admitted at last.
“The night when you won your battle honors? The night of which the others still celebrate in song?” Dugath asked.
“They should not celebrate what is not deserved!” the youth growled. “There was no courage in my killing of the Romulans. Only fear and luck. Why do they sing songs of my courage, when so many more courageous and worthy warriors remain unspoken?”
Ah, thought Dugath. Much becomes clear. The face of my enemy is revealed.
The old Klingon said a silent prayer to Kahless as he prepared to do battle against the troubles infesting the youth’s mind, as he prepared to use all his courage and skill to polish and sharpen the blade that was a warrior’s soul.
Ohhhh Kahless, someone actually wrote something based on my offhand idea from a few weeks ago?!
THIS IS FANTASTIC~! And exactly how I picture a Klingon therapy session <3 <3
Tags:
#Star Trek #fanfic #hat-tip to cosmictuesdays for linking me this
I had a dream about a Star Trek series with a ferengi captain and he was super endearing but it was like…the worst ship in the fleet and it was full of the misfits of starfleet But I loved this captain I loved him who is he
this is an amazing idea
It’s Nog.
Despite its face as a purported utopia, Starfleet’s got some unfortunate cultural hangups to work through when it comes to certain species, of course. Being the only Ferengi in Starfleet, Nog has to deal with all kinds of racist bullshit from his peers, his superiors, those he eventually outranks.
He makes captain real quick, through a combination of a few open-minded mentors, bull-headed determination, and the good old-fashioned lobes for the business of dealing with people. And he does it despite the bullying, the unfounded rumors and stumbling blocks thrown in his way. He campaigns to have his own ship and gets it simply because the bigots at the top can’t find a legitimate reason to deny it.
But they still try to set him up for failure. They crew his below-substandard ship with the dregs, the misfits, the near-dropouts of the Academy. But instead of getting frustrated, Nog sees opportunity. He knows what his ragtag crew feels like- the unwanted, expected to crash and burn, pushed out to be forgotten.
They know why they’ve been dumped together, pushed aside in the hopes that they’ll just go away. After an admittedly rocky start, Nog sits the crew down in the mess hall and tells these square pegs to start carving corners into the round holes Starfleet has shoved them into. You can’t fit the job? Make the job fit you. We could just give up and be bitter that we’ve all clearly been put here because Admirals Whats-Their-Faces are just waiting for us to bumble into a black hole, or we could surprise them. Prove them wrong.
For himself, Nog adapts the Rules of Acquisition to be compatible with Starfleet culture. His uncle Quark would need a fainting couch if he ever heard, but Nog is thinking profit in a much longer game. He wants to be just the first of many Ferengi to join Starfleet, so he must be a consummate cultural pioneer. More Ferengi in Starfleet might mean eventually Ferenginar joins the Federation. It’s a… very long shot, admittedly, and he might be long dead of old age by the time it happened, but Nog has faith in his people. The females’ liberation movement, going full steam ahead back on his home planet, proves his people can change for the better; it’s a start. Wider acceptance in the galactic community = profit for Ferenginar’s people, and Nog’s idea of profit has expanded somewhat beyond just latinum. (Quark would also need that fainting couch if he ever knew the radical altruistic turn his nephew’s philosophy had taken.)
Ishka listens to her grandson’s weekly transmissions home and could just burst with pride with each one.
He susses out the talents and skills each of his crewmembers has to offer. Puts them to work in ways that dance just around the edges of regulation, finding loopholes in only the way a good Ferengi can. The jerks in charge of handing out assignments keep giving him missions either designed to be a guaranteed fail or are so terrible and frustrating that they should just want to quit, but he turns these fetch quests and garbage details on their side to not only succeed, but return with valuable data or objects of interest. Nothing galaxy-shaking, but more than enough that it makes Nog’s detractors fume at the thought of this upstart shrimp of a Ferengi and all those should-be washouts doing well. Pretty soon Nog’s supporters, the handful of teachers back at the Academy, are all smirking quietly at each other in the faculty conference rooms.
