Please I Love You I'm Begging You Bring Back Suspension Of Disbelief Bring Back Trusting The Audience

Senara, as a resident serious adult with a good grasp on the UK political and cultural landscape, AND the Harry Potter fandom, may I ask:

What impact does the fandom actually have on policies that impact transgender people?

I want to be the best ally I can be to trans folk, and I have seen discussions advocating that the Harry Potter franchise falling into oblivion is the only real way to de-platform JK Rowling.

I don’t entirely disagree - but I also suspect that the fandom as we know on Tumblr and Discord could be a much less influential bubble than it thinks itself to be, and not the main target audience for new movies, shows, and merchandising.

Is simply not consuming products from the franchise enough, or is engaging in extremely niche discussions on a cloudless micro-blogging platform still fanning the fire of Harry Potter, and giving ammunition to JKR to continue on her rampage of infantilising those who challenge her and targeting trans rights?

I don’t want to be naive or wilfully ignorant about my participation in this culture. But I want to know if blogging about Snupin smut and reading fanfiction on free independent platforms still trickles down to making JKR’s voice louder.

I also sometimes think that Harry Potter achieved the status of undeniable cultural staple, and oblivion is simply not an option - much like Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan. I can force myself to forget and never engage with it again, but is it at all realistic in a global scale?

Is there an erroneous assumption that most of us on tumblr and discord are on team “fuck JKR, read fanfcition and pirate the books”? Or are offline elder millennials buying HP merch and reading the books to their kids carrying the franchise on their backs?

Or none of this matters, because HP is already part of the popular imagination, and it’s the tragedy of our times that big corporations will inevitably milk it forever?

Hope this is not too much of an awkward question, I really appreciate your insights

the way that the fandom impacts trans rights is by earning jkr money.

jkr's public transphobia - her comments on twitter etc. - absolutely contributes to recruiting others to the anti-trans cause, and that shouldn't be downplayed.

but being loud and wrong on social media isn't the same as having political or legal authority - jkr doesn't have this, and she doesn't deserve people thinking she does.

how she causes material harm to trans people in the uk [which then hurts all trans people, because other places may choose to follow suit] is because she donates colossal sums of money to legal cases which challenge trans people's rights. it's not just yesterday's judgement from the uk supreme court - in which the plaintiff was an anti-trans group she's on the record as having donated £70,000 to - she does it all the time.

she can donate this money because it's loose change for her. she makes millions every year.

and it doesn't come from mid-tier detective fiction, does it?

so, yes, here is the first truth - if she doesn't earn any money from you, you're not contributing to the overarching way her anti-trans crusade has an impact, and that matters.

but there is also a second truth - that you need to go beyond that.

several things need to be borne in mind:

jkr is one of the most visible - if not the single most visible - transphobes in the world. but she's not the only one.

the tendency to make her the figurehead of a transphobic movement, and to assume that disengaging with harry potter without doing anything else is enough may be comforting. but it's also wrong.

indeed, a lot of the people who have the greatest power to harm trans rights are nowhere near as visible as jkr - politicians, lawyers, journalists, academics, doctors, and so on. the supreme court did not reach its judgement because of jkr. the assault on trans rights which will unfold from the judgement will not happen because of her.

i'm not saying this to deny jkr's influence or to imply that she's not dangerous.

i'm saying it because i think it's important to remember that she has a vested interest in you feeling tiny and hopeless in the face of her money - in you thinking that she's the head of a movement and that movement is winning.

instead, the uk terf movement is fragmented and riddled with internecine beef. plenty of its factions don't actually like jkr - and she doesn't like plenty of them.

it can be fought, and it can be fought at the grassroots while she's in her mouldy tower being a bigot on twitter.

it's worth being absolutely clear that yesterday's supreme court ruling was not - in and of itself - new legislation. the uk supreme court does not have the power to make new laws. only parliament can do that.

it was a "clarification" - which is to say that it was an interpretation - of existing legislation. it - by itself - doesn't compel an institution or organisation to change anything. and it is, therefore, an interpretation which can be pushed back against.

