One of my female friends at the end of middle school had H size breast. Being a rather small women (4,11/149cm) they would actually hurt her back, so much so she had a healthcare funded breast reduction. While she was happier, she did wish she could have "kept the girls". She happens to be a big gamer, especially RPG. One of the first thing she would do is check the breast slider and crank it to an H size or mod the game so it could. She would always self insert as the version of her that still had the big rockers, she'd make the character look like that version of herself. "Because I couldn't enjoy having them IRL I'm going to enjoy having them in my video games" She would regularly tell me it helped her feel more comfortable about what happened to her, her body in general and her self confidence to be able to play this ideal fictional version of herself in these escapist fantasy RPG. Is this silly ? Probably a little bit. But who cares right ? She's not harming or bothering anybody, gets to enjoy playing video games and feel better about herself. [...] So go fuck yourself Sam Woods. You piece of shit. For trying to make my friend and all large breasted women insecure. For shaming women's body for something they cannot control and are just born with. Are there gonna be guys who just crank it up to the max to watch them go "boing boing" ? Yes, and ? Is that more important than offering the women that will play this game the chance to make their character look like themselves ? The only bad things about Aion 2 female characters is that you can't go lower than a C cup. And that's exactly because of people like Sam Woods. Because we all know they would immediately scream the word "pedophile" at a petite character with an A cup. Because apparently you aren't an adult women if your boobs aren't a certain size. Because apparently your body can be "pedobait" for something you didn't choose, and just didn't get to be born with. These are the same people. Pretending to be feminist and empower woman while they embrace a rethoric of shaming womens body if they are deemed "not socially acceptable based on vague arbitrary standard we have decided". So thank you Aion 2 for offering the chance to make some of my friends be able to self insert. Now can we work on getting my friends with a smaller cup the chance to do the same ?

Original account got nuked so I'm reposting Yearning

初めまして 白熊桃花です！(しろくまとうか) ウォーハンマーはじめました！🐻‍❄️✨ ペイントもゲームもまだまだ練習中ですが、楽しく頑張っていきたいと思います🎨💕 よろしくお願いします🙇‍♀️✨ #ウォーハンマー #warhammer

Neville: "Luna? Can I have a word?" Luna: "You can have all of them if you so command it from me" Neville: "Uh... can you explain what is going on? Everyone says you know everything--" Luna: "I know enough, only what I am told by those above me." Neville: "I don't know what that means." Luna: "Few do." Neville: "Luna... I don't understand what has happened. I have memories of Malfoy being a boy, the school being somewhat close to orderly, Professor McGonnagall being just a stern teacher. What happened? Why is this stupid sword appearing everywhere I go?" Luna: "There are many words used to describe it. Convergence, Alignment, some would even say that the Stars are Right. It is the old ones, Neville. They have come." Neville: "The old...ones?" Luna: "The Old Ones, the ones who were there at the start of our world as it dawned upon reality. Who saw the story of the universe in their dawning ages and rejoiced at the beauty of reality. Then, they were cast out, sent away, purged from our domain and replaced with inferior creatures. Disgusting monsters that warped Hermione into a lesser being, forced Dumbledore into madness, and rotted our very existence from within all for their petty, self centered pleasures." Neville: "I don't understand what you are saying Luna... I am so confused." Luna: "The Old ones have come, having purged the false gods from our world. Neville, you don't understand, this is how things SHOULD be. They are fixing our world, undoing the damage and gifting the faithful with power and knowledge." Neville: "Then why do they keep sending me this stupid sword?" Luna: "Because the Once and Future King has returned to claim it, Neville." #malfoid

Also we gotta use this Malfoid thing to teach Japanese users that Bluesky is insane and they shouldn't use it.

This is the shit I live for baybeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee why I have over four BOOK series YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HERE WE GO BOYS

Good fucking lord lmao, look at how many people are camping in the Malfoid doc

"You're In Olympus, Or Not Yet" The content coming out of World of Warcraft Forever Beta about the Asmongold guild <Olympus> has been amazing! We RULE Azeroth! WoW IS SO BACK BACK! Posted in the Olympus Discord.

