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The Boy Who Lived
Voldemort stood frozen, stunned by the sight before him. A silver peacock blazed in the middle of the battlefield, its light driving away the Dementors that had swarmed across the skies above Hogwarts. Such strange and extraordinary power was far beyond his understanding of magic. What astonished him even more was that it had been wielded by a young witch like her.
But the silver light could not last forever. In an instant, it faded away. Dracaena collapsed to her knees, both hands braced against the cold stone floor. Fresh blood still stained the corner of her mouth.
He looked down at the girl crumpled before him. Her body trembled in waves, her shallow, labored breaths almost drowned out by the chaos of the battlefield. She could barely even lift her head to look at the enemy standing before her.
Voldemort studied her, his mind already working. Under normal circumstances, her will should have crumbled long ago beneath the despair inflicted by hundreds of Dementors. The magic she had just unleashed was beyond what an ordinary witch could withstand.
Then he froze. An unexpected, icy emptiness opened up in Voldemort’s mind. The invisible connection he had sensed for so many years had vanished.
The last Horcrux was gone.
For a brief moment, all the sounds around him seemed to recede into the distance. He had spent his entire life seeking forbidden magical knowledge, never even flinching when he tore his own soul apart in pursuit of immortality. He had once believed that he had transcended every limitation of being human.
But now, he was forced to confront a possibility he had always done everything in his power to avoid: everything he had done might ultimately prove meaningless.
He was afraid. The most primal fear of all.
DEATH.
Cold sweat began to bead on his forehead. Yet another variable he had never accounted for. No. This was impossible.
He decided that he would allow no further surprises.
She must be eliminated. Immediately. A cold thought surfaced in the Dark Lord’s mind.
There would be no more jokes or taunts. Without hesitation, he delivered his verdict, his voice cold and merciless.
“Avada Ked—”
“EXPELLIARMUS.”
Harry launched a surprise attack from beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Voldemort flinched in surprise, twisting his wand to retaliate with a half-formed spell. Two beams of red and green light collided violently in midair before exploding, sending bolts of magic tearing through the surrounding ground.
The Invisibility Cloak slipped from Harry’s shoulders, revealing the face of his fated enemy. Voldemort roared:
“You’re still alive, Harry Potter?”
Harry did not answer. Voldemort raised the Elder Wand once more. His bloodshot eyes locked onto his target as an overwhelming surge of magic gathered for the next attack.
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
“EXPELLIARMUS!”
The deadly green light shot straight toward Harry.
He gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of strength into the arm holding his wand. The red beam fought back fiercely, but the pressure from the opposing force continued to drive him backward.
Harry’s body trembled. His fingers tightened around his wand until they ached, and his legs strained to keep him upright. Sweat streamed down his forehead.
He knew that he had made it this far because of the people who had fought beside him. Because of those who had fallen. Because of everyone who had given him one final chance to bring the war to an end.
A chilling thought crept into Harry’s mind.
What if I fail?
The prophecy did not make him stronger than Voldemort. The Elder Wand’s allegiance could not erase the gap in experience and power between them, either. He had come this far with the help and sacrifices of so many people. Yet now, he felt as though defeat was inevitable.
Behind Harry, Dracaena was struggling to get back to her feet. Every movement sent a sharp pain through her body. Her legs could barely support her weight. Blood seeped between her fingers and dripped onto the cold stone beneath her.
As she watched Harry trembling under the force of the curse, she realized that she no longer wanted to return to the person she had once been.
She had once regarded affection as a weakness. She had learned to hide every trace of concern behind sarcastic remarks, cold glances, and the pride of a pure-blood witch. She had never known what to do with the sincere feelings others offered her.
But Harry had given her warm memories she had never thought herself worthy of having. And now, Harry was standing before her, fighting with every ounce of strength he had left.
Dracaena forced herself upright. Though her entire body ached and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her, her ash-gray eyes now shone with determination and unwavering faith.
She stepped beside Harry and reached out, her bloodied but warm hand closing firmly around his trembling one.
A familiar voice sounded beside him.
“Scared, Potter?”
For a moment, Harry felt as though he had returned to their school days, when they had used taunts and provocations to conceal the things they could not yet bring themselves to say.
Harry answered with a faint smile.
“You wish.”
The past intertwined with the present, and those words were spoken once more. Only this time, they carried an entirely different meaning.
Dracaena tightened her grip on Harry’s hand.
