people who complain about dinosaurs “not being scary anymore” because its been discovered they have feathers and are closely related to/ancestors of birds are so bizarre like
its not about how scary they are, they are/were real life animals and what matters is learning more about them, not how well they fit into your science fiction horror film lol
can you imagine a 13 foot chicken running at you with full intent to eat you??? thats fucking terrifying holy shit
peacocks are synonymous with vain, frivolous beauty and they will attack cars. they will attack you while you try to get to your car. they’re like six feet of useless feathers and they will destroy you. imagine if they were carnivorous and had functional spurs.
a t-rex could look like a gay disco ball and i guarantee that you would fucking book it if it had a problem with you
listen
listen
have you ever met a swan
if anything the birdier they get the scarier they are
Australia literally fought a war against giant birds AND FUCKING LOST
“Oh man, I can’t deal with birds ‘cause they’re dinosaurs and sometimes it’s like they get this glint in their eyes and they remember.”
“Have you ever interacted with a goose? ‘Cause those things are dicks.”
If chickens were still the size of a T-Rex we’d all be dead. No question.
Feathered creatures that give some serious lie to the idea that feathered dinosaurs ain’t scary:
This is a bearded vulture, or lammergeier. It’s four feet long and has a nine foot wingspan and it eats bones.
This is a shoebill stork. It dropped the duck without biting down shortly after the picture was taken, but if it had decided not to-
… it could have been the end of the road for that duck.
This is the last thing a fish sees before a macaroni penguin eats it.
This is a secretary bird in the act of demonstrating to Lord Voldemort that he came to the wrong neighborhood, ese.
This is a goose.
This is a vulture.
This is a cassowary on the attack.
Be glad I couldn’t find the actual gif of a pelican swallowing a fish, because it’s freakin’ Lovecraftian in its HEADS SHOULD NOT BEND THAT WAY factor. You’ll have to settle for the idea of a feathered dinosaur suddenly going GLORP and devouring its victims whole just like this lady here.
Steven Spielberg didn’t create these. These are the feet of an emu.
And this is what happens when a swan (this one is named Asboy; his father was Mr. Asbo, the first swan in the UK to get named after an anti-social behavior order in ‘honor’ of his tendency to attack boaters) decides it doesn’t like you. I should probably note that this one attacked a cow.
Respect the feathered dinosaur, yo.
Terrifying. The last two illustrate why you did not fuck around with the Children of Lir.
I suspected that a dinosaur could have been feathered after I heard that a T-Rex is the chickens’ ancestor.
For those who think dinos aren’t cool because they’re feathered…whatever, mutherfuckers. Evolution doesn’t give two shits what you think is cool or not.
You showed a cassowary on the attack, but forgot to show what exactly it’s attacking with. Their feet are nearly identical to the Emu’s, except for one minor, teeny tiny detail: A five-inch claw for killing motherfuckers, raptor-style.
Thank you! Alright, here we go. This got ridiculous. Beware of minor Drarry in a fairly extreme AU situation.
1) The Weasleys are Gryffindors through and true. The fact that they are not in Gryffindor is the fault of the Sorting Hat, who is either throwing a temper tantrum or saving the world.
Look, it’s just… argh… the Headmaster is fucking useless and the Sorting Hat cannot take any more of this fucking complaining.
The student dormitories and teacher’s quarters are moaning about how they’ve NEVER had so few people and are CONVINCED Hogwarts is shutting down. The kitchen still hasn’t shut up about those poisoning attempts during the war; the library won’t shut up about the OBVIOUSLY inevitable second war coming in about twenty years (also something about time travel, but no one is listening); and the gardens and bathrooms and secret passages and all are still terrified about raids and attacks and murder and another horrible war.
Hogwarts does NOT want another war.
Salazar’s Chamber of Secrets, instead of being any help and calming things of course, is still being a smug and elusive bastard. Helga’s Room of Requirement can’t and won’t be of any help either – they’ve been feeling a little ill lately, although they can’t shine a torch on why exactly. And Godric and Rowena’s rooms are just best left to themselves… they’d probably only make it all worse, actually, risk-taking adventurous arses would probably encourage the castle to rebel or some rot.
But the Headmaster, instead of DOING HIS JOB, is just… fuck knows what the Headmaster is doing, honestly. Raising children to the war and letting Marked students run amok left and right, that’s what he did, and letting everything get out of control so that a war could happen in the first place before that. With this man in charge, the library is probably right and they’ll see another war soon enough.
Something has got to be done, the Sorting Hat knows. But what exactly can it do? All it does is sing a bloody song that no one listens to every year and then sends the little brats off to the house they belong to. Then sits on a shelf for the rest of the year, thinking about how maybe that one ought to have been in Gryffindor after all, or how this one’s bad habits wouldn’t have been encouraged if the Sorting Hat had gone with Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin.