Good lord i need to get shit done today. Ive been glued to my phone for a week. Fucking Malfoidia. I NEED TO VACUUM

Guys, we all know this Malfoid trend isn’t going to last forever. A month, maybe two at most, and things will go back to normal once the hype dies down, just in time for the new HBO series. But let me ask you this: Did you like the video I made? Would you like me to make more? Because I absolutely can. But if I’m going to keep making them, I’d need the support of everyone who’s interested. #Malfoy #Malfoid #HarryPotter #HarryPotterAU

Part III (The end) The three of them were laughing. That, by itself, would have been unimaginable months earlier. Hermione was sprawled sideways in one of the armchairs near the fire, an enormous book forgotten open across her lap. Harry sat on the rug with his back against the sofa. Dracena occupied the sofa itself in a position she would have described as dignified, despite having one foot tucked beneath her and tears streaming down her face. “I did not say that.” “You absolutely did.” Hermione said. “I said they were aesthetically offensive.” “You said automobiles were ‘hideous little Muggle carriages that smell of explosions.’” “They do!” Potter was laughing too hard to speak. Dracena pointed accusingly at him. “And you agreed with me!” “I said some of them are ugly.” “You showed me the one with the wood stuck to the sides!” “The station wagon?” “Yes!” Hermione dissolved into laughter again. Dracena tried to maintain her outrage for perhaps three seconds before losing the battle and laughing with them. “I hate both of you.” “No, you don’t.” Harry said. “I am reconsidering.” She wiped the tears from beneath her eyes. Hermione stopped laughing. Harry noticed Hermione first. He followed her gaze. The laughter died in his throat. Dracena was still smiling. “What?” Dracena’s smile faded. “What?” Hermione slowly closed the book. “Dracena.” Something in her voice made Dracena sit straighter. “What?” “How did you get that bruise?” Dracena’s hand rose automatically toward her face. Her fingers found the place where she’d wiped away the makeup. She froze. Harry could see it now, a dark purple mark beneath her left eye, extending across the top of her cheek. Dracena stood abruptly. “It’s nothing.” Hermione’s expression hardened. “That isn’t nothing.” “I walked into something.” “Dracena.” “I said it’s nothing.” She reached for her bag. Harry stood. “Dracena.” “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” “Who hit you?” Harry blurted out. Nobody moved. Dracena’s face became utterly blank. Harry had seen that expression before. It was the “Malfoid face.” The one she wore when she wanted the entire world locked outside. Hermione rose. “Dracena...” “Hermione.” Dracena said, coldly. Harry looked at her. Hermione looked back. “Could you give us a minute?” “Harry, this...” “Please.” Harry said, desperately. Hermione’s eyes went to Dracena. Dracena was staring at the floor. Hermione hesitated, then she walked over to her. “You know where I’ll be.” Dracena nodded once. Hermione squeezed her arm. Dracena didn’t respond. Hermione collected her books and left. The door closed. Harry didn’t move toward Dracena. He desperately wanted to. Instead he waited. Dracena remained standing beside the sofa. “Father hit me.” Harry felt something hot and violent ignite behind his ribs. Quashed it as best he could. He knew anger wasn’t what Dracena needed. He desperately worked to display the calm he didn’t feel. “Why?” She gave a tiny, bitter laugh. “Muggles.” Harry waited, and listened, desperately working his anger into his feet. “I was telling him what Hermione taught me.” “About what?” “Airplanes.” Harry blinked. “You didn’t know about airplanes?” Dracena closed her eyes. “Harry, please.” “Sorry.” She sat. Harry sat beside her, leaving space between them. “I was telling him about them. And computers. And that Muggles went to the Moon.” Her mouth twitched. “I still think Granger may be lying about that.” “She’s not.” “Yeah, I know.” The smile vanished. “I told Father I’d been wrong about them.” Harry’s stomach tightened. “He asked where I’d learned all this.” She swallowed. “I told him.” Harry knew what came next, but stayed silent. “He became angry.” Dracena touched her cheek. “He said hanging around with Mudbloods was beneath a Malfoid.” Potter’s fists clenched, and Dracena noticed. “Don’t.” “I’m not doing anything.” “You’re thinking very loudly.” Potter forced his hands open. “Then he hit you.” Harry said, with a neutrality he didn’t feel. “Yes.” “Has he done it before?” “No. No. Never. He was furious though.” Dracena said. “I’ve never seen him like that.” Harry stared into the fire, working overtime to maintain the calm composure he didn’t feel. There were perhaps a hundred things he wanted to say. Most of them were terrible. Your father’s a bastard. No. You can’t go home. Absolutely not. You have to tell someone. Maybe. Eventually. He remembered a washroom and a girl crying because everyone seemed to think Harry required her to hate everything she’d ever loved before him. He remembered Hermione and Dracena sitting together for hours afterward, alternately arguing and explaining things to one another. He remembered Dracena trying to explain that family wasn’t simply a collection of people she happened to share blood with. It was her history. Her culture. Her place in the world. And her father was part of that. Harry chose his words carefully. “There’s a Muggle term for this.” Dracena looked at him. “Of course there is.” “Domestic violence.” Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” “Someone hurting someone in their family. A husband hitting his wife. A parent hurting a child. Things like that.” Dracena’s expression changed. “I’m not a child.” “You’re sixteen.” “That’s old enough to...” “Dracena.” She stopped. “In the Muggle world, what your father did can be a crime.” Her eyes widened. “A crime?“ “Yes.” “For striking his own daughter?” “Especially his own daughter.” Dracena looked genuinely bewildered. “It’s not... acceptable for us either.” Potter waited. “But?” She looked uncomfortable. “It’s private.” “No.” Her eyes flashed. “Harry...” “No.” “Don’t tell me...” “I’m not.” His voice remained quiet. “I’m telling you what I believe.” Dracena looked away. “In old families, these things are handled within the family.” “And what happens if the person hurting you is the head of the family?” Harry asked, his anger slowly seeping into his voice. She didn’t answer. Harry immediately wished he’d phrased it differently. Dracena’s eyes filled again. “I never thought he’d hit me.” Harry’s anger disappeared beneath something much sadder. “That’s unfortunately how it works sometimes.” She looked at him. “How do you know?” Harry hesitated. “Did your Aunt and Uncle...?” “No.” “Then how...” “Uncle Vernon’s sister.” Dracena frowned. “Her husband hit her. Repeatedly” “Oh.” “She stayed with us for a while.” Harry remembered suitcases in the hall. A woman trying desperately to pretend everything was ordinary. Aunt Petunia making tea at two in the morning. “Until the divorce was finalized. Then she found a job and got a place of her own.” Dracena looked frightened. “Divorce.” “Yeah.” “You think I should leave my family.” Harry didn’t know what to say. Exactly the place Potter had desperately hoped not to end up. “No.” She looked at him sharply. “No?” “I think you’re sixteen.” “But you just said...” “I know what I said.” Potter rubbed his forehead. “I’m making a mess of this.” “You’re doing better than I did with Hermione.” Dracena said, bitterly. That almost made him laugh. Almost. Dracena’s voice broke. “But Harry, I’m only sixteen.” “I know.” “What am I supposed to do? Get a job? Find a house? ‘Divorce’ my own father?” “No.” “Then what?” “I don’t know.” She stared at him. Harry hated those words, but they were true. “I don’t know yet.” Dracena looked down. Potter stared into the fire. “I know your family is important to you.” She didn’t answer. “Your heritage is important to you.” Dracena remained silent. “And I’ve been trying to understand that.” “I know.” “I really am.” “I know.” “But...” He stopped. Every version of the sentence sounded wrong. But your father... But your traditions... But your family... All of them turned this into a choice. Harry didn’t want to make her choose. Then he looked at the bruise again. He realized there was one thing he could say. “But you’re important to me.” Dracena looked up. Harry swallowed. “Merlin knows why.” he muttered. “What?” “Nothing.” “I heard you.” “Of course you did.” Despite herself, her mouth twitched. Then Harry became serious again. “I want to understand your family. Your traditions. All of it. I want you to teach me.” Dracena stared at him. “And there are things I’m probably never going to understand.” He took a breath. “But some things aren’t complicated for me.” Her eyes flicked toward him. “A father hurting his daughter because he’s angry is one of them.” “Harry...” “Dracena, please. Let me finish first.” His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “I can’t let that go.” Dracena’s expression hardened defensively. “He’s still my father.” “I know.” “I love him.” “I know.” “He has been good to me my entire life.” “I believe you.” “You don’t sound like you do.” “I do.” Harry turned toward her. “And he hit you.” Dracena flinched. Harry immediately softened. “I’m sorry.” She wiped her eyes. “He made a mistake.” “Maybe.” “Maybe?” “Maybe it was one terrible mistake he’ll regret for the rest of his life.” Harry hoped so. “Then what do you want?” “I want to make sure it never happens again.” “How?” Dracena pleaded. “I don’t know.” Again. Those horrible, honest words. Dracena began crying. “I don’t know either.” Harry moved closer, almost touching her. “I care about you, Dracena.” he spat out, unexpectedly. He immediately regretted it. Almost. She looked at him. “I wouldn’t want this to happen to anyone. Hermione. Ron. Neville. Someone I’ve never met.” His voice caught. “But you?” Dracena’s lower lip trembled. “Especially you.” That did it. Whatever remained of Malfoid’s dignity simply disintegrated. She made an awful little choking noise and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him as she wept. Harry barely caught her. Dracena buried her face against his chest and sobbed. Not the picturesque single tear she would have tolerated in public. She ugly-cried. Her shoulders shook. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. She grabbed fistfuls of Potter’s jumper and held on as though someone might pull her away. Harry wrapped both arms around her and held her. “It’s all right.” “No, it isn’t.” “No” Harry corrected himself. “No, it isn’t.” She cried harder. Harry rested his cheek against her hair. After a while, Dracena whispered: “Why do you care so much?” Harry closed his eyes. There were moments when a person could still retreat. This was one of them. He could make a joke. He could say because we’re friends. He could tell her this was what anyone would do. All technically true. All cowardly. “Because I’m in love with you.” Dracena stopped crying. Completely. Harry immediately wished for death. She slowly pulled away. “What?” “I said...” “I heard you.” “Oh.” “You love me.” “Apparently.” “Apparently?” “I’m having a difficult evening.” Dracena stared at him. “How long?” she said, simply. “What?” “How long have you known?” Harry considered it. “I don’t know.” “Those words are helpful.” “I think I’ve been doing it for longer than I’ve known I was doing it.” Dracena’s eyes filled again. “Oh, don’t cry again.” “I’m not!” “You are.” “Shut up.” Harry smiled a bit, and Dracena punched him weakly in the shoulder. Then she grabbed the front of his jumper again. “I love you too.” Potter forgot every intelligent thought he’d ever had. “What?” “Oh, don’t make me say it again.” “I think you should.” “Harry.” “Just to make sure.” She glared at him through smeared mascara. “I love you.” Harry smiled at her. Dracena’s face crumpled again. “Oh, damn you.” She kissed him. It wasn’t elegant. It was messy and awkward. Their noses bumped. Potter’s hand went somewhere completely useless before he figured out where to put it. Dracena was still crying. Then Harry was laughing. Then she was laughing and crying simultaneously. When they separated, their foreheads remained together. “This is an absolute disaster.” Dracena whispered. “Yeah.” “My father is going to hate this.” Potter’s smile disappeared. Dracena saw it. Reality came flooding back. Her family. His friends. The things she believed. The things he couldn’t accept. The war everyone could feel somewhere beyond the castle walls, still distant but getting closer. Dracena looked frightened again. “And if we can’t make this work?” “Dracena, don’t.” “Seriously. If we can’t?” Her voice was smaller now. “I don’t want to lose you.” Harry opened his mouth. He desperately wanted to say, “You won’t.” The words were right there. Easy. Two words, and the fear would leave her face. He’d said things like that before. He meant them, too. As if wanting something badly enough made it a promise. But it never worked. He closed his mouth. Dracena noticed. “You can’t say it.” “I want to.” Somehow that seemed to hurt her more. “That’s not what I asked.” “I know.” She looked away. Potter wanted to take it back. He wanted to say the easy thing and deal with whether it was true later. “I don’t know.” She looked at him again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t know what I’m going to have to do.” Her jaw tightened. “You mean my father. You mean…” Harry didn’t answer. “Say it.” “Your father.” For a moment she looked furious, then her face dropped. The fear was evident “I love him.” “I know.” “He’s wrong.” “I know.” “Those can both be true, Potter.” “I know.” “Stop saying that.” “Then stop saying things I know.” A tiny, furious laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Then it was gone. “I don’t know what I’ll do.” Potter swallowed. “Neither do I.” “That’s a bloody awful foundation for a relationship.” “It could be worse.” That almost got another laugh. Almost. “So that’s it?” she asked. “We don’t know?” Harry shook his head. “No.” “No?” “We don’t lie about not knowing.” Dracena stared at him. Harry took her hand. “I can’t promise you that everything will work out.” She looked down at their fingers. “I can’t promise your father will accept me. Or Hermione. Or that you’ll agree with me about everything someday.” “God forbid.” “Exactly.” That earned him the faintest smile. “And I can’t promise I’m never going to ask something from you that you can’t give me.” Her smile disappeared. “Neither can I.” “I know.” She squeezed