Their magic intertwined. Harry’s resilience merged with her sincere love, passing through their joined hands and flowing into his wand. Light enveloped the red beam, holding it back and preventing it from being swallowed by the green curse.
The red beam gradually turned a brilliant golden hue, like a flame that refused to die out, carrying a powerful vitality that stood against the force of death itself.
Yet the golden light still could not immediately push back the curse. The two magical forces continued to struggle against each other in midair. The tremendous pressure of their collision caused the ground beneath them to crack apart.
Harry could feel his strength draining away. His arm ached, but Dracaena’s hand remained tightly clasped around his.
“Together,” Dracaena whispered.
“Together,” Harry replied.
Tiny cracks began to appear along the Elder Wand’s shaft. Voldemort lowered his gaze toward it, a flicker of astonishment crossing his face. He tried to force the wand to continue casting the curse, but it no longer obeyed him as it once had.
He tightened his grip on it. He had stolen the weapon he believed no one could ever stand against, so why was it resisting him at this crucial moment?
He had never understood that the Elder Wand’s allegiance had always been to Harry Potter.
“NO! I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!”
Voldemort forced the wand to unleash the curse with all the power he had left. The green light surged toward Harry, colliding violently with the spell blazing gold before him.
The two beams remained locked in a fierce struggle. At that very moment, the Elder Wand suddenly shuddered, and a piercing crack rang out. The fractures spreading across its shaft widened rapidly, splitting the wood lengthwise.
Voldemort tried to twist his wrist, but the wand shook violently, refusing to obey him. The harder he tried to force it into submission, the more uncontrollable the magic became.
The green light wavered. Then, without warning, the curse reversed course.
Voldemort’s eyes widened. The Killing Curse had turned back on its caster.
The green beam struck Voldemort. At that same instant, the Elder Wand shattered under the backlash of the magic, splinters of wood scattering through the air.
The Dark Lord vanished amid the ruins of Hogwarts. He had spent his entire life fleeing death, but his final Horcrux had already been destroyed. Nothing remained to tether him to the world of the living.
Harry stood motionless, his hand still clasped tightly around Dracaena’s.
Voldemort was dead. The remaining Death Eaters fled in panic and scattered in every direction. The final battle was over.
But in that moment, victory was not what mattered most to Harry. He turned toward the girl standing beside him.
“Dracaena!”
She tried to answer, but her knees suddenly buckled. Harry caught her before she could fall. The moment she felt his arms around her, all the strength she had desperately struggled to preserve seemed to drain away.
“Harry... I’m sorry... I’m sorry for everything. For the things I said, for the way I treated you.”
Her voice trembled. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She tried to continue, but her voice caught in her throat.
“When I thought about you... I realized I couldn’t bear it anymore.”
She hesitated, unable to say another word. Sobs spilled from her as she struggled to breathe. Harry gently drew her into his arms.
“Dracaena...”
“I was so scared, Harry.” She buried her face in his shoulder. “I was afraid you would die. That’s why I came back. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be alone again.”
Harry closed his eyes and spoke softly.
“It’s okay, Dracaena. Voldemort is dead. All of it… the curse, the fighting… it’s over. You don’t have to keep fighting anymore.”
“From now on, you don’t have to be scared.”
He tightened his arms around her. This time, Dracaena made no attempt to hide her tears. She simply held Harry as tightly as she could, as though she could finally allow herself to be vulnerable before the person she loved.
After a long while, she finally whispered, “Harry... you really don’t hate me?”
The question made his heart ache. Harry answered without hesitation.
“No.”
“Even when I’m not the good person you thought I was?”
Harry shook his head.
“I never thought you were perfect, Dracaena.”
She stared at him in surprise, then heard him continue.
“I just want you to be yourself.”
Just Dracaena. A girl who had been hurt, who had hurt others, but who still deserved to be loved.
Harry did not need her to become a perfect person. He only wanted her to be able to live as her true self, no longer hiding every wound behind the familiar mask of pride.
Harry gently took her hand.
“From now on, I won’t let you face everything alone anymore.”
Dracaena looked at Harry, her eyes still glistening with tears. She lowered her voice and asked softly.
“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you!”
The words escaped her in a quiet whisper. It was the truth she had denied for far too long, because she had never known how to express her own feelings.
A brief silence passed. Dracaena frowned, tears still clinging to her cheeks.
“You idiot. You have to say something!”
Harry laughed, then replied gently.
“I love you too!”
She froze. Tears welled up in her eyes once more.