Then Nog and his crew land the big one. One of their little throwaway missions turns over just the right space rock and there’s some universe-ending anomaly staring back at them. Their calls for assistance are treated casually at best- ‘Ugh, it’s the Ferengi and the USS Jury Rig (not their little tub’s real name, but the insult backfired, and Nog’s pretty sure Jenkins is the one who handpainted the nickname on the nacelles during a spacewalk; Nog pretends not to have noticed.), what, did they get caught behind a flock of asteroids?’
Nog and his crew realize help is dragging their warp-speed asses and they’re on their own. Defiantly, they roll their eyes, sigh (gee, shouldn’t we all own condos here at the back of everyone’s priority queue by now?) and get to work. By the time the first ship arrives to help, its just in time to watch the crew of the Jury Rig banish the terrible thing in the sky.
In the fallout, Starfleet command is made aware of all the things Nog and his crew has actually accomplished, along with all the shit they’ve put up with from superiors who set them up to fail. Nog is offered a newer, better ship. Some of the crew are offered promotions, positions on more prestigious ships. To a one, they decline. They’re staying with Captain Nog.
…they take the new ship, though.
Tags:
#Star Trek #DS9 #headcanon accepted
you know a fantasy character who would enthusiastically wear a pair of those weird toe-shoes?
Sam Vimes
Oh my god oh my god but imagine how excited he would be –
He runs home one day from work, practically skipping – Sybil looks up from the dragon she’s checking and says “You look happy dear. Which lord has died now?”
“Darling-” he replies, with the glint in his eye usually only found during rooftop chases, “Now even my little toes can tell what street I’m on”Oh & he’d start wearing them to work and maybe some of the younger recruits would mock him but Carrot would overhear them and then before you know it it’s compulsory for every watchman to own and wear a pair of toe shoes on patrol
And the city criminals find it absolutely hilarious until they suddenly realise that watchman in toe-shoes are a whole lot quieter when sneaking up behind you on a cold, dark night than watchman in sandals.
And maybe some of the more delusional Ankhian aristocrats would start wearing them because they think they’re ‘in’ and it would really annoy Vimes because why would you need toe-shoes when all you do is sit around all day anyway? And one day he makes the mistake of complaining about non-watchman wearing them to Vetinari and so Vetinari gets his own pair made entirely in black and then suddenly the whole city is wearing them
And then one evening as they nod off in armchairs in front of the fire Vimes complains about this accidental fad he started to Sybil and she replies “Well, you are very powerful, dear” and all she gets in response is Vimes’ voice, muttered and slightly disgruntled, saying “No one should be that powerful”
PFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFT
Tags:
#Discworld
So… remember a few years back there was this “bring your fandom to work” thing where people wrote fic set in AUs where their favourite characters worked in the same kind of work setting that the fic authors worked in and basically it was the concept of the coffeeshop AU taken so much further? Anyone up for bringing that back? Because I desperately want to see an Avengers-inna-restaurant AU ok. Or a Teen-Wolves-as-game-designers AU. Or Hockey-Players-as-hospital-staff AU. Or a newspaper news room AU. Retail AU (especially at Christmas time). Lawyer AU. Even just normal corporate office AU (with all attending drama and office politics). Give me aaallll the AUs, is what I am saying. =D
Tags:
#interesting idea
“Our daughter seems to have been born with magical ice powers,” said the King of Arendelle.
“Looks like it,” said the queen. “I don’t know very much about how magical ice powers work, so unless you do, it’s probably time to do some research so we can go into this child-rearing project with a knowledge of what to teach her so she can wield them safely.”
“Good idea,” said the king. “I’ll go visit the trolls and see what they know, back in a few hours.”
~~~
“I recommend,” said the troll, examining the injured child while her sister and parents looked on, “we remove all magic, even memories of magic, to be safe. But don’t worry, I’ll leave the fun.”
“After this – procedure,” said the queen, “will seeing magic or hearing about it cause a relapse?”
“A relapse?” inquired the troll, finishing his work and looking up at the queen.
“For example, if she sees Elsa performing magic again in the future, will she pass out, or -”
“Oh. No, that won’t affect anything,” said the troll.
“Thank you very much,” the king said, and the family went home, where it was summarily explained to Anna exactly what treatment she had just undergone and why.
~~~
“We’ll lock the gates. We’ll reduce the staff. We will limit her contact with people and keep her powers hidden from everyone… including Anna,” said the king.