this has already started - there's an excellent summary of objections to the judgement, which also provides a rebuttal to the crowing many terfs are doing about how trans rights are being rolled back by pointing out all the ways in which they will not be surrendered:

The Independent

Trans people like me will still be protected by law, no matter what opponents think

However much campaign groups might try to claim otherwise, it will still be indirect discrimination to put a policy in place excluding trans

sadly, this is behind a paywall. it's summarised here, in an article from the same writer, a practising barrister who is a specialist in employment and discrimination law:

the Guardian

This is a very tough day for trans people – with a long legal road ahead to right this wrong | Robin Moira White

The supreme court judgment is contradictory and confused. And there seems no prospect of the Labour government sorting this out, says discri

and all of us can do things which enable that pushback to continue, above all, in making clear to our mps that they only have our votes if they - at a bare minimum - continue to defend trans rights.

find their contact details here:

parliament.uk

Contact your MP

Information on how to contact your local MP

if you have an mp who is clear that they support restrictions on trans rights, then actively oppose them - call for them to be reselected at the next election [sadly a while away...], canvas for an opponent etc.

support institutions which continue to defend trans rights. the supreme court judgement doesn't force places to, for example, ban trans women from entering women's toilets [parliament could pass legislation which does, but that doesn't exist yet, and that's why you need to contact your mp], but plenty will be frightened into doing so. be loud about how you value and will continue to use businesses and services which don't bend to transphobic pressure.

donate to trans charities. lots are circulating, but here are some specifically northern irish options, which tend to otherwise get overlooked:

The Rainbow Project

Home - The Rainbow Project

The Rainbow Project is a LGBTQIA+ Charity based in Northern Ireland, providing health and wellbeing services for our community

boost stories about the impact of transphobic legislation. it's crucial that you don't underestimate how little the average person knows about this [and about jkr's role in it in particular] - and this is something which helps anti-trans messaging sound more reasonable. but we can reach them first.

what you do with harry potter as a thing beyond this is always going to be subjective. i've set out more on my personal approach before - here - and, of course, you may do what you want.

but - since you've asked - i think two things are true:

on the one hand, harry potter is a juggernaut. the tumblr subsection of the fandom could disappear tonight and the impact would be minimal - harry potter is probably one of the most mainstream cultural products in the world.

and that's how it makes jkr money - branded merchandise, the theme parks, the studio tour, royalties from streaming, and so on.

fandom doesn't require you to engage with any of these. and i do think it's acceptable to understand a commitment not to give jkr money as a viable and sincerely significant harm-reduction strategy.

however.

on the other hand, the vitality of the fandom plays a role in making harry potter marketable. this is undeniable.

and this is the case for all areas of the fandom - i see a lot of cope ["jkr would hate my queer otp!"], but people can get sucked into liking harry potter through anything. having a non-canon take on things, or writing dead dove, or whatever doesn't prevent that.

but it's especially the case for areas of the fandom which are prominent in pop-culture independently of jkr.

i don't just mean the marauders subfandom here - i think we can all stand to grapple with this implication, and i think there's a tendency from people in less prominent fandom subsections to think that they don't have to, which exists at the other end of a spectrum from the tendency from people in the marauders subfandom to assume that their lax approach to canon absolves them from any connection to jkr.

this is a difficult circle to square because it's something which gives jkr visibility indirectly. there's no way, for example, that she's in contact with e.g. artists whose songs go viral in marauders tiktoks, whose youtube comments are then flooded with "can't believe i'm thinking about harry potter's dead dad 😭". and she doesn't earn money from it.

fanfiction and fanart also lives in this indirect space.

jkr doesn't gain any money from it - and that is important. it's also a medium which may engage with the subject matter of the series critically - through taking issue how she writes about gender, for example - and this is important as well.

but she doesn't gain nothing from it either.

my personal view is that the only way to remain in fandom is two-fold:

as discussed, make sure you're actually doing something in defence of trans people in your real life...

