A twenty something creative with varying identities, made from equal parts dreamer and realist with a dash of crazy cat lady and just a drop of perversity.
I thought for so long that time was like a line, that our moments were laid out like dominoes, and that they fell one into another and on it went, just days tipping one into the next, into the next, in a long line between the beginning and the end. But I was wrong. It’s not like that at all.
People want to complain that Horace Slughorn wasn’t a well written Slytherin, but trashing your house, faking your death and transfiguring yourself into an armchair to avoid an uncomfortable conversation is about as Slytherin as it gets.
