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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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this is my best friend and the south asian rep is absolutely beautiful because we don’t see any south asian rep in media anyways (looking at you mainstream)

Ancient Asian Temple Gothic

Lets talk about ancient South Asian gothics.

The moonlit stone temple calls to you. Only the clear night sky above lights the way as you wander. You feel drawn towards the inner sanctum by a sense of yearning. As every step brings you deeper into the heart of the temple, something crawls up your throat. A question? A wish? You do not know yet.

You are far from the stone walls that run for miles around these sacred grounds. It is just you, the sounds of the lonely darkness, and the sense of being watched, judged.

The long, dark shadows of centuries old columns seem to stretch deep within themselves. You have lost your gauge on time. There’s a sneaking feeling if you were to walk through the shadows you may keep walking for a lot longer than you should.

The rough granite floor is still hot beneath your feet. But the blank, rounded eyes and coy smirks of the beautiful carved women set in stone makes you shiver. They seem to know something you don’t. something about you.

Once inside the main sanctum, you touch a pillar. Your palm stretches across a carving of a lion chiselled into stone with such precision that the smooth and fine details have lasted ten centuries. It is also warm to the touch. You could have sworn no scorching sun could have touched this part of the pillar during the day. As you turn away, your hands slip off the carving and immediately goes cold.

That which had crawled up your throat now claws at your tongue. You feel a desperate need to follow the tugging you feel towards the epicentre: the inner sanctum.

Following the feverous pull towards the heart, you see light in the distance. The doorway to the inner sanctum is awash in a warm glow but you can’t see inside. The soft lamplight contrasts the cold moonlight on dark wind beaten stone.

A large bell hangs from the ceiling. It has not been touched, but as you pass it, you can hear the soft residual ringing resonating. You feel it reverberating in your ribs.

It seems forbidden to be here at a time like this. But it is not trepidation you feel, rather, revelation. The blanket of night over this ancient and sacred place seems to unfold reality itself, bringing you closer to answers and truths otherwise out of reach.

The ten feet tall corridors built for heards of worshippers echo with the soft sounds of only your muted, bare footsteps.

The once bright colours of the murals on the ceiling are peeling off. But the stories they tell are still etched deep in your memory. It is not the murals, but they stories told, that paint the image of the celestial beings these temples were built for – their beauty lies in both their wonder and the fear their powers command.

And when you finally stand there, at the doorway of the inner sanctum. The magnetic pull you had felt dissipates. That which crawled on your tongue slips past your lips. It is no question, nor a wish. Just a plea. A soft one. It comes as a sob.

You bend down and touch the stone pillar once again. It is also warm. Now, it pulses.

You hum an old kirtan. You don’t remember how you learned this song, but it was in you and now it is out. You hear the temple sing back.

In the inner sanctum sits the idol. The obsidian statue seems to come to life under the wavering glow of the oil lamps… is that a smile or a sneer?

#gothic #desi #that'smybestfriend #southasian #representation #seenANDheard #ain'tnobodylikemydesigirl

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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So, India is dying.

Look, I know a good number of you are from the US and things aren't amazing there either, but my country is literally on the brink of collapse. So I'd love it if we could talk about that for a minute.

If you can't do anything else, please just read and reblog.

A second COVID wave has taken out the healthcare system. There are no more hospital beds. There's an oxygen shortage. There's a critical vaccine shortage. The Central Government has thrown its hands up and is passing the baton to the State Governments to do what they can.

There are over 16 million covid cases. A record 330,000 new cases reported yesterday - comparable to the US at its peak. 187,000 dead as of today.

There is no plan.

Mass cremations are taking place. The cremation grounds are running day and night and they are short on wood. People are watching their loved ones die while waiting for a hospital bed, and then they're unable to give them the proper burial rights.

Hospitals are overwhelmed. Patients are being confined, two to a bed. They're the lucky ones.

We are on the verge of people dying in the streets.

This is the second-most populous country in the world. The largest democracy. A country that encapsulates over 15,000 years of recorded human history and has endured everything from famine to invasion to colonisation.

We might be at the end. This might be the thing that does us in.

People are dying.

People are dying and there is no plan.

More good news? Variants are popping up. A double mutation strain has shown up. It is resistant to current vaccines. This will not go away. This is the devastation they warned of when the anti-maskers were out protesting the minor inconvenience of covering their face in public.

My country is on the verge of an emergency state. Our government has failed us. This is as dire a situation as it ever could be.

Look. I don't do much with my life. I write fics, some of you have read them and that's pretty much it. I spend my days with my head in the clouds because that's where I like to be.

But two days ago, my grandmother tested positive, had to be taken to hospital and the ambulance caught fire.

She barely made it to the urgent care she needs.

So, here I am, using whatever meager platform I have to cobble this request together. Because I have to do something.

If you can, donate.

Or spread the word.

Help. Please.

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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A queen I love this so much <3

A Poem, I Suppose

I think poems are intriguing things,

They usually leave me with funny feelings.

I read a poem and think, what the fuck?

Then I read it again and realize this is a lot more dark.

The first time you read a poem you feel like it’s a song,

A simple short story with rhymes and rhythm;

A world created -disconnected- nothing can go wrong,

Ah but look closer at these line, read within them;

You’ll begin to see a pattern

That resembles confusing coordination.