…Oh… Hmm… Now… there’s a thought. It’s something the Sorting Hat would have considered impossible before, but… when the safety of Hogwarts is at stake? Taking advantage of the many loopholes Godric left and using a bit of creative thinking and reasoning? Quite doable, actually.
1982 is a year that does not go as expected. Everyone was rather under the impression that things would finally be going back to normal, what with the war being over for nearly a year and the last few trials and outspoken followers being wrapped up and neatly shoved away or under a rug. FINALLY, everyone thought, a stressless year at Hogwarts.
Heads are full of wondering about the greasy-looking git in Professor Slughorn’s seat, not a one suspecting the devious thoughts running through the tanning of the hat in Professor McGonagall’s hand. Yes, there was a Sorting Song about unity and undiscovered depths and things changing now that the war was over, but that was more or less the same as every year and to be expected.
And then the Sorting Hat sends an Avery off to Gryffindor and an Abbott off to Ravenclaw, despite the families’ respective long and prestigious histories in Slytherin and Hufflepuff.
What the actual fuck is happening, no one says aloud, as a Bulstrode goes off to Hufflepuff and a Longbottom cousin goes into Slytherin.
What the fucking shit, no one shouts like they want to, as a couple Muggleborns go straight into Slytherin and the most purist and illustrious racist families get scattered throughout the other houses among half-bloods and Muggleborns like a particularly gleeful punishment.
Bill Weasley, being eleven years old and not entirely aware of the scandal brewing, goes up to that stool and has the Sorting Hat dropped on his head. Actually dropped, out of Minerva McGonagall’s shaking hand. Something is off, his instincts are certain, but what… fuck knows what.
Mmm… chivalrous, of course, the Sorting Hat mumbles more to itself than Bill. Never met a Weasley who wasn’t… and brave, of course, like you’d expect of a Prewett. Strong sense of justice… yes… and no disinclination to standing up and fighting for it… no matter the toil. More straightforward than cunning, though, and no particular ambitions as of yet… and a passion that needs a focus first…. I supposed it’ll have to be…
“HUFFLEPUFF!” the Sorting Hat shouts, thinking on the side, Shame. Would’ve liked a Slytherin Weasley.
Bill doesn’t think much of it at the time. His main concern is that, unlike his parents, his Weasley uncles, his late Prewett uncles… he’s a Hufflepuff. The first Weasley and Prewett not to go straight into Gryffindor in generations, actually. He hopes they won’t be disappointed in him and that yellow and black will be good colors on him.
If a ghost can open cupboards and break things, why not just take a pencil, find paper, write exactly why it’s unhappy, and tape the message on the fridge.
It just became second nature to close all the cupboards first thing in the morning (even though they’d been closed the night before). Which was when things escalated from banging cupboard doors to actually breaking things.
Faucets, door handles, curtain rods ripped from the wall… all the repairs started to add up.
“Look, I didn’t mind having an ethereal roommate, but I can’t afford to keep fixing all this shit. Here’s a pencil and some paper. Just write what’s bothering you–I doubt you could put anything that would be more expensive than having a plumber come out to replace all the faucets again.”
The next morning there’s a scrawl line at the top of the page that devolved into an angry scribbling mess that tore through the page. Two cupboard doors were entirely ripped off.
“I don’t want to get someone in to banish you, but this is ridiculous. Just tell me what you want.”
The second piece of paper is ripped into shreds and several knives are embedded in the wall.
A careful examination of the paper scraps show that it had the same scribbles as the first piece.
A quick trip to the library and a stop at a store later, there are kindergarten workbooks on learning to write spread across the counter.
“Look, I don’t know if you’re just being difficult, but I hope not. So I got an audiobook on learning to read and write, and here are some workbooks for kids–don’t get mad–to teach them their letters. Just press play on the stereo, and work through the books at your own pace. I’ll get more when you finish.”
The first workbook is half-completed before being ripped to pieces, but at least there was no other damage. Replacing it is significantly cheaper than replacing cupboard doors.
It takes awhile, but eventually the workbooks progress to a fifth grade level. These ones are starting to be more costly (they’re bigger, for one thing), but it’s not even the money anymore. Little notes scrawled in a shaky hand appear on the steamy bathroom mirror
Have A gooD dy
Or written in ketchup on the counter (that was a frightening sight the first time)
You R out of MLK
And then one day there’s a message taped to the fridge. The spelling and penmanship isn’t the best, but it’s legible and even signed.
Dear Occupente,
I have haunted this spot for ovr threehunerhudre 300 years. My bones are dust and I am fergotN. I do not have wants to trap me. I am here 4 ever.