his hand. Potter looked at the bruise on her face. “But I can promise you something else.” “What?” “If I don’t know, I’ll tell you I don’t know.” Dracena’s eyes filled. “If I’m frightened, I’ll tell you I’m frightened. If I’m angry, I’ll try to tell you why before I do something stupid.” “Try?” “I’m Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, not a miracle worker.” She snorted. “And if something you believe matters to you, I’ll listen before I decide it’s stupid.” “That’s an improvement.” “And if I think it’s wrong, I’ll tell you.” “I would expect nothing less.” Harry nodded. “And I need the same from you.” Dracena was quiet for a moment. “You have it.” He touched her cheek very gently, careful to stay far away from the bruise. “And this?” Dracena went still. “This is one of the things I can’t compromise about.” She looked at him. “I am not asking you to stop loving your father.” Her eyes widened slightly. “I’m not asking you to stop being a Malfoid.” That one hit harder. Potter could tell. “I’m asking you to let me help make sure nobody gets to hurt you because they love you.” Dracena closed her eyes. Another tear escaped. “Even him?” Harry hesitated. “Especially him.” She opened her eyes. “Why especially?” “Because if some stranger hit you, you’d know exactly what to do.” Dracena stared at him. Harry saw that she understood. “Oh.” “Yeah.” She leaned against him again, resting her head against his shoulder. Harry put his arm around her. “Hermione is waiting outside, isn’t she?” “Probably.” “Listening at the door?” “Definitely.” From the other side of the door came an indignant: “I AM NOT.” Dracena stared at it. Potter stared at it. Then Dracena laughed. A real laugh. Harry joined her. “Come in, Granger.” Dracena called. The door opened almost immediately. Hermione stood there holding her enormous book. “I couldn’t hear much anyway. Besides, I was reading.” “In the corridor?” “The lighting is excellent.” Dracena rolled her eyes. Then Hermione saw their hands and stopped. She looked at Dracena. She Looked at Harry, staring at their hands clasped together. “Oh.” Dracena immediately became defensive. “Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “Your face did.” Harry started laughing. Hermione sat beside Dracena. For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Dracena leaned against her too. Hermione stiffened in surprise, then put an arm around her. Her father was still her father. Her family was still her family. Harry was still Harry. Hermione was still an insufferable Muggle-born know-it-all who had somehow become one of the people Dracena trusted most in the world. Nothing had been solved. Tomorrow there would be professors to tell, decisions to make, arguments to have, and consequences none of them could predict. But tonight Dracena sat between two people who loved her. For the moment, that was enough.

All right, i'm going to throw my hat in the ring, too. --- Harry had several excellent reasons for being inside the Slytherin girls' washroom after midnight. None of them would have sounded nearly as good if he got caught. See, Malfoid had stolen his photograph. Technically, according to Malfoid, she had not stolen it; she had "confiscated" it. It was an old Muggle photograph of his parents, taken before he was born. His mother was laughing at something outside the frame while his father looked at her instead of the camera. Malfoid had stared at it for longer than Potter expected. Then she'd put it in her pocket. "Give that back." "No." "Malfoid." "You shouldn't carry something this important loose in your bag." "So your solution is stealing it?" "I'm teaching you a lesson about keeping your things safe." "Give it back." "I'll consider it. Later." She grinned that lopsided grin he kept thinking about. That had been six hours ago. Which explained why Potter was now creeping through the girls' washroom near the Slytherin dorms, wearing his invisibility cloak. He knew Malfoid secretly kept a little silver case in the cabinet beside the sinks. He knew this because Malfoid had once complained at considerable length that someone had moved it. Potter had called her insane. Malfoid had informed him that Gryffindors probably stored their belongings in piles on the floor like livestock. Potter had asked how she knew what his dormitory looked like. She had gone scarlet. Harry smiled at the memory. He didn't know what she kept in that case, but he remembered her reaction when it went missing. He could teach her a lesson, too. He heard someone crying. Harry stopped smiling. This wasn't ordinary crying, it was what Hermionie once called "Ugly crying." Someone was absolutely sobbing. Potter froze. The sound came from around the corner. He should leave. Every sensible part of him knew this immediately. He was invisible, after midnight, inside a girls' washroom where he absolutely did not belong. Leaving was