And when you’re done reading the poem

Your own thoughts resonate with rhythm.

Now I know I can’t write poems,

But, hell, I’ve tried to make it flow

The way any good poem would.

But all I can do is analyse them,

Search for patterns in the words,

structure in the lines and stanzas

And the greater meaning a writer

Conveys through misleading ways.

There are many aspects of a poem one may dissect

To examine the writing down to every letter and line,

As you can see I can start with mine,

The two lines above, behold! An alliteration and rhyme.

Now go back to the first stanza, do you see?

I have used the rhyme scheme AABB.

But not only that, see that italics used,

That’s me quoting me

without abiding to quotation rules:

No quotation marks; italics is for emphasis,

But please, the point of poetry is just this:

You can do what you want, write how you wish,

The structures are just guides, but rules, here, don’t exist.

Linguistics are loosely regarded,

Go back to where you started, see:

“more dark” should be “darker”, I know,

Grammar is vital, I agree,

But sometimes, there lies beauty

In literary anarchy.

Now look at the second stanza

I’ve changed the rhyme scheme,

This time it’s ABABCCAA,

After which, the rhyme scheme fluctuates all the way.

“confusing coordination”, aren’t they mutually exclusive?

Maybe, maybe not, you see that’s another little fact,

A poem is written by the mind of the writer,

But, it’s verses are interpreted in the mind of the reader.

A wise man once said, no text exists in a void.

So, read it how you may,

Understand it how you like,

You will never truly see this poem the way I do,

And I may never reread this poem the way you may too.

Another aspect (of thousands) of poetry analysis,

Is the aesthetic impact of what has been written.

That third stanza begins to look perplexing now, doesn’t it?

You see what you may,

Say, it’s ironic.

A poem about the lawlessness of poetry,

With a stanza squarely aligned, forcefully.

Voila! An odd paradox (that will cease at the end of this long stanza),

Where I begin to analyse my poem in poetry, thus the poem grows.

However, I’m not going to continue this much longer,

(all good things must come to an end)

But I urge you, delve deeper.

There are six more stanzas after the third,

To scrutinize and – verse by verse – consider,

The meanings and the reasons;

The witticism.

And then, when you’re done, pull back.

Look – really look – at the bigger picture,

And the finer details,

And you will wonder,

If I quoted my thoughts in italics,

And I quoted my poem in quotation,

Then my thoughts aren’t quoted at all, merely stated.

So is this poem breaking the fourth wall,

Or have you been in my head all along?

- VM

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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Relationships (a musing):

Maybe this is an unpopular opinion, but our romanticisation of love and relationships is not healthy. Before I get hate, I fully acknowledge the benefits of positive relationships and healthy communication. I also recognise that love does not choose you, and you do not choose it. It happens.

As a child, I never realised how much the media we consumed was driven by romantic relationships. Specifically het-het relationships. I never recognised the impact these subtle ‘ships’ and pairings had on me (I was but a child). Having grown up though, I can define the effects they had on me more concretely. We had books reinforce this idea of being paired off, where characters ended up with each other (but no one ended up alone, and no one chose to be alone). We have movies with their dramatic kisses and “I love you”s and long drawn out tv shows centred around finding love.

We are expected to date young. We are expected to date and fall in love and have our hearts broken. We are expected to go through this cycle of pain, and it’s normalised. At ages where we have no idea who we are, we also have to conform to the expectations of a society that loves love.

I had a college roommate once say to me “If you haven’t dated by the age of 21, people will think something is wrong with you.” And this is the norm. This expectation and this external pressure that I’ve somehow internalised. That I was somehow flawed for not finding love. For not spending college looking for the perfect match. My dreams at night left me haunted; for a brief moment I felt known, and warm (encased in the arms of someone who loved me) but I’d wake up to a cold bed and somehow be disappointed that this was the end result. In my twisted head, I’d framed my loneliness as a fault of my own. That I was a failure as a woman for failing to secure a man who would love me for everything.

I have dabbled in love before. I have been hurt by love, scorned by love and used by love. Or my notion of love. My fairy tale notion of expectations. I’ve built this idea up in my head of this perfect life, meeting someone like they do in movies, finding someone who understands me for me. But how much of that exists. After all, that evil voice in my head keeps telling me that no one would love me for the person I am. I have been manipulated by love too. I’ve felt the strings of a marionette doll, and done things I thought I had to do to earn love. Things that if I didn’t do, I was failing someone (failing someone I thought I loved). Sometimes I chide myself for being foolish, but other times I wonder if I hadn’t been so accustomed to seeing relationships in media, would I have been hurt like this? My love has left me broken.

No, I’m not bitter. No, these aren’t the bitter musings of a single woman. In fact I relish in the fact that I was single through my most formative years, that I was able to determine who I am as a person, and what my goals are going into relationships. I wish it was normal to not want to find love, to want to just be as a person, an individual entity. To not serve as an extension of someone else for just a moment, to be satisfied with who I am. I wish that solitude was not a self inflicted condition that was societally motivated but rather a choice. (maybe I wish sometimes I didn’t feel so alone).

I wish we wrote about the love of friends, the love of family. The love for the world, and everything in it. I wish we wrote about each other, the community that has raised me, the people that have made me.

Because I have so much love to give still. and this world isn’t big enough.