Harry reached up to wipe them away, but he could not keep the emotion from catching in his own throat, either.
Dracaena buried her face in his shoulder. She cried for everything she had lost in the past, and for all the beautiful things the present still had to offer her.
Harry continued holding her, but then he suddenly remembered something.
“Wait a minute, Dracaena.”
“What is it?”
“I remember passing out. How did you manage to give me the antidote?”
Dracaena fell silent at once, then stammered, embarrassed.
“I... I just wanted you to wake up!”
Harry tried to suppress his laughter, but the corners of his mouth still curled upward.
“Potter!” She turned away in embarrassment. “If you keep laughing, I’m not talking to you anymore!”
“Okay, okay.” His voice still carried a trace of amusement as he replied, “Thank you, Dracaena.”
She looked at him for a moment, the embarrassment in her expression gradually softening. Finally, she gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
“You idiot...”
They stayed close in silence for a long while.
In the distance, the voices of the survivors began to ring out among the ruins. They still had to search for their companions and tend to the wounded.
But at least, they had survived.
Harry looked into Dracaena’s gray eyes. This time, it was his turn to take the initiative. He called her name softly.
“Dracaena...”
“What is it now, Potter?”
Harry did not answer immediately. He simply intertwined his fingers with hers, his movements gentle and unhurried. Their eyes met, and there was no longer any distance between them—the distance she had once tried so hard to maintain.
Then he gently drew her closer and held her tightly in his arms.
As the first light of dawn broke through the clouds, Harry lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
Dracaena softly closed her eyes, her hand tightening around his as though answering his kiss.
Amid the ruins of Hogwarts, the two continued to hold hands. The losses of the previous night would not disappear with the coming of a single dawn.
But at least, Harry and Dracaena were still here. They still had the chance to move forward, no longer needing to hide their true feelings from one another.
From now on, they could be honest with each other.
The artist:
InspiteGames
MaroonR19
🍁 A Smartass Username 🍁 retweeted
Vancouver defenseman Filip Hronek tonight with a candidate for the greatest pass in the history of hockey. @OctagonHockey
🍁 A Smartass Username 🍁 retweeted
If America had built 1,000 nuclear reactors by 2000 and continued expanding, nuclear power would supply ~90% of our electricity today, even with dramatically higher demand from electrification.
We wouldn’t just have cheaper, abundant electricity. We’d have an entirely different industrial economy. Never forget what they stole from you.
Ralph Nader, 1997: “When we came out against nuclear power in the early '70s, the government had predicted that there would be 1,000 nuclear plants by the year 2000 in the United States, and there's 109 and shrinking, as more and more get shut down.” pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline…
🍁 A Smartass Username 🍁 retweeted
Apparently Scott Greer - and numerous other conservative "influencers," "podcasters" and other assorted fauna - need this explained to them: fanfiction is the garden in which potential writers first cultivate their talents.
Fiction writing is an incredibly difficult art to master; which is why the average age of debut novelists is 35, and the average age of an author releasing their first best-seller is around 50. It requires intellect, life experience, well-honed technical mastery, and the ability to hold an entire world in one's head, complete with a full cast of imaginary friends that have lengthy conversations with one another. Jumping feet-first into the deep end is effectively impossible; which is why the vast majority of writers start with fan-fiction - even many "original" works are just filing the serial numbers off something else and leaning heavily on genre conventions. It allows the nascent writer to develop their skills in an otherwise stable framework; affords them an opportunity to crawl before they walk.
The "Malfoid" phenomena stands out because Harry Potter is the first long piece of fiction (seven books!) that an entire generation read in young adulthood, and perhaps the last work of fiction that achieved nigh-universal readership among an entire generational cohort. For that same cohort, having a story written (or re-written) *for them* is like tasting chocolate for the first time in thirty years, given the publishing industry has been, like so many other institutions, completely captured by the DEI left and has relentlessly purged white male authors from its ranks; leaving what few remain struggling to rise above the churning ocean of half-assed trash that chokes Amazon self-pub.
That you and so many other "conservative influencers" knee-jerk response is to sneer at this development reveals a thunderous and damning ignorance on your part of something the left understands innately - the power of narratives. As @Devon_Eriksen_ has explained before, narratives are fundamental to how we mentally model the world. Motives and desires, emotions and reactions, even basic physical cause-and-effect requires a narrative; even if it's as simple as "if I push on this door hard enough, I can open it, and get at the grain that's in the tack room." My goats have figured out that much; which is why they break into the tack room daily even if they can't see the grain, or even the bag that usually has grain in it through the wire mesh.