“What about the staff?” asked the queen. “We weren’t keeping Elsa’s powers a particular secret before today. They probably already know. If we dismiss them, word will certainly get out, even if it hasn’t already. Anyway, we can’t fire everyone. A household this size takes a lot of work unless you want to start washing your own socks.”
“…Good point,” said the king. “We’ll keep the full staff. I suppose having servants around might help keep Anna company when Elsa’s quarantined and we’re both busy with matters of state, anyway.”
“That too. Just imagine how neglectful it would be to shut Anna up in a house with nobody to talk to.”
~~~
“We’ll lock the gates. We’ll reduce the staff. We will limit her contact with people and keep her powers hidden from everyone… including Anna,” said the king.
“Lock the gates?” asked the queen. “You mean, keep Anna inside the palace? Why?”
“To keep the secret.”
“To keep a secret that Anna does not know, we lock her up? Elsa is a safety concern, but she’s obviously willing to stay in her room. Letting Anna go into town regularly endangers nothing.”
“That’s true,” acknowledged the king. “All right, we increase the guard around the corridor for Elsa’s room in case someone wanders by, under the pretense that we’re paranoid about protecting our heir; but there’s no reason to do anything about the actual gates.”
~~~
“Mom,” whined Anna, “why won’t Elsa play with me anymore?”
“It’s hard to say,” the queen hedged. “Why don’t you write her a letter and slip it under her door?”
“Okay,” said Anna, brightening, and thus began the long correspondence between the sisters. Mere paper, however water-damaged, did not pose Anna any threat.
~~~
“I know it’s not fair, Elsa,” said the king to his daughter, “but you have to work on controlling your powers, and sitting in your room all day, every day isn’t helping. Let’s pack you some camping gear and you can go up into Arendelle’s large quantities of easily accessible mountain wilderness to try using your abilities deliberately while there’s no one nearby to be in harm’s way. I’ll show you where the trolls live in case they have any help to offer.”
“Maybe,” said Elsa optimistically, “they’ll have useful things to say about how fear is my enemy or how love is the key!”
~~~
“Do you have to go?” Elsa asked her parents.
“Well, yes. I wonder if you should come,” mused the king. “After all, you’ll be queen, one day, and building relationships with other countries is important. The gloves have been helping, you don’t have to come out of your cabin on the boat, and if you’re not feeling up to it on the day of the wedding we can just say you’re sick.”
Elsa joined her parents on their way to her cousin’s wedding. There was some turbulence on the way home, calmed by Elsa’s ability to freeze and then telekinetically control arbitrary amounts of water, and the ship escaped with only minor cosmetic damage.
~~~
“Excuse me,” said Anna to the guard. “Open the gates for me.”
“But… but Princess,” said the guard. “They are to remain closed at all times.”
“The key word here,” said Anna, “is Princess. Royalty? Heir presumptive? Recently orphaned – did Elsa personally tell you to keep them closed? She’s the only person who outranks me.”
“Er,” stammered the guard, “not personally, as such.”
“Open. The. Gates.”
Out Anna went.
~~~
“Excuse me,” said Anna to the guard. “Open the gates for me.”
“But… but Princess,” said the guard. “They are to remain closed at all times.”
“…Okay,” Anna said, “where does our food and so on come from if they remain closed at all times?”
“Servant’s entrance and delivery gate ‘round back.”
“Okay!” said Anna cheerfully, and ‘round back and out she went.
Tags:
#Frozen #fanfic #yes good
Tolkien started rewriting the Hobbit in the style of LotR, but what I really want is the Silmarillion in the style of the Hobbit.
In a hole in the fabric of the universe there lived a god.
Now, this was not one of those minor gods of bedtime stories or petty wars for heaven; this was the One God, all-loving and all-knowing, who created the world – only he hadn’t created the world just yet, which is why he was sitting in a hole in the fabric of the universe.
#that sounds more like douglas adams
and it is glorious
Two of my very favourite things together as one? Hell yes.
plz zir can i have some more?
You can! It’s over here.
Tags:
#Lord of the Rings #I don’t even *speak* LotR #(well except for the vast quantities of cultural osmosis) #and reading that still makes me feel proud to know this person
Brinens and Things 