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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han and leia: i love you. i know?

When he leaves do you feel it? Do you feel the emptiness as the bed dips, his clothes rustle from the floor and the door closes? Do you feel the loneliness in the shower, where he’s kissed you more times than you can count? Do you feel the cold when you stand there, in front of the masses, all pretty speeches, pretty hair, and pretty dresses? But if you didn’t feel it when then would you? When you wake up with nightmares of men in white robbing you from what is yours: your home, your planet, your raison d’être? Something about the way he flies off, you decide. About the decisive way he lets you be you, in all your complexities and customs. You hold yourself: an image of royalty and pure blood, but that’s not the way you moan into his ear, that’s not the way he sees you, braids undone (but you’re undone too). You represent something to people, lost lands another time another era (a million voices cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced. A million of your voices). The way he flies off, promising to come back. Because you knew this wouldn’t be the last time, the last time you’d wake up cold and alone in a bed that didn’t feel like yours without him in it.

He hates leaving, the way he feels her unconsciously nuzzle his arm, her legs intertwined with his. The sheets are crumpled beyond repair, the room is dark and she’s warm. And he hates leaving. Hates running faster than light speed will take him. Hates running farther and farther away from the one person who would have his heart, who would have him for who he was. Sliding another lever upwards (slower than usual and his copilot notes this) a blast of blue and then he forgets, as his mind races faster away from reality, faster than his beloved ship. It’s another trip into space (but the calculations are taking longer and longer, and the math isn’t as easy as it used to be: or maybe his heart isn’t in it anymore), another trip for something he thinks he needs. It’s easy to take one more job, what when he’s spent all his life one eye looking over his shoulder. The past is catching up, he’s convinced. The Academy he left, the bounty hunters he killed, the debt collectors, the mining communities, the underbellies from that planet he called home. The list is growing longer, he realises. It’s like a tunnel that stretches on: forward to the future, and he’s fumbling in the dark, the one ray of light being her. He’ll be back one day. Just not today.

#angst #star wars #hanleia #han solo #leia organa #george lucas #original star wars #writing #love is complicated #fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #i love them but this is so sad #love

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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thranduil: of a loveless king

The king knew no love. Or so they thought. Cold, calculating, brooding. The pale starlight offered only luminous cold. He was no hero, no protector. A species of emotional detachment. Detached from his son, detached from his people. Detached from the battles he fought. Sweeping, judging gazes that turned most to ice. Or so they thought. He was a wonder to behold, many would note, the blessed few who would chance upon his face. Pale blond hair of the pure Valar. Blue grey stormy eyes, as the sea churns and turns. Tall, regal. Crown of seasonal berries. All seeing. All knowing. There wasn’t much that did not reach his elven ears. The Mirkwood forests, dark and old as they were (much older than their lord), heard whispers flitting. They knew of the Dwarf-king seeking to reclaim his throne in the Lonely Mountain. The king turned in his chair. But for another time. He had more to think of.

Mereth Muin Giliath. The Feast of Starlight. Much to celebrate. Years of peace, quiet. After the battle for Middle-Earth, after the line of Men had faltered and Isildur had failed. The king turned from them, as he had with them all. His wife had passed, eons ago it seemed. His son had passed in a way too, as he grew older, ageing slowly as only elves do. Passed in the abstract definition of the term. Legolas Greenleaf was dead to his father. The king had no time for children. He had a kingdom to feed, and protect. People who trusted him. So when the dwarves had called, that time ago, he had looked, and turned. As the lonely Mountain fell unto flames and the great Snake Smaug burnt its inhabitants. He could not risk his life for these thieves, their prying fingers, greed possessed, gold in their eyes. They were His gems. His gems of white stars. His unfading reminder of her beauty. Gone. The last of her memory stolen from him. He had forgotten to think of his son.

His face was marred: left cheek burnt, left eye glazed. What remained was the glimmer of a façade, a small tribute to the powerful Elven magic. They had an obsession, a need for beauty, for perfection. And his imperfection he kept hidden but for the light of the faint afternoon sun, when the Dragon’s curse shone through. He was flawed. But was it wrong for a king to hide away? To ignore the people’s cries for help. He had his own to think of. The Sindarin Elves were an ancient race, proud and true. They did not let their blood lines mingle with the likes of men. Or Dwarves. Pure and royal. Unlike any other. What more was to be said, when nothing more could be done. He had seen the closed beauty of his fallen people. His people that he would have protected, should have protected, felled with a single swoop of a sword. Mindless war. There was more to life than fighting over a precious few gems in a mountain, save for the memories of his wife. She had left him here too.

It would have been different, he supposed if it had been him who had died, battling the fell creatures of Dol Guldor. Legolas would have had a mother. A beautiful mother who would never age as the years went by. Clever, brave. She would have taught him what he could not. To love, to feel. As a father, the king had done his best to raise a heartless warrior, a dancer in the field. Not a lover. Not a poet. In battle, no one could best the young prince, save himself. Even the recent Silvan captain, naïve in her years could do nought against the graceful sweeps of the king’s swords. But enough of this battle. Enough of these wars. Sitting in a throne which kept him warm in this cold, frozen, loveless world. His place of comfort, a rigid seat that stood above all else. He would retreat to his safety when he felt threatened, or vulnerable. The icy king knew better than to leave his heart open. Even to his son. A hundred years was no matter to an elf, a mere blink of an eye. Patience and time he had. Eons would go on forever. He could wait out these frugal conflicts. It would matter not.