Because of this, narratives are incredibly powerful influences on our thinking - and this is precisely why the left wing is utterly obsessed with controlling every narrative they can get their hands on. It's why they go well out of their way to hunt down anyone in the arts with even the slightest conservative thought and drive them out by any means necessary. Its why they take pains to fill elementary school libraries with sordid books explaining masturbation techniques - they understand that narratives are how children learn almost everything they know of the world; and why so much of their attempts at "serious" art are about as sophisticated as aesop's fables for left-wing values: they absolutely view it as a tool for controlling minds. If you doubt the deliberate intent behold the majority of what they produce, look no further than the coercion California's state government applied to video game giant Blizzard and the results thereof - video games are the one major media form leftists don't have a total stranglehold on, and they're trying to change that.
And *why* do leftists have total control of film *and* the publishing industry? In large part thanks to people like you. People who see the first licks of flame among folks who might not have read any fiction in years, drawn in by fond familiarity and a re-write promising a *very* conservative kind of tale; of the power of herteronormative love and good overcoming evil - and promptly unzip and piss all over it. People who can't tell the difference between the synopsis I just gave and 200 pages of lesbian romance featuring a Donut Steele self-insert mary sue. People who can watch normies, desperate for a good story that isn't more DEI wankfest slop, organically pursuing something similar to what leftists do via cold calculation when they infest a previously-great franchise, gut it, and wear it like a skinsuit, but can't appreciate the downstream political implications of that. People who can't grasp that the average normie doesn't want to read your 187 IQ political essay, but just want some honest-to-god entertainment. People who actually think "This is John Gault speaking" is the best part of Atlas Shrugged and wish the rest of the story hadn't been wrapped around it.
I suspect people like you are not ensouled. You have no sense of wonder; no imagination, no ability to lose yourself in a great story. You never stayed up as a child reading under the covers with a flashlight well after your bedtime; transported by the tale. And so you cannot recognize that quality when you see it; can neither understand how "kiddie stuff" can contain it, nor recognize true art in its larval form. And indeed, this would dovetail well with how podcasters and influencers act in general; not true believers in anything they say, but grifters, who've figured out that the stupid screaming rubes want their biases confirmed and all you need to do is push the button to make more money come out of the 'chute; viz. Tucker Carlson.
And above all, what you can't understand is that good art is, by and large, conservative. Because conservatives write stories, not aesops; they concern themselves with human characters and thus care about the truth of humans' character, rather than treating truth as a blank slate that can be filled with any arbitrary lie desired, and wiped clean and re-written on the spot as desired. People like you seem to think that "conservative" art is a character stopping, turning to the camera, and saying "women's rights," except maybe it's "gun control bad."
This borderline-sociopathic lack of empathy leaves you unable to grasp fiction at its most basic level; you might think the classics are important because something something conservative values something something basis of western civilization, or because that one dude sounded real convincing playing a mafioso, but nothing more. And so you sneer out the side of your mouth at creators; confident that you're the Big Serious Adult having Big Thinky Thonks on your podcast, while the youth that will be voting in three years are glued to whatever they can find on Netflix and having that beamed straight into their cerebellums.
Art is a vehicle for thought, and most art is not War and Peace by dint of the basics of supply and demand - it takes a year to write a *good* novel and a day to read it. But because it's not Serious enough for you, you cede that ground to the collectivists, willingly, and merrily piss on anyone inspired to change that.
Stay in your lane, Scott.
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The book came far faster than he expected, the next day at dinner it soared in being carried not by owls, but by two huge rock buzzards that bawked and screeched angrily during transit. The huge birds wer necessary, as he tome was gigantic, easily weighing twenty pounds and was two feet tall, six inches thick and a foot-and-a-half wide. Despite it’s size and the ornery nature of the huge birds, it landed with surprising grace on the table. Neville was quick to procure the birds two large spent bones from some of the serving trays to feed the enormous birds, who took them with a snap of their
beaks and flapped up into the sky.
It was hard to avoid questions, as the huge ornate grimoire had the name “LONGBOTTOM” inlaid in silver text upon a leather cover, but it quickly died down, allowing him to rush it off to the library. He knew the historical section by heart now, and slid a few choice books and scrolls from their positions for reference, then sat down in front of the huge book.
“Come out, Luna, I know you are there.” he said in a flat, determined tone. There was a pregnant silence before he heard footsteps from behind them.
