Until the very end.
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juliawiinchester:

These dorks make me so happy

Happy 25th birthday, Daniel Jacob Radcliffe! 

(Source: rorivich)

teen wolf
  • s1: Who the Hell is Scott McCall
  • s2: Everyone Loves Scott McCall
  • s3: Everyone is in Love with Scott McCall
  • s4: Everyone Falls Harder for Scott McCall
prosthesia :  draco/hermione: "So I wait for you like a lonely house till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache."

anondracomalfoy:

Eight months, four days, twenty-three hours, and twenty-two minutes since the last time she’d seen him. Her fingers still felt the burning imprint of the buttons of his uniform; of the rough texture of the cloak and attire he wore to the front. Sometimes, when Hermione closed her eyes, she could remember the last few moments she’d seen him; her fingers gliding up and down the front of his uniform, fixing the golden buttons through their slots and allowing her fingers to dangle on the “Order of the Phoenix” insignia he bore on his chest. A brightly-colored phoenix in mid-flight, stitched on with the extra care of Fleur Weasley and Molly Weasley. She could remember looking up into his eyes, fitting his dress uniform cap onto his blond head with trembling fingers, and allowing her eyes to rest on his before muttering a soft “Stay safe, soldier.”

When she closed her eyes at night, tossing and turning restlessly in the cold cot she kept pressed against the heater of the small shack she occasionally hid out in, she remembered what it had felt like to have his arms—so lithe and lightly-corded with muscle—wrapped around her frame. She remembered the nights where they’d had to share ratty blankets and too-small cots and had only the heat from the other’s body to keep themselves warm. She could remember the nights where they were too cold—too tired—to make love; the days where they laid in the sunlight and brought their bodies together in tandem. She remembered the touch of his skin; the way his hair would occasionally tickle her bare skin when he buried his face between her breasts. She could recall each curve and hard angle of Draco Malfoy’s body as though it belonged to her; as though it were her own.

And sometimes, during the day—when she didn’t have to worry about the nightmares or fear plaguing her very soul—Hermione would pull out the small chest of his letters she kept with her; she’d sort through them, reading each piece in chronological order until she’d had her fill of heartache and longing for one afternoon. “I don’t think we’ll be much longer at the front; I think Voldemort and the others are ready to back down at any moment now" he’d written one warm August evening. Two years ago. Another letter read "Every day spent without you is like a dagger…I can’t take much more of this, Granger, and neither can you.

He was right about that much.

She spent five days at week at the underground magical hospital she’d co-founded with Susan Bones; while most people preferred combat, strategic planning, and being out in the battlefield, Hermione knew that curled down below, taking care of the injured and dying, was where she belonged. She was, perhaps, the most skilled with a wand out of all of her classmates, but…after the first year of fighting, where Hermione had frozen up on the battlefield more times than she could count—when she had spared men who Harry claimed hadn’t deserved her mercy; when she had almost been killed more times than she could count—both she and her boys decided that she would be better suited tending to the needs of the ill and injured. Molly helped when she wasn’t making and stitching together goods for the soldiers, and Fleur hung around every now and again, searching in vain for Bill’s face among the crowd…sometimes Victoire would tag along, emitting soft cries of “Papa? Papa?” over and over again in such a way that tugged at Hermione’s heart.

They hadn’t seen Bill Weasley in fourteen months, three days, sixteen hours, and thirteen minutes. Hermione had it easier than some of the others.

"Hermione," Susan began one evening as she sat beside a young Dennis Creevey, stitching together the large gash in his abdomen from surgery earlier that day. "Have you heard from Draco at all?"

"Not in weeks…why?" She asked cautiously, standing nearby and cleaning some of their surgical tools. Susan stalled—if only for the briefest of moments—but Hermione noticed it. She stilled immediately, squeezing her eyes shut and muttering a soft prayer to herself. Her fingers were gripping the edge of the basin, still sudsy from the copious amount of soap she’d been using. Her fingers slipped as they struggled to secure onto something, and once Hermione had finally managed to do just that, she breathed out—"Where is he?"

"…We don’t know, Hermione," Susan whispered, bending her head solemnly.

"Where are the others under his charge?"

"Charlie…returned. Theo…injured, but returned…" Slowly, she listed off the names of everyone in Draco’s platoon. Everyone but…

"What about Zabini?" Hermione asked, her voice barely audible. She had yet to turn around and face Susan. "Where’s Blaise?"

"…Deceased."

Blaise was Draco’s Battle Buddy.