A leaf fell in Mirkwood, and the ground below shuddered momentarily, before enveloping it too into the darkness. There was nothing left for it. Not here, not anywhere. Quiet but for the rustling of a growing evil. Thranduil turned in his chair and opened his eyes. Sleep was for another time.

#thranduil #the hobbit #lord of the rings #writing #fanfic #legolas #book to movie

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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I DID MY WAITING

12 YEARS OF IT

AND SOMEHOW I STILL DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FAMOUS #TOPTENANIMEBETRAYALS

Indian Harry Potter headcanons that could kinda fit into canon:

Little Harry wonders why his skin is so much darker than his relatives

He asked Aunt Petunia once and she pursed her lips and said “don’t ask questions”

He’s told to walk behind Aunt Petunia when she makes Harry hold all the groceries

At age 8, Harry is told his skin is so mich darker because he’s “dirty”

He showers till his skin is red and raw but he’s still as dark as chestnut when he comes out

There is only one other boy with the same skintone as Harry in his grade

His name is Arjun and he doesn’t have many friends

One time he came to Harry and offered to share his food - a round bread-like substance and potato that tasted a lot better than Aunt Petunia’s

Arjun’s face visibly dimmed in disappointment when Harry had no idea what the food was or how to eat it

He doesn’t talk to Harry much after that but sends him a smile every time their eyes meet

Dudley and his gang beat up Harry for being poor, an orphan and dark but they bully Arjun for his yellow fingernails and because “he smells of curry”

At age 10, Harry knows his mother’s name was Lily but not his father’s

At age 11, a giant with the kindest eyes Harry’s ever seen hands him an acceptance letter to Hogwarts and says “James and Lily would be proud” and Harry’s heart soars

Harry’s first friend has skin as white as snow but he’s loyal and kind and funny and his favorite person in the universe

Harry’s second friend has skin darker than his and Harry’s eyes light up at the knowledge that he’s not alone here in this world

Hermione Granger is fierce and unapologetically black, with cornrows braided into her hair and a glare sharp as knives. There’s nothing in this world Harry wouldn’t do for her

During November of his first year, kind and pretty Parvati Patil says “Happy Diwali” to him with a beaming smile

In the fraction of a second where Harry looks lost, Parvati’s face falls

Harry’s stomach clenches and he’s reminded visibly of Arjun so he says “thank you Parvati, you too”

Parvati’s smile is tumultuous but there

The tightness in Harry’s stomach doesn’t vanish though

Christmas Break arrives and Harry finds himself lost in the Mirror of Erised - he sees his father, darker than him but strong and proud and confident with mischievous eyes and a loving smile, his hand ruffling mirror Harry’s hair affectionately

He sees his mother, pale like Aunt Petunia but oh so vibrant with her piercing eyes, warm smile and protective embrace around the Harry in the mirror

He sees his grandparents - rows and rows of people who look just like him

He wishes more than anything that he could trade places with the boy in the mirror

At the end of his first year, a sobbing Rubeus Hagrid hands him his most treasured possession

Harry flips through the pages of the album, his heart in his throat

He sees his father in a black tux, handsome and cheeky, with his lopsided glasses and tears in his eyes as he looks at Lily Evans-soon-to-be-Potter

He sees his mother, red hair braided back with flowers and a white, trailing dress that seemed to sparkle even in the picture - or maybe that was Lily herself, radiant with joy

His eyes widen as he sees their second wedding: Lily in a red blouse and skirt, embellished with mirrors and silver stones, henna decorating her hands and long silver earrings dangling from her ears

James Potter is dressed in red and gold: a long, red top that looks just as grand - but less shiny - than Lily’s and flowing golden pants

They both sit peacefully in front of the flickering fire

He watches them place thick garlands of white flowers around each other’s necks and cries

The last picture features baby Harry. Lily and James are once again dressed in ethnic wear, wearing blue this time, a baby Harry in a Snitch-covered onesie clasped between them. All three of them hold onto a lit sparkler and baby Harry laughs as they trace patterns in the air

Summer before second year, Ron rescues Harry from the Dursleys and brings him to his house

After that however Ron is more observant, more protective

When Parvati and Padma wish him Happy Diwali in second year, Harry stutters over the word and flushes with embarrassment but the twins smile at him kindly

On the other hand, Ron’s jaw drops and a sinking realization occurs

Leaving behind an oblivious Harry he runs to find Hermione and they both head to the library

Harry doesn’t know what the conversation entailed until the summer before his third year and instead of being expelled for blowing up his aunt, he’s met by a relieved Minister of Magic

Before he leaves for Hogwarts, in addition to learning about mass murderer Sirius Black who murdered 13 people with a single curse, Harry finally learns his heritage

Arthur Weasley waves his wand and a golden 3D projection of the world balloons in front of Harry and it spins and comes to a stop in front of him

Arthur Weasley gently says “that’s India, Harry. That’s where you’re from, where James was from, where your family lived before they immigrated to Britain in the 18th century”

India feels like home

He meets Ron and Hermione on the train and before the Dementors come he tells them that he’s gonna spend the year researching India and their magical community