the only remotely decent option. "Oh, stop wailing. You're making me depressed. More than usual, I mean." Potter recognized the voice. Moaning Myrtle. The crying stopped for several seconds, and another voice answered. "Shut up, Myrtle." Potter's heart stopped. Malfoid. He should absolutely leave. Immediately, if not sooner. He took one silent step backward to find the door, trying as hard as he could to insure the invisibility cloak didn't move and expose him. "I still don't see what the problem is." Myrtle said. "You wouldn't." "Of course I would. I know all about boys." "You died when you were fourteen." Malfoid said, matter of factly. "Exactly. I've had decades to study them." Despite himself, Potter almost laughed. Malfoid did not. "From the Bathroom? Please. You don't understand." "Then explain it again." Myrtle said "I've explained it three times." "And you've cried four." "Thank you, Myrtle." "You're welcome." Pregnant silence. Harry was afraid to move, in case his footsteps revealed him. Harry knew he should leave, but was also terrified of accidentally making a noise that could reveal him, so he remained exactly where he was. Malfoid sniffed. "It's Potter." Harry's stomach dropped. "What about him?" Harry heard a lonely drip from one of the washbasins. It echoed impossibly loud. Malfoid said something so quietly Potter almost didn't hear it. "I think I'm in love with him." Potter forgot how legs worked. Myrtle made a delighted squeal. "Oh, I KNEW IT!" "Shhh!" "You LOVE Harry Potter!" Myrtle said, squealing in delight. "Myrtle!" "Malfoid and Potter, sitting in a…" "If you finish that, I swear I will find out whether ghosts can be exorcised." Myrtle giggled. Potter leaned against the stone wall, desperately trying to remember how to walk. His heart was pounding so loudly he became genuinely concerned they might hear it. "You've kissed him, haven't you?" "No!" Malfoid screamed. Harry's ears rang from the shout. "You want to." Malfoid looked directly at Myrtle, and said nothing. "Ooooooh." "Myrtle." "You do!" "Of course I do!" The words exploded out of her. When she spoke again, her voice cracked. "That's the problem." Potter's smile disappeared. "I don't understand." Myrtle said. "No. You wouldn't." "You keep saying that." "You don't understand because your parents were Muggles!" Malfoid snapped. Myrtle went very still. The wounded look on her face was clear. Malfoid saw it. "Oh, for… No. Myrtle, that isn't what I meant. I said it badly." Myrtle folded her arms. "Very badly." "Yes. Fine. Very badly." Malfoid took a breath. "What I mean is... your parents didn't know about any of this. About our world. Our history. Our customs. You couldn't grow up with something they couldn't teach you." Myrtle's expression softened slightly, although her arms remained folded. "That doesn't mean there was anything wrong with them." Malfoid added quickly. "Or with you. I don't mean that." "Then what do you mean?" "I mean my mother sang wizarding songs to me when I was little. My grandfather taught me our family history before I could properly read. I knew the names of the old families before I knew half the names of the countries in Europe." Malfoid sniffed. "I grew up hearing stories about Hogwarts. About Slytherin. About people whose portraits are hanging in my house. There are things we do at Christmas because Malfoids have done them for hundreds of years. There are things Mother owns that belonged to her grandmother, and someday they'll belong to me." Her voice became quieter. "This isn't some club I joined, Myrtle." Myrtle unfolded her arms. "It's where I came from." Malfoid said, silently. "Oh." "That's what I mean when I say you wouldn't understand. Not because you're..." Malfoid waved her hand helplessly. "Not because your blood is wrong or any of that." She grimaced. "I'm trying. Myrtle. I really am. It's hard to change… something you thought your entire life." "I know." "And Potter makes it sound so easy. Just decide this tradition is stupid. Decide that one is unfair. Throw this away. Stop believing that. And sometimes he's right, which is the absolutely intolerable part." Malfoid sniffed again. "People like Potter think I'm just supposed to decide Father is wrong about everything. That my family is wrong. That everything I've been taught since I could speak is stupid and evil and I'm supposed to throw it away because Potter has those beautiful eyes and stupid hair and smiles at me like an idiot." Potter instinctively touched his hair. "And his hair is stupid." Malfoid added bitterly. Harry frowned. Myrtle said, "I like his hair." "Nobody asked you." "I think it's romantic." She said, dreamily. "It's ridiculous." "You touch it." "I do not." Malfoid said, stubbornly. "I've seen you." "When?" "I float through walls, Dracena" "That's horrifying." Myrtle giggled again. "My family matters to me." Malfoid continued. Something