Just like Slughorn, Albus Dumbledore collects people. Only, instead of focusing on those with influence, he looks to the outcasts.
The expelled half-giant. The young werewolf. The repentant Death Eater.
He protects them and gives them a second chance. All he asks in return is their loyalty.
And, if on occasion he requests that they undertake a certain task, invoking their debt of gratitude – well, that is no more than he is owed.
He once thought to add a certain disowned Black to his collection, but quickly realised his mistake.
Sirius is not an outcast, but a rebel. He knowingly chose his path, and chooses what price he is willing to pay for it. He refuses to be used.
So Albus Dumbledore abandons him.
Who gave you the RIGHT?
Dumbledore knows Sirius’s loyalty lies with Harry instead of him, and he has no use for someone who is not willing to follow his orders without question.
Ooooohoo if there’s ever a post that fits my aesthetic…
okay but then where does Harry himself fit into this collection? Is he an outcast because he is “the Boy Who Lived”?
Nooonono, my friend, that’s what makes this post so beautiful. Because it fits the meta I’ve been trying to get people to accept for years.
Harry was an outcast due to a childhood filled with abuse and neglect.
Vernon made him an outcast by dismissing his claims of magic, berating him, locking him in a CLOSET and putting bars on his window, and let’s face it, even though her editor made her cut it out, Jo intended for there to be physical abuse.
Petunia made him an outcast by enabling and contributing to this abuse, as well as making Harry do dozens of chores while doting on Dudley.
Dudley made him an outcast by bullying him and threatening any students at school who wanted to be his friends.
And the rest of the wizarding world made him an outcast when they bullied him for being an outsider.
Harry James Potter became an outcast the moment he was placed with The Dursleys.
And who put him there in the first place?
The life and lies of Albus Dumbledore
Holy shit this post improved even more if that’s possible since last time I’d seen it yes.
Try to look like a stray sunbeam (…). It’s such a dark day we’ve got to be a little brighter than usual.
Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House (via antigonick)
There was an episode, one of my favorite moments in Star Trek, when Captain Kirk looks over the cosmos and says, ‘Somewhere out there someone is saying the three most beautiful words in any language.’ Of course you heart sinks and you think it’s going to be, ‘I love you’ or whatever. He says, ‘Please help me.’ What a philosophically fantastic idea, that vulnerability and need is a beautiful thing.
Spanish: juice dripping from your mouth as you bite into fresh fruit; honeyed skin incessantly kissed by the sun; long laughter and shadows of summer; a red rose on a bedside table in a white room, where a single petal falls; the silhouettes of lovers sitting at the end of a dock, everything the deepest blue.
French: a river running smooth as silk; pale mornings, watching cigarette smoke slip away like a scarf in the wind; a drink which singes your throat as it slips down into your core and warms you; hot tears stinging your face, then the cold water that washes them away; the agony of orgasm.
German:storm clouds rolling in; the fear of god in the eyes of painted sinners; a long black coat for hiding every secret; shoes clacking on a wooden floor; purple veins on eyelids; the dial tone ringing and ringing when no one is taking your call; an uncapped pen which has bled all over the page.
Irish Gaelic: a whip of raven black hair; lying awake with only the moon to console you; high sand dunes punctuated with brushstrokes of green, green grass; how a first kiss feels so bright, like walking on air; the crash of the ocean, always running into the soft limitless arms of the shore.
Pashto: pomegranates, always and always, and the way they open endlessly; a woman blossoming in front of herself; a purple sunset over mountaintops; children singing songs together under the shade of a fruit tree; a bucket splashing water over your feet; whispers in the dark, a taunting dialogue.
Arabic: olive trees swaying in the wind; a grandmother ticks at her hand painted prayer beads; the bloodied martyr; an intimate, warm orange; a shepherd stretched out in the shade; between buildings, lovers steal a glance; an embroidered robe; minarets touch the sky; bare feet on scorching sand.
Italian: the comfort of the night, darkness enveloping you like a cloak, eyes of the saints judging and following your every move, the taste of sea salt on the skin of a beautiful girl, a lonely road full of memories, anguish of the longing heart, the loud wail of a grieving mother on the grave of her child; sitting on some antique ruin, warmed from the sun, observing crowds of people.
all steve wanted was to marry his high school sweetheart and get a nice job and some health insurance but now he’s a single teenage dad of 6
And it was Death itself who stood behind me, with his arms wrapped around me as tight as iron bands, and his lipless mouth kissing my neck as if in love. But as well as the horror, I felt a strange longing.
persephone's corner 