“How did you know I was there?” she asked in a tone that tried to hide embarassment with amusement
“Where else would you be? Come sit down, you might as well make yourself comfortable” He said flatly as he began to carefully open the huge book. The earliest pages were almost indecipherable due to the cruel passage of time and its effect on language, though magical script carefully provided translations whenever his eyes followed the ornate words.
Luna pouted a bit, but pulled up a chair to the table next to him to look at the tome, only to pull out a strange pair of glasses, each with unusual crystalline lenses, her voice came out filled with interest, "I can't make out any of the words, it just looks like scribbles."
"You aren't a Longbottom. The book is designed to only be read by memebers of the family, and in this case, only by the eldest son. It's pretty common in old families to help keep secrets this way."
There was a pause, "So if I married into the family I could see it?" She asked quizzically
"Yes." he responded, alarm bells going off in parts of his brain he wasn't particularly used to.
The ancient book was clearly a work of art, the sort of thing that any of the great families would own and cherish. The writing was ornate, drawn by a careful and skilled hand as it described the great exploits of notable Longbottom's going back into history, though Neville wasn’t lingering there, he carefully turned the majority of the pages over, then scrolled past the most recent exploits of his parents, and finally to the section he wanted to see, The family tree.
Wizarding families are enormously complex affairs, especially pure blooded ones that date back into the past. While this book obviously focused on the Longbottoms, the inter-marriage between the various ancient houses was impossible to ignore. He had to sort through page after page of side-families, associated families, offshoots, entire ancient families that were so entwined that their entire genealogy was listed just to be safe. About three quarters of the way through the section he found the ‘Main’ family lineage that the book took extra care in displaying. Starting with the most recent, a sparkling red line glowed that demonstrated the unbroken patrilineal line of the family that terminated in his name. The various siblings, cousins, second cousins were also listed, and each name had a birth date, death date (where applicable) and notes about their lives and jobs when it was deemed necessary.
He shuddered a bit, as an only child, the line of his family nearly terminated with him thanks to the Death Eaters and Voldemort. Feeling the weight of his ancestors on top of him always made him uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t stop him now.
He followed the glimmering red line from page to page, and it surprised him just how many ancestors he had, the centuries began to tick by as the page turned, over and over, the 1900’s gave way to the 1800’s, he then started going back two pages, then three, as the turn of the first millennium crossed he slowed, until he came to the seventh century, taking the pages carefully
Then as he crossed to the page that would take him to the sixth century, the pages suddenly turned up blank. He stared at the empty sheets of paper, confused, moving back to the sheets that had the family tree and back finding the terminator page at roughly 595 AD. Frustration hit him like a wave as he grit his teeth, “No, no NO Not now! What happened to the rest of it?!” he said loud enough for one of the library ghosts to shush him from across a bookshelf.
Luna was staring at the pages, seemingly irritated at the complete lack of information that should have been there. The book showed no signs of stopping it’s encyclopedic knowledge of the family tree, so why stop there. In Neville’s hand started turning blank page after blank page, tears were streaking down his cheeks from months of constant stress and frustration when something fell out of the pages, a small envelope addressed to “My Grandson.” His shaking hands broke the wax seal and opened the letter.
“To my beloved Grandson.
I want to first apologize to you, for I was never a particularly good grandmother to you, nor a good mother to my son. The demands of the family regularly got the better of me, and keeping the lineage intact has always fallen to the women of the family. If you are asking for this book, it can only mean that something terrible has happened and that you require the information within this book to assist you. I cannot deny the scion of the Longbottoms this, as is demanded of me of my duties as matron to the line, and as will be the duty of your future wife.
The final pages of this tome are hidden from prying eyes, and only the first born son of the lineage may reveal what is there. I do not know, I was not told, as it was not my place to know. I was only told that you would know the password, and the knowledge within is for your eyes only. The safety of our family hinges on your secrecy.
I love you, Neville. While I have never shown it, I am proud of you and hope you will forgive me for my failings.
Love,
Augusta Longbottom”
Nevilles eyes welled with tears and his heart swole with emotion. This letter was the first thing about the world that felt good and his soul could only take so much. He crumped to the floor and sobbed, gribbing the letter to his chest. Luna’s silence helped, he probably couldn’t handle another deeply confusing or disturbing conversation in that moment, he let the emotions finally run dry before rising up, and Luna finally spoke.
