THE KILLS - i put a spell on you
I put a spell on you
Because you’re mine
Well, since the serum is an enhancement, it’s unlikely to be passed through genetics (the doctors probably tested this, somehow, haha). Steve’s kids are more likely to inherit his asthma and weak stature.
OH MY GOD THO
A SINISTER GOVT EXPERIMENT TO CREATE AN ARMY OF TINY CAPTAIN AMERICAS
STEVE FINDS OUT ABOUT IT AT SOME POINT
AND IT’S BASICALLY ELEVEN TOW-HEADED, ASTHMATIC, ALLERGIC, IMMUNO-COMPROMISED LITTLE BEANPOLES WITH BAD ATTITUDES
SOCKED AWAY SOMEWHERE
LIKE IN A WAREHOUSE OR WHATEVER
WITH A COUPLE OF OVERWHELMED INTERNS BABYSITTING THEM
BECAUSE THE RESEARCHERS HAD ALL THEIR FUNDING TAKEN AWAY WHEN CAPTAIN AMERICA’S SECRET UBERMENCH CLONES TURNED OUT TO BE A BUNCH OF WEAKLINGS
AND NOBODY KNOWS WHAT TO DO WITH THIS GAGGLE OF KIDS (WHO ARE SHRILL AND UNMANAGEABLE AND WHEEZE A LOT)
EXCEPT MAKE SURE THEY GET ADEQUATE MEDICAL CARE AND REGULAR MEALS
AND REGRET THEIR IN RETROSPECT VERY OBVIOUS ERRORS
AND HOPE STEVE DOESN’T FIND OUT
WHICH OF COURSE HE DOES
BACK AT THE TOWER
EVERYONE’S INHALERS KEEP GETTING MIXED UP
THERE ARE COLORED PENCILS EVERYWHERE
A FISTFIGHT ABOUT THE NATURE OF JUSTICE ENSUES BETWEEN THE 9 YEAR OLD ONE AND ONE OF THE 11 YEAR OLDS
Bucky is sitting on the couch laughing so hard he’s crying. “Remember that time in second grade when you got sent home from school because you punched one of the fifth graders and your mom—” he has to stop, because he’s wheezing like the kids, like Steve used to “—your mom said, ‘Stevie, when you grow up, I hope you have a bunch of kids just like you.’” He falls over on the couch, holding his belly.
On the one hand, it’s great to see Bucky finally laugh like his old self. On the other hand… “I’m pretty sure this ISN’T WHAT SHE MEANT.” He has to raise his voice over the sudden shouting over who stole whose Bucky Bear. “Now will you get up and help me finish making lunch?”
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.)
how does something this small even exist? is this a pig molecule? i need to lay down a while
baymax is literally all of us in robot form
I’d say I wish I could engage in sexual relations with someone these days but right now my sexuality is like somewhere between jet black crystal monolith and enormous candle burning for eternity on the fat of damned souls so maybe I should just not, in fact finding people to cry on sounds a lot more rewarding overall
Things Dumbledore Did That’d Be Creepy If You Did them