and make sure that your indirect contribution to jkr's nonsense never becomes a direct one.

that is to say, don't spend any money.

and - and this is the important thing - actually mean that.

i think that a very important thing to do if you want to stay in the fandom is to work on building yourself a mental defence against the fear of missing out.

by which i mean... in the circles in which i move, people seem - at the moment - to universally agree that they won't be watching the new television adaptation.

but i find it very striking - and very concerning - that lots of people seem to be taking the view that doing this will be easy, because the tv show won't be any good.

i strongly - strongly - advise you to prepare yourselves for the opposite. expect that the show will be absolutely outstanding. deal with your disappointment in missing out in advance. and do not engage with it, no matter what it tries to tempt you with.

we are about to see an unprecedented level of fan service. every single complaint people made about the film series will be addressed. it's going to make sure that ron is written book-accurately. it's going to give romione or hinny or whatever as it "should have been" in the films. it's going to whip out some really big name casting [cillian murphy has had months to shut down the rumour that he's voldemort... and if it comes to pass, his casting will bring a legion of peaky blinders fans on board. do not be one of them.]. i would bet my house that it's going to make wolfstar canon.

and it's going to do this because it knows that's how people who have committed to not watching it will waver - that, when faced with "i've got the chance to see x done properly" or "god, i love y in everything else they're in", people will go "lol, no ethical consumption under capitalism" and consume anyway.

but there is a more ethical strand of harry potter consumption, and that's consumption which does all it can to limit its impact to only benefitting jkr indirectly seriously.

Thank you@mourningliliesmorningglories and @noctilucous for tagging me 💖

rules: shuffle your on repeat playlist and list the first 10 songs that come up

1. Deeper Understanding- Kate Bush

2. Toxicity- System Of A Down

3. Oh to Be in Love- Kate Bush

4. Boombayah- BLACKPINK

5. Reaching Out- Kate Bush

6. Cities In Dust- Siouxsie And The Banshees

7. Bite My Hip- Bauhaus

8. Pink Venom- BLACKPINK

9. Rock Lobster- The B-52’s

10. (Don’t Fear) The Reaper- Blue Oyster Cult

tagging: @smehur @smugrobotics @katieloves @xalandrix @jupitersbetrayal

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

I feel like pirating media that isn’t sold or offered anywhere legally anymore shouldn’t be called piracy. Girl thats archaeology

hermione in the forest of dean

i have mono rn so i thought id just post a little quick attempt i made at trying backgrounds and proper shading! (big thank you to toorumlk on tiktok for her amazing shading advice) if you have any constructive criticism please feel free! im still playing around with my style so lmk!

drawing i did instead of paying attention to my online class xd... i've been thinking a lot about spiderman harry x journalists draco, but i've only done this drawing about that one au 😥

Putting together a mood board for this year's art new years reminders:

microfic may day 1: key

drarry, 229 words. tw for drugs.

“It’s a what?”

“It’s called a key Coco, calm down.”

“How am I supposed to calm down? You bring me to a muggle club, procure a bag of god knows what, the floor is sticky-”

Draco is interrupted mid-rant. Harry is smiling at him fondly and his eyes are flickering with the oscillating disco lights. There’s a hand on his shoulder and the world narrows to a single point.

“All you have to do is breathe it in. I’ll go first.”

It’s strange for Draco to see him like this. His hair is wild and his shirt is unbuttoned more than it should be. Harry puts his house key into the small plastic bag and Draco watches every practiced tap of his fingers as he sifts the white powder into the tip of the biggest crevice of the key.

Harry grins and it’s all teeth, split slicked, reflective like a mirrorball. And then he lifts it up.

A short, sharp pull of air. A sniffle.

“Your turn.”

And Draco feels the hesitation on him, the twitch in his upper left cheek that Harry obviously knows to look for, and clearly, has found.

“I promised. I’ll look after you.” He’s earnest. Sincere in a way that makes Draco gag a little, but what can he do other than take a deep inhale and trust every word that he’s been given?

exactly