***

Ten months, four days, twenty hours, forty-eight minutes since the last time she’d seen him. Hermione was numb and lifeless as she moved from one patient bed to the other, tending to the horrific wounds of the injured and retching each and every time she imagined the lifeless body of Draco sprawled out before her. Some of them she was unable to save; some of them were brought in as lifeless as she felt; their glassy eyes fixated forever on the low and dark ceiling of their makeshift hospital. She was inconsolable and all of her friends knew it; still, like clockwork, she sped up to the information room every morning and evening, begging and praying for information regarding Draco. Regarding his platoon. Regarding even the faintest sighting of pale hair and alabaster skin. No one had anything to offer her…not even Theo, who had refused to look at her the entire time he was healing from a leg wound.

Fleur no longer came down to search for her husband; Victoire stayed behind and helped her grandmother make the uniforms. They’d seen Bill last one month before. Others had it easier than Hermione.

And every night, she prayed to him; for him. Prayed for those arms that had kept her warm on cold, dank nights…prayed for the lips in her hair and the husky voice that would whisper to her in the dead of night. Prayed for the smell of crisp laundry and apples that filled her up whenever he was near. Prayed for those last moments when she’d fastened his uniform and bid him farewell.

Hermione prayed for a lot of things, but to no avail. As the days stretched into weeks and passed into months, she began to feel hopeless.

She wondered if Draco was even able to feel hope, wherever he was. 

***

"We’ve been looking, Hermione…I promise," Harry managed one night, anguished and bloody after an unsuccessful battle. He’d spent most of the night locked away with Ron, Seamus, and Dean, going over blueprints and tossing around ideas with each other. Hermione knew that Harry was trying; she didn’t want to tell him that she hadn’t seen Draco in thirteen months, six days, two hours, and fifty-eight minutes. She didn’t think she needed to. Ginny was curled up at his side, sporting a large, yellowish bruise on her right cheek and a scar running jagged down the side of her face; when the opportunity to defend the Scottish front had come up, Ginny had been the first to volunteer (Much to Harry and Ron’s dismay). Now, she’d proven to be one of their greatest war assets…and she was still alive. She and Harry still had one another.

She tried not to feel jealousy; to feel anguish. They were her friends and she loved them…they had what she’d been missing for over a year.

Still, she kept herself busy; fixing patients, improving remedies and spells with both Susan and Neville (who had been an excellent help to the cause, providing herbs and recipes that had dulled the pain of more than one fallen soldier over the last handful of months). It wasn’t enough to make her forget Draco—nothing would ever be enough—but helping others gave her some sense of fulfillment. Even if she subconsciously searched for his face each and every time she moved down the rows of bed-ridden Witches and Wizards.

She prayed for the hope that refused to come; the faith that resisted rising.

***

Fourteen months, one day, three hours, four minutes. Hermione stopped praying. She started crying.

***

Fifteen months to the day. To the hour. To the minute.

"Did you hear?" Susan exclaimed one evening, her voice quivering with excitement; with anticipation. Hermione shook her head—no, no, she hadn’t heard. Hadn’t heard of anything worthwhile in over a year now.

"A prisoner of war camp liberated themselves in northern Ireland this morning," She said, breathless. Hermione, though as forlorn as she was, felt shocked and intrigued by this news. Her head snapped over to where Susan was sitting, clutching onto the apple she’d retrieved from the kitchen as a snack.

"Liberated themselves? How?"

"A few of the soldiers had been planning escape for a few months, I would assume; the most I heard is that three of them headed the escape."

"Did they all make it?" Hermione asked breathlessly.

"…No. No, they did not."

"Did any of them make it?” She asked, anguished.

"I—I think so."

They spoke no more after that.

***

Fifteen months, twenty-eight days, fourteen hours, thirteen minutes. She was resting in her cot, focusing on the uneven patterns of her breathing and the creaking of the flimsy bed beneath her. Hermione’s fingers were caressing the crinkled remnants of one of Draco’s letters, her fingers caressing the softened edges and raised lines from where her lover had pressed into the paper with his quill too harshly. Around three in the morning, she heard a faint knock on the door of her shack. Immediately, Hermione’s defenses were raised; her breath became lodged in her throat, and her heart was beating rapidly enough to wake the dead. Silently, she moved off her cot, deserting the letter she’d been holding and reaching for the wand she kept tucked underneath her pillow. Slowly—quietly—she made her way from one end of the small shack to the other; with each leaden footstep towards the front door, she felt her hands grow slick and clammy with sweat. How did they find her? Why were they knocking? Who had come to execute her? Who? Terrified out of her mind, Hermione managed to peek through a small crack in the door frame, and saw…

No. Oh, Godric

An anguished cry fled Hermione’s lips, and without further ado, she threw the door open. Her wand clattered to the ground, and—unable to help herself—she flung forward and into the arms of the emaciated, hollow figure of Draco Malfoy. He caught her (with no small amount of effort) and wound his now-spindly arms around her frame, trembling from head to toe. A choked, strangled sort of sound fled Hermione’s lips, and she buried her face against his chest, inhaling…not fresh laundry and apples, but dirt. Grime. The remnants of death and decay. Pulling away and blinking the tears from her chocolate-colored eyes, she further inspected him. His ribs were showing through the tattered remains of the gray tunic he was wearing…on his chest, emblazoned in thick, black font, were the numbers “02659”. 