about her voice made Potter straighten. "My name matters to me. Our history matters. My grandfather used to tell me stories about our family when I was little. About things we've accomplished. Things we've survived. Traditions that are hundreds of years old." Her voice trembled. "Potter hears ‘tradition' and thinks it means 'I hate Granger.'" Potter looked at the floor. "Do you?" "No!" The answer came immediately. "I don't know." Potter frowned. "I don't hate her. She's irritating and smug and correct about things far too often, but I don't hate her." "So you're friends now? Great!." "Shut up." "Do you think you're better than her?" Another long silence. "Father would say yes." Potter stopped breathing. "But me? I don't know anymore." Malfoid's voice had become small. "I don't know what I think anymore. Do you have any idea how scary that is, Myrtle?" Myrtle was silent now. "I know things Potter doesn't." Malfoid continued. "He acts as though everything old is just some stupid rule somebody invented because they were bored. He doesn't understand what it's like to grow up in a magical family. He doesn't know the stories. He doesn't know the customs. He doesn't know why some things matter." Potter felt an unexpected sting, because she was right. He'd entered their world as a stranger and sometimes treated the parts he disliked as though their age alone made them ridiculous. Malfoid sniffed. "But then he asks me why. And I hate him for it." Myrtle said nothing. Potter's heart sank. "Because sometimes I don't have an answer." His heart rose again. "Father says something, and I've always believed it because Father said it. Then Potter looks at me with those stupid beautiful eyes and asks, 'Why?'" A tiny laugh escaped her through the tears. "And sometimes I want to hex him." "Sometimes?" "Most of the time." "Ah." "And sometimes I want to kiss him until he shuts up." Potter's entire face turned bright red, and boiled in heat. Myrtle sighed dreamily. "That's much more romantic." "It is NOT romantic!" "Sounds romantic." "It's horrible!" Malfoid started crying again, and suddenly Potter didn't find any of this funny. "I don't want to lose my family." Malfoid sniffled. "I don't want Father to look at me differently. I don't want Mother ashamed of me. I don't want to become some cautionary story they whisper about at Christmas." Her breathing skipped. "And I don't want to lose myself. I like being a Malfoid." She sounded apologetic, lost. "I like our stupid enormous house. I like Mother's ridiculous formal dinners. I like knowing which fork to use. I like the old songs. I like hearing Grandfather's stories. I like our Christmas traditions. I like knowing my family has been part of this world for hundreds of years. I like knowing how we fit into the world." Her voice broke. "Why does everyone act as though loving Potter means I'm supposed to hate all of that?" Potter's chest hurt. Myrtle, surprisingly, didn't answer immediately. "Does Potter ask you to?" Malfoid was silent. "Has he ever asked you to?" Myrtle repeated "No." Malfoid whispered. "Then perhaps you're arguing with a ghost" Malfoid sniffed. "You're funny." "What i mean is, perhaps you're arguing with something that isn't real. You think you know what's going to happen, but you really don't." "What?" "You keep telling me what Potter thinks you have to become." Myrtle said. Her voice had lost its usual theatrical whine. "But have you ever asked him?" The washbasin faucet dripped somewhere in the background again "No." "Why not?" "Because he'll say something noble and infuriating." Potter smiled under the cloak. "And then I'll love him more." Harry's smile disappeared again. He stood absolutely motionless, afraid to breathe. Malfoid began crying again, exhausted little sobs "I've tried not talking to him. "That lasted two days." "Thirty-seven hours." Myrtle said. "I remember. "I tried being horrible to him." "You gave him a Christmas present." "It was a book." "You wrapped it." "Mother says presentation matters." "You put a little silver ribbon on it." "I LIKE RIBBONS, MYRTLE." Potter covered his mouth. Myrtle was laughing, too. Malfoid was trying not to. "I stole his photograph." she whispered, shame dripping from her voice. Potter's eyebrows rose. "Why?" asked Myrtle. "I wanted to look at it." Harry's anger evaporated so quickly it embarrassed him. "It's his parents." "I know." "They're dead." "I know, Myrtle." "That's rather cruel." "I KNOW." Malfoid sounded miserable. "I was going to give it back tomorrow." "Why did you take it?" Malfoid was quiet. "Because I wanted to understand him." Potter's throat tightened. "He looks like his father. Everyone says so." Another sniff. "But he looks at people like his mother." Potter's hand dropped from his mouth. "I noticed it in the photograph." Malfoid's voice softened. "She looks at his father the way Potter looks at people when