Ron and Hermione beam back

Hermione immediately pulls out a book and shows it shyly to Harry. The table of contents lists interesting topics that Ron and Hermione had brainstormed last year that they thought Harry would be interested in

Ron says “we didn’t start the research of course this is all your history. But, well, we’d like to help”

Kind, loyal Ron who hates the library offering to help him and studious, goal-driven Hermione offering to give up her own studying time for him makes him almost well up

He’d die for these two, Harry thinks with certainty

Thrice a week they meet in the library for a few hours to research India

Hermione is in despair when she realizes the library’s works on India were mostly all written by white people

She teaches Harry and Ron how to spot implicit biases and how to recognize the white savior complex and to avoid those books like the plague

“They’ll never tell you anything accurate when they think white is the golden standard” Hermione says derisively

When Ron and Hermione fight over their pets, Harry heads to the library alone feeling empty

5 minutes later Ron appears panting and Harry lights up

They both work in silence for a couple of minutes, looking up at the library door hopefully

10 minutes later, Hermione barrels in and says nothing to Ron and nods at Harry and starts explaining her research

With Ron on his right and Hermione on his left, Harry feels invincible

Then Sirius Black turns out to be his godfather and innocent and the world tilts on its axis

Bolstered by Ron and Hermione’s urging, Harry sends Sirius a letter, asking if he knew anything about the Potters’ Indian traditions

The reply takes a while

Long enough that Harry regrets sending it all

But when Hedwig returns with a letter 6 pages thick, he understands

Sirius’s letter reads: “God, Harry, how I wish James were around to tell you this himself. He loved his family and he loved his culture and he was so excited to share it with everyone he could - me, Remus, Lily and you. I’m not Indian but your grandparents took me in when I was young and shared their culture with me so I’ll do my damn best to educate and help you learn about your culture too. James was from South India and if you’ve done any research you’ll know that south and north India are vastly different. Even the South Indian states are vastly different. James’s favorite holiday was Holi, a festival of color and laughter and it was perfect for your dad but his second favorite was Diwali, the festival of the triumph of the Hindu God Rama over evil. It was a time for family, for food and for light -”

Harry folds the letter and tucks it into the album Hagrid gave him in first year

He looks back at the picture with him and his parents and the sparkler and says “happy Diwali, mom, dad”

Fourth year rolls around and after a summer interrupted by Death Eaters and Voldemort’s mark, Harry returns to Hogwarts and almost wishes he hadn’t

Hermione is steadfast at his side and he loves her for it but Ron’s absence numbs him

When Draco Malfoy says “we wouldn’t want a colored champion anyway” Harry feels like lead

However, a multitude of spells are shouted in unison and a furious Hermione, Dean Thomas, Padma and Parvati Patil give Malfoy painful boils and elongated teeth

“You’re pathetic Malfoy” Hermione growls, white teeth flashing on her dark face. “You talk about people of color as if they were beneath you but we’ve got more magic in our pinky than you have in your whole body”

When Parvati and Padma wish him a happy Diwali, Harry joyfully and confidentially returns the greeting and the twins beam, pleased

Ron joins him again and Harry feels complete

Hermione mutters “white boys” only for Harry to hear but her tone is fond and Harry chokes with laughter as Ron hugs them both

When Ron and Harry walk the disgruntled Patil twins back to their Common Rooms after the disastrous Yule Ball, Harry stops and asks them about India

Parvati and Padma frogmarch him to an empty classroom, leaving Ron to run behind them

Parvati looks ashamed as she says “we thought at first you didn’t want anything to do with your culture, not that you didn’t know”

Padma wiggles her wand and a black and white projection of India twists into shape

She explains about the colonization of India by Muggle Britain, how the Indian magical community in Britian had been forbidden from helping but she knew that the Potters and the Patils had both gone back to India to help the Muggle Indians, how India received Independence in 1947 and the Partition between the Hindu-dominated and the Muslim-dominated states that same year

Parvati takes over and explains more cultural events: the democratic parties of India, the different food and festivals and religions and languages, the different spiritual based magical system through chakras and physical movements

Something changes after that: the twins are staunchly on his side, hexing Malfoy and his goons when they pick on him and joining Ron and Hermione in the library when they can for their research on India

He goes to the kitchens to meet Dobby and asks for Indian food

Dobby gets so excited he immediately sets to work and Harry’s mouth waters as he tries the parathas and the sambars and pav bhaji

He brings Ron and Hermione next time and laughs out of sheer happiness as they all eat fried rice and raita together

Hermione grows closer to her roommates and Lavender giggles and says “we’re a dorm full of women of color, there’s nothing we can’t do”

Sometime between the second and third tasks, Hermione finds herself staying up late with her roommates and talking and laughing and allowing Lavender to do her hair

Lavender explains about her family: she’s biracial and while she doesn’t white pass, she did not inherit her dad’s black hair and she’s much lighter than most black people and much darker than most white people

Hermione’s heart aches for her and she says “you’re perfect, Lavender”

Harry then returns from the Third Task with the dead body of Cedric Diggory and news of Voldemort’s return

It is July 31st, the summer before Harry’s 5th year and he’s just finished opening his friends’ presents when a majestic owl swoops through the window and deposits a very heavy brown package on his bed