Suddenly, everything made sense. Suddenly, it all clicked into place.

"A prisoner of war camp liberated themselves in northern Ireland this morning." 

"Liberated themselves? How?"

"A few of the soldiers had been planning escape for a few months, I would assume; the most I heard is that three of them headed the escape."

"…It was you," She croaked out, her fingers clutching onto his shoulders. He looked weary and beaten; she saw the telltale signs of abuse and starvation on his features, and Hermione felt her knees wobble and quake beneath her. "You liberated the war camp."

He said nothing at first. Hermione, unable to control herself, burst into tears. Fifteen months of agony and despair tore through her frame, and—realizing that she wasn’t fit to stand—the young Witch sunk to the cold floor, folding in on herself and sobbing as though she had nothing left to live for. But she did…she did, and he was right here.

It was only a matter of minutes before she felt Draco’s arms—though thinner and weaker than they’d been a year ago—wrap around her frame; and suddenly, she felt secure. Suddenly, she was reminded of why she was there. She clutched at him desperately, forcing herself to lift her tear-stained face to meet his. In his eyes, she saw the horrors of war; the hollowness that had come with leading a hard life. But in his grey eyes, which had once been such a comfort to her, Hermione found something else. Hope. Love. Agonizingly pure, true affection.

"I told you, Granger," He forced himself to say, his throat thick and hoarse. "I’m not going anywhere without you."

"So I wait for you like a lonely house…till you will see me again and live in me. Till then my windows ache." Hermione breathed, the words tingling her lips. She was barely aware of what she was saying; of what she was murmuring in her delirious state. Draco, recognizing the quote from a book of poems she’d presented him with years ago, rubbed his cracked lips against her forehead, and then—for the first time in years—Hermione felt Draco Malfoy weep against her.

"There is no house without you," He breathed finally, his voice cracking on the final note. And Hermione realized that he was right, of course. Without him, there was no home; no safety, no security, no warmth.

She’d been a nomad for months…waiting for Draco Malfoy to find his way back to her. And as she crushed her body against his, inhaling the remnants of war on his lithe frame, she felt the steady thrum of his heart and the broken whispers of a man too far gone to grief to care.

"I am here. I am home. I am whole."

Oliver Sykes accepting the award for his band Bring Me The Horizon at the APMAS

(Source: deathsp3lls)

(Source: vivimoshoyahorayparasiempre)

Tom Felton on working with Ralph Fiennes on the set of HP

(Source: jvh1988)

prongsvssquid:

Teddy and Victoire making each other laugh :D
probably still laughing about Rita Skeeter’s article

prongsvssquid:

Teddy and Victoire making each other laugh :D

probably still laughing about Rita Skeeter’s article


Off to Comic Con! (x)

Off to Comic Con! (x)

(Source: fuckyeahmaryandfrancis)

imsirius:

DAN: When you do interviews, you’re faced with the choice to either be the most boring person on earth or just get ridiculous things written about you from time to time
JOSH HOROWITZ: Sometimes it might be good to be boring
DAN: It might be but I just get bored of myself

                                [Happy 25th Birthday Daniel Radcliffe! (23 July 1989)]

thisfeliciaday:

Got my badge and bag!!! #sdcc

thisfeliciaday:

Got my badge and bag!!! #sdcc


Auditioning and actually acting on a set are two different things. When you audition, you’re in a room and you don’t have anything to play with and you don’t have anything physically in the room. Whereas on set, you have direction, you have costumes, and you have other actors to work with. It’s a completely different thing.

Auditioning and actually acting on a set are two different things. When you audition, you’re in a room and you don’t have anything to play with and you don’t have anything physically in the room. Whereas on set, you have direction, you have costumes, and you have other actors to work with. It’s a completely different thing.

(Source: allisonargend)

❝ The beauty of horseback riding is that you need to learn how to be in complete control while at the same time in complete surrender. It’s a condition that you cannot explain until you have climbed onto the back of a horse and hold the reins in your hand.

— (via obsessionreflection)