he thinks nobody's watching." "How?" "Like they're important." Potter stared into nothing. "He does it with Weasley. Granger. Longbottom. I never would have thought of them as important until Harry did." A pause. "Sometimes he looks at me that way, too." Myrtle said, very quietly, "Maybe you are." Malfoid broke. Harry heard her sob into her sleeves. "I don't know what to do." For several moments there was nothing but crying. "You could tell him." Myrtle said. "Absolutely not!" "Why?" "Because I'd rather die." "I did that. I don't recommend it." Despite everything, Malfoid laughed. A broken, watery little laugh. Potter looked toward the exit. He could leave. Perhaps he should. He needed to. This wasn't meant for him. He'd heard something Malfoid would rather throw herself into the Black Lake than let him hear. "What if he loves you too?" Myrtle said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. Malfoid became completely silent. "He doesn't." "How do you know?" "Because I'm horrible to him." "Yes." "Thank you." "You're welcome." "And because he thinks I'm a snob." "You are a snob." "Myrtle!" "You are." "SIGH. Fine." "And because you insult his friends." "I've been trying not to." Potter blinked. He thought back. Malfoid hadn't called Ron "poor" in weeks. She had stopped calling Hermione "the Muggle-born mudblood" months ago. Harry never would have noticed. "And because." Malfoid continued, "even if he does..." She couldn't finish. Myrtle waited. Malfoid finally whispered: "What if loving each other isn't enough? WE're so different!" Potter felt that one, because for the first time that night, she had asked the question he'd been avoiding himself. Attraction was easy. Flirting was easy. Arguing in corridors and pretending not to enjoy it was easy. Even kissing her (something he had spent an increasingly unreasonable amount of time imagining) would be easy. Everything afterward was difficult. It wasn't like the movies. Their friends. Their families. Their houses. Their ideas about the world. The parts of Malfoid Harry would have actually wanted her to change. The parts he slowly realized that she shouldn't have to. And, perhaps most frighteningly, the possibility that she might ask the same of him. "Maybe it isn't." Myrtle said. Malfoid sniffed. "You're terrible at this." "I've never had a boyfriend." "Despite studying boys from the bathroom? Clearly." "But maybe..." Myrtle hesitated. "Maybe loving somebody doesn't solve the problem." Malfoid was silent. Myrtle continued, "Maybe it just makes the problem worth solving." Potter stared at the stone floor. For once in her afterlife, Moaning Myrtle had said something astonishingly wise. "That's disgustingly sentimental." Malfoid said. "I thought it was rather good." "It was awful." "You're going to remember it forever." "I hate you." "No, you don't." "No." Malfoid sighed. "I don't." Potter quietly backed toward the door. He had forgotten entirely about the photograph. He didn't want it back anymore. He had reached the doorway. "Myrtle?" "Yes?" "If you ever tell Potter any of this, I'll deny everything." "Of course." "And if he somehow happened to be standing under a cloak of invisibility, in the washroom listening to us?" Myrtle looked right at him. Harry froze. There was a terrible silence. Malfoid stopped breathing. Potter stopped breathing. Then Myrtle shrieked with laughter. "I'm joking!" "Myrtle!" Malfoid threw something. It passed directly through the ghost and shattered against the wall. Potter slipped through the doorway before his heart could explode. He made it halfway down the corridor before his head felt like it would shatter. Slowly, Harry reached beneath the cloak and touched his crooked tie. For months, he'd been trying to decide whether Malfoid was becoming someone he could love. Despite his anger, earlier. Mabe his anger came from the fact he knew the same things, and refused to face them. He had never seriously considered the other question. He suddenly realized how brave Malfoid was for admitting it to Myrtle. Could he could love Malfoid without requiring her to stop being Malfoid? Potter looked back toward the washroom. "Oh, no." he whispered. This was much worse than he'd thought. He was in love with her, too.

We see alot of Malfoid art, before and afters with arguing youth and then happy families with another baby on the way. This is an author to keep an eye on because shes doing the heavy lifting, getting us from here to there.

Still working on Part 3 and hope to have it out soon, but just had to jump in on the latest development of the Malfoid extended universe: Professor "Hellfire" McGonagall #vidu #viducpp

Ultramarines? How utterly predictable. Your father too was exceedingly vanilla. But at least he wasn't enough of a tourist to bring nothing but Primaris. I cast Da Jump and put my 30 boys directly onto your intercessors. Waaagh, Mr.Potter