It’s from the Patils and Harry gapes as he pulls out two salwar kameez, one in red and gold and one in black. The twins have also included copies of old family recipes and a boxful of ingredients like daals and spices that he can’t find in the local grocery stores

He’s had no contact with the wizarding world for a while and no news about Voldemort so he sets to work learning more about his heritage

The Dursleys leave him alone at home for most of summer so Harry takes odd jobs around the neighborhood to pay for groceries

The kindly manager of Little Whinging’s grocery store comps his bill each time, despite Harry’s protests so he dumps half the money in the tip jar

He’s never worked with these spices or some of the vegetables before so Harry sets to work and after multiple failed attempts finally manages to make round rotis

He’s eating his roti and subzi by hand once, feeling closer to his dad than ever before, when Aunt Petunia returns

An unidentifiable look crosses her features as she sees what Harry is eating but she doesn’t say anything to him or to Vernon and Harry makes sure never to get caught again

He’s at Grimmauld Place and Sirius and Molly refuse to get along

Ron and Hermione brainstorm and come up with a solution: they drag Sirius, Molly, Remus and Harry down to the Grimmauld Kitchens and tell them they’ll all be learning how to cook Indian food

Both Sirius and Molly light up and Remus smiles as he sees some of the spark return to Sirius’s eyes as he shares stories of mealtimes with the Potters and the dishes he’d learnt from Mrs Potter

“You know” Sirius says “your mother was so determined to learn how to cook Indian food she stayed over at the Potters in December of 7th year after she and James started dating. Never spent a day with James and spent all the time learning how to cook with your grandma”

Remus adds: “I remember James was worried about Lily not being able to handle the spice but she loved Indian food, took to it like a champ”

Ron takes to cooking like an old hand, pleasing Molly immensely, while Hermione gets increasingly frustrated with the instructions to “feel the amount of spices”

The day Harry gets acquitted, the 5 of them - Ron, Hermione, Molly, Remus and Sirius - successfully make Harry’s favorite pav bhaji as a celebratory treat

The next three years are hard

It is no surpise when Umbridge’s targets are muggleborns and especially colored muggleborns and Dumbledore supporters

Hermione is told “not to wear her hair like that” so she shaves it all off and in solidarity, Harry, Ron and the other colored students of Hogwarts and white allies do too and they protest loudly and persistently

When McGonagall finds out, she is furious

No one knows what happened between the two women but Umbridge removes the Educational Decree the very next day

Hermione finds a spell to restore everyone’s hair but decides she likes her buzzcut and tries not to look too pleased when Ron gapes and whispers “you look so hot”

Neville tells Harry about his parents and Harry confesses to Neville that he’s worried that he’ll never understand his parents because he’ll never understand his culture

Neville wraps him in a hug and says “you’re learning about your culture and they’d be so proud of you”

And Harry hugs back and says “and Alice and Frank Longbottom couldn’t have dreamed of a braver, more powerful son”

Neville doesn’t quite believe him but Harry is certain - Neville is one of the bravest people he’s ever met

The DA and their high is short lived and soon Sirius Black is dead and Harry hears the prophecy: “neither can live while the other survives”

In sixth year, much to Hermione’s chagrin, Ron starts dating Lavender

Hermione is furious but Lavender had been a friend, had been kind to her and Hermione would never strike a fellow woman of color over a white boy, no matter how much she liked him, so she swallows her anger and sheaths her wand. No flying birds attack today

Harry falls for Ginny - fierce firecracker Ginny Weasley who’s had his back since he first rescued her from Tom Riddle - and dreads Ron’s reaction

Ron isn’t happy but he loves his sister and his best friend and tell Harry that if he hurts her there will be trouble

Later Harry finds out that Ron also made the same threat to Ginny - that Ron would not be happy if Ginny did anything to break Harry’s heart

Ginny had nodded solemnly and given her brother a proud look before crushing him in a fierce hug

Harry shares his culture with Ginny - everything he knows about it and takes her down to the kitchen and makes her try every single dish he can think of

Ginny laughs and says she’s going to get fat but obligingly eats everything just for the delighted look on Harry’s face

Dumbledore dies, Harry and Ginny break up and the war officially begins

Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr is dead - but so are Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, Colin Creevey and so many more that Harry couldn’t save

The years after the war is slow healing: Harry, Ginny, Hermione and Ron move into a small flat together in central Diagon Alley and they heal together

Hermione shows them muggle London and her own traditions and Harry cooks Indian food twice a week for his friends

Ron cooks every other day and Ginny somehow cons the owner of a new cupcake store into getting free cupcakes all the time and they sometimes cry together but also they heal together

Harry starts learning his mother-tongue

Two years after the end of the war, the four of them receive an invitation from the Patils

The Patils take them to India - they’re going to meet the Patil family but they’re also going to explore south India - specifcally the state where Harry is from - and Harry is so excited he can’t sit still

They Portkey to India and Harry’s eyes widen as he takes in the explosion of color, of unfamiliar sounds, of familiar sounds in an unfamiliar tongue, of smells, of the beautiful, vivid sights he’d only read about

He closes his eyes, breathes in deeply and thinks: home

#top ten anime betrayals #heartbroken #ididmywaiting #mybestfriendistumblrfamousandididn'tevenknow #idon'tknowwhattheappropriateresponseis #whattodowhenyourfriendistumblrfamous #brb #i'mgoingtogogooglethis