“What password was she referring to?” she asked, as Neville carefully moved the pages to the first blank one and pulled out his wand, tapping the page gently and saying..
“Pendragon.”
The page suddenly shimmered and burst into a roaring flame curling into a blackened heap and then suddenly unfurling and restoring itself as if time went in reverse, at the base of the page a pulsing red dot shot upward and stopped, a name emerged, “Hereward Langbotem” he said quietly, with black lines flowering out to show siblings and his wife, it shot up once again, and pulsed “Oswald Langbotem” with its accompanied branches,
“Seabert, Selwyn, Tate, Wylfred…” Neville’s voice trailed off at the writing that pulsed hugely and the name slowly emerged
“Arturus Pendragon… married to Gwenhwyfar… His father… Uther Pendragon.”
Neville sat back, his eyes wide open as he stared at the wall.
“But why the name change?” he asked the air, only for Luna to respond
“I told you to ask yourself why a king, embroiled in a war would have his newborn son close and in the open.” Luna said calmly, “Arthur was betrayed by Mordred and Morganna LeFay, that is well known history. Merlin himself battled against her constantly. They almost certainly sped him away to a minor lord or even a commoner to raise. Langbotem means 'bottom of a valley" which probably suggests where the family lived... it's the modern equivalent to 'Jones' or 'Smith'" she explained
“But Arthur was a muggle,” He said rubbing his temples, before looking down at the book, ink welled up around the name of Arturus and Gwenhyfar that made his eyes open wide
“Gwenhyfar was a witch.” he said quietly, there was an amusement to his voice, a lot of old wizarding families would not be happy with such knowledge that the scion of their family line was a muggle.
“He could have also been a squib, there isn’t much difference and they may not have made the difference back then… He did know about wizards, and Merlin knew him and actively worked with him.
“Okay but… What does this have to do with m-” he stopped himself, he already knew the answer at this point, him asking was simply another cop out attempt to run away. He clenched his eyes shut to push down and force away the fear, “Better question… What does this mean?”
She stared at him with that characteristic ‘bigger than worlds look’ as if such a question was absurd, but she responded nevertheless, “You can feel evil as it acts. You feel the suffering of those around you as it happens. What do you do to an evil when it is in your presence?”
Neville gulped. He was afraid of that answer. He said nothing, though he was careful to close the book and stare at it as his mind processed the gravity of the situation and the knowledge in his mind. His hand felt the crisp parchment of the letter his grandmother sent him, he was ALMOST willing to ignore Luna’s phrenology calipers comparing the distance between the tip of his nose and his forehead.
‘The question never really was why me… was it’ He thought, his hand slowly tightening around the letter, ‘it was always me because it had to be me.’
He looked down at himself, a rather weedy young man who has had the roundness of youth get burned away by the onset of young-adulthood. He still was physically weak, fragile and scared. Not quite so short, sure, but was this really the king everyone had been waiting for?
“Interesting, your forehead suggests a distinct attraction to blondes, I was expecting something more interesting than that.” she said as she twirled her own long straight hair, peeking at it and then blushing pink again.
Neville didn’t respond, he just stood up and began walking.
“Neville? Where are you going?” She asked
“To find Ron and Seamus”.
#Malfoid
Man, sometimes I doubt the old "Talk to the duck" problem-solving method and then I keep doing it and it keeps working
Twitter being full of Malfoid gave me a win at trivia night. Name two of the three unforgivable curses and I got it.
I've never read any of the books lmao
🍁 A Smartass Username 🍁 retweeted
During the “golden age of illustration,” children were depicted with anatomic accuracy that was faithful to the stage of life they were in, and in poses that were natural and believable for a child. Jesse Wilcox Smith, Elsa Beskow and Mary Cassat are examples of artists who did such work and they were able to do so because they not only observed children closely, but also loved them.
However, modern illustrations of children feature joints that don’t articulate–elbows and knees don’t exist– and facial expressions that are emojis rather than anatomically correct changes that belie bone structure and fat distribution underneath.
As a circle with a triangle under it depicts a woman on a bathroom stall, so modern illustrators depict children with large heads, goofy bean mouthed expressions and noodle arms and legs. In essence, children are no longer depicted as human beings but rather emoticons of human beings.
And the reason for this is not merely due to changes in “artistic styles”, but rather the far more oily and avaricious greed of publishers, the sloth and incompetence of modern artists and most heinously, a modern disdain for children.
- An excerpt from my latest essay, soon to be published.
