itsanthonygrey:

TUMBLR TARDIS GIVEAWAY #2!

Reblog to enter. Likes will not count. 

Must be following, 

• http://itsanthonygrey.tumblr.com
• http://bombsawayprintshop.tumblr.com

Anyone can enter, no matter where you live in the world, as I will ship the TARDIS worldwide for free.

Winner will be chosen at random and will be messaged by myself to confirm and then announced on the 15th of april 2012!

Just to clarify, the TARDIS up for grabs is the black windowed one. The top lights up and it makes the TARDIS noise!

(via fuckthesex)

Peter breathed in deeply and tried to calm down. He opened his eyes, freaked out, and tried again. All around him there were blocks of stone taller than he was, worn smooth in some places and cracked in others, their crevices filled with mould, lime, and strange, legged life… breatheinbreatheoutbreatheinbreatheoutitllbeokittlebeokay… 

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Another Mnem watercolour of Dobby

Professor Neville Longbottom

The rising sun lit the Burrow a pale grey and roused the sleepless Molly Weasley from her silent vigil.

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Vanessa has just got the internet back (her Mum discovered youtube) so weekly postings will resume as of Sunday!

Pottermore is opening to the public soon so expect delays…

Draco Malfoy

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In the aftermath of the war the house of Malfoy became for wizards what Macbeth was to the muggle; a bloodline defined by its vices and success, crowned by tragedy. Narcissa Malfoy lost her unrepentant husband to suicide following his re-incarceration and gave herself over to insanity not long after. Their son, as much for the tragedy of his circumstance as for the notoriety of his lineage, became widely regarded as something of a Byronic hero, an attitude fuelled by Potter’s persistent attempts to deflect glory from himself.

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Another Sunday, another post! Taking a short break from Arthur stories while I sort out some plot devices to have a look at post-war Malfoy, but we’ll be back next week with the adventures of Ginny and Fred and their hormonal coping mechanisms.
xoxo

V

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The funeral was by far the worst experience of Harry’s life to date. It had been one thing to lose Mr Weasley, but it was almost more than he could bear, standing uselessly on the sidelines while his family buried him. Everywhere he looked, red hair was matched with scars and missing limbs, or the hard look of people who had seen too much too young. The whole family was here, as far back as Mr Weasley’s last surviving grandparent and as young as his niece’s swollen belly. All of them, except Percy.

A small army of what appeared to be every Weasley in Britain had gathered under the giant Elm behind the burrow- single parents with a flock of sons; widows, ginger orphans, grey fathers outnumbered five to one by children who clamoured, defiant, to fight in their place.

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