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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untitled: a jily fanfic

Their love was the sun. It was bright and strong, and in their dark, the only source of light. It was powerful, all consuming and sometimes, she felt it more than he did. She felt it when she sat, waiting in the middle of the night, her hands clenching and unclenching, the bed cold and empty. She would jump with a start, each time the door opened, or the fire glowed green. In a house that wasn’t home, and perhaps never would be. Not without him. And her stomach would churn and churn and churn. And his face would appear, and everything was alright. And everything was safe again, and home was home. She remembered his glasses. It was the first thing she had noticed about him, and the last thing she remembered of him, ironically. His wiry glasses, balanced on his nose. And his hair. Oh Merlin, his hair. It was beautiful, the way he would run his hair through it, trying to achieve the level of perfection his brother had years ago. Of course, it was natural to call Padfoot his brother. Padfoot was family. He would pop in, smile in that way most girls would fall to their knees. But not her. No, never had she fallen into the gut-wrenching, pit-less grey eyes, the light charcoal, so empty, so soulless. So mysterious, she would put it. After getting to know him, beyond the trouble-making heartbreaker that he made himself out to be. She had never fallen for his muscular figure, well-shaped, or his familiar, handsome face. He had been a Beater. But he wasn’t her’s. He wasn’t Him.

And that’s what set Lily aside from the other beautiful flowers in the garden. James could have had the countless roses that through themselves at his feet, shamelessly. But for him it was her, always her. His life had crumbled after his parents’ deaths. He had tried everything. Drugs, alcohol until his liver and his dirtied, soiled conscience could no longer take it. Smoking, for a bit, but that too was an addictive drug which burnt his lungs and burnt his heart. Nothing lasted. And he felt nothing. Just numb. Empty. Unbounded emptiness. He had hoped to feel something, anything, as she ran her fingers through his hair, muttering sweet, empty nothings. Sweet nothings that fell on deaf ears. She would try to help, but how could she? She didn’t understand. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter. Dead to a disease. Dead like Walburga Black and Abaraxas Malfoy. Everyone was the same in the eyes of death. Caskets, beautiful memorial built to honour them, to honour their death. But why the fuck would you honour someone who had died? They died because they were weak. He refused to believe anything else for a time. That his parents were weak, and he was weak for feeling nothing. If he was a true Potter, direct descendant of Ignotus Peverell, he would feel something. If the Old Magic had truly passed down, into his veins, he would be strong. After all, Old Magic consisted of nothing more than emotions and feelings, something he had lost a time ago. But Lily did understand. Her sister was dead. To her anyways. And she understood the pressure of being a Potter. Blood traitor marrying a Mudblood. There could be nothing, possibly, worse. And she knew it wasn’t the same, and that it would never be the same, and that he wasn’t the same. But she tried to help, in whatever way she could. Somedays she wold hold him, as he stared blankly from the upstairs window. She would stroke his hair, gently and pepper his back with kisses. She was trying to help him feel. Feel anything. Feel warm. Feel home. Feel what she felt when she was with him.

It was Harry who saved him, saved them. They were broken inside and Harry James Potter fixed them. She saw the tears in his eyes, as he held his son for the first time. His son, they were an exact likeness. Same hair, same face. Her eyes, she was glad. In some way, she wasn’t forgotten. But he was such a reminder of James. He was playful and quiet and thoughtful and her heart would burst with pride as she saw the two of them together throughout the day, only to see James lulling him to sleep every night. The war had forced them to think practically, and they could no longer have the luxury that is the enjoyment of life. His little finger wrapped around James’. Padfoot was godfather. He was crying too. War had its toll on its participants, and James saw the light at the end of the tunnel. Lily. He had known, as a very young child, that if he could marry anyone, he would marry someone like his mother. Quiet, gentle and intelligent, and just simply lovely. She was the sort of mother who wouldn’t mind her son getting into trouble so long as he knew the consequences of getting caught in it. That’s what made Sirius love her too, as one of the only real influential adults in his life (his parents had long been deleted from the very short list he had written in his head). But Lily was nothing like that. Lily was loud and emotional, and temperamental. Lily was fiery and passionate. She was gentle and quiet in her own way, he supposed. Her loving him was gentle. Her loving him was quiet. He hadn’t known about it until she had told him. He couldn’t have guessed. He was too blindly lost in the thought that he would never have her. But he did have her. He always had. Even as their arguments grew louder and louder and their hearts thumped faster and faster. He had her. He had her when his grandfather died, so long ago, when he had been crying in the Astronomy Tower and she hadn’t told him off and docked points, instead choosing to sit with him, and hold him in her arms, offering whatever little warmth she could.

She had loved him through it all, rain and snow, sun and cloud. Winter and Summer. For he was her’s and her’s alone. With his hazel eyes and thin lithe structure, and his callous, warm hands and his overly messy hair and his tilted glasses and him. Because with him, she could feel. And without him she was nothing. After all, what was Juliet without her Romeo. What was Lily without her James. She was a wilted flower in an overly beautiful garden. And he had watered her, slowly, surely. And he had held her, when he had nothing left to offer. But she wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t special. She was ordinary. She was mundane. Just Plain Old Lily, as Tuney had loved to remind her. But in his eyes, she felt the love of a thousand suns, as his hands held her at night, and she was warm even when it snowed because he loved her with fires that couldn’t be put out. And she was the Sun and he was the sky and together nothing else seemed right.

They wouldn’t be put out, she was sure. Like all consuming loves, she had presumed that they would find their spark, but the love would fade over the years. That the ignition would die and they would burn themselves in the sun of their love. But every year it grew brighter, and brighter, until her heart burst and he held her above all else. He was her galaxy, her universe. He was her god and she loved him like no other would. The Marauders would try, Padfoot coming the closest. But no one would understand. The way to his heart, through the Pronged Antlers that guarded it, was through love. She loved him, unconditionally, like no other. Until a point where she feared it would consume her, and he would feel nothing as his flame died. But his flames never died, and he grew brighter and brighter into the night sky, until they could only see each other and the thousand suns. Their love was real and as much as Padfoot had hated to consider it, he knew that he would never replace her. She was his, only his. And he was her’s. And they were together, even in death.

She should have run, she considered, taking Harry with her. Running away with the last reminder of him. He knew he was dead. He didn’t have his wand. He didn’t care. True to his impulsive nature, he chose to abandon all sanity, and die. He had chosen to leave her. Because he had wanted to save her. Because he loved her. But she paused, and that had been her weakness. She paused, biting her lip, contemplating the true effect of her decision. She was leaving. But she was leaving him. She hadn’t had the courage to watch his body fall to the floor. She hadn’t had the courage to watch her Boggart taunt her, as one stuttered Riddikulus failed after another. He was her soul, and she felt it leave her, slowly. She felt him, watching her. She felt him shaking his head, his beautiful, beautiful head, tears streaming down her face as she held the last living reminder of him, muttering her love, over and over. Muttering his love too, over and over, as he could no longer do now. “No,” he would say. “No, my Love.”

His hazel eyes would tear and he would cry, because he couldn’t hold his beautiful red-haired wife. In the short span of a life he had led, he had never told her what she meant. He had never told her how much she meant. He had forgotten to live each day like it was his last because time slowed with her, and she was the TimeTurner that he wished he could have found years ago. He would cry out, all the while, his anguished heart torn in two. He would cry out until the green faded and the light stopped and all he could see was darkness.

And she would fall too. Because she was true to her word and only death would do them part. But life wasn’t living and home wasn’t home if he never came back to it. She closed her eyes, the eyes he had kissed countless number of times, the countless number of promises he had made watching them. Beautiful, he had called them. Perfect. An angel, he had called her. But he was her angel and in her time of greatest need, he had turned his back and cried. He couldn’t watch her. He couldn’t see his worst nightmare come to life. Because his angel had pulled hers and they were both flying into the dark. And she would fall too, her breath leaving her, her soul and heart already gone with him. And he would catch her as he fell, because he was James and she was Lily and they were angels falling into comfortable insanity.

#jily fanfiction #jily #harry potter #marauders #angst #but it is beautiful #hp #hp marauders #hp headcanon #sirius black #remus lupin #they die but we knew that #maraudersera #hogwarts #voldemort features in this i guess

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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your art is literally so beautiful omg

James Potter and Lily Evans at each of their two weddings

Inspired by this post by @thehorcruxstolemysoul about Indian Harry Potter headcanons, specifically about Jily having two weddings.

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thesunremembersyourface · 3 years

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my best friend @thehorcruxstolemysoul wrote this and I would like to share this as my first and only post that is all

Indian Harry Potter headcanons that could kinda fit into canon:

Little Harry wonders why his skin is so much darker than his relatives

He asked Aunt Petunia once and she pursed her lips and said "don't ask questions"

He's told to walk behind Aunt Petunia when she makes Harry hold all the groceries

At age 8, Harry is told his skin is so mich darker because he's "dirty"

He showers till his skin is red and raw but he's still as dark as chestnut when he comes out

There is only one other boy with the same skintone as Harry in his grade

His name is Arjun and he doesn't have many friends

One time he came to Harry and offered to share his food - a round bread-like substance and potato that tasted a lot better than Aunt Petunia's

Arjun's face visibly dimmed in disappointment when Harry had no idea what the food was or how to eat it

He doesn't talk to Harry much after that but sends him a smile every time their eyes meet

Dudley and his gang beat up Harry for being poor, an orphan and dark but they bully Arjun for his yellow fingernails and because "he smells of curry"

At age 10, Harry knows his mother's name was Lily but not his father's

At age 11, a giant with the kindest eyes Harry's ever seen hands him an acceptance letter to Hogwarts and says "James and Lily would be proud" and Harry's heart soars

Harry's first friend has skin as white as snow but he's loyal and kind and funny and his favorite person in the universe

Harry's second friend has skin darker than his and Harry's eyes light up at the knowledge that he's not alone here in this world

Hermione Granger is fierce and unapologetically black, with cornrows braided into her hair and a glare sharp as knives. There's nothing in this world Harry wouldn't do for her

During November of his first year, kind and pretty Parvati Patil says "Happy Diwali" to him with a beaming smile

In the fraction of a second where Harry looks lost, Parvati's face falls

Harry's stomach clenches and he's reminded visibly of Arjun so he says "thank you Parvati, you too"

Parvati's smile is tumultuous but there

The tightness in Harry's stomach doesn't vanish though