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The hero dies in the version
of the story that's everyone's favorite.
The hero dies in front of the crowd.
The hero dies in front of no one.
Saw this poem by Maya Phillips on Tumblr last week and I thought nonstop about it until I drew this. I miss Tony in the MCU so muchh
Click here if you'd like a free, non-water-marked high-res 9:16 crop of this for a phone wallpaper! There's a tiny icon crop in there too but idk how well it will work jsdjfsf
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Sometimes fanfiction is a love letter to canon, and sometimes fanfiction is pounding on canon's door and yelling for it to get out here so you can kick its ass.
It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. Every blink seems to drag out to minutes. He might be losing time.
Tony opens his eyes…
Peter’s above him, on hands and knees, eyes red-rimmed, smile tremulous as he caught Tony’s gaze. “Mr. Stark, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’ve got to be okay…”
Tony smiles helplessly, reaching up. It hurts. He touches the boy’s face, amazed to feel it solid beneath his hand.
Laughs, soft and pained. “You’re alive,” he murmurs, closing his eyes slowly. “What a relief.”
Tony opens his eyes…
Rhodey is touching his shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Tones. Please, Tony, c’mon, don’t do this to me man. You got the kid back, you did it, please don’t pull this self-sacrificial bullshit, Tony…”
“S’kay, sugar muffin,” Tony slurs. “‘S all ‘kay now.”
Tony opens his eyes…
Vision stares down at him, hand pressed to his forehead. “Don’t do this again,” he whispers, pleads. “There is nothing worth this, Father.”
Of course there is, Tony thinks dully, mouth forming the words. You are.
Tony opens his eyes…
Strange smiles down at him. “Well done, Tony.”
Tony opens his eyes…
Bruce is bent over him, forehead creased.
“How the hell did you manage to reverse everybody else’s injuries and none of your own?” The doctor hisses at him, eyes gleaming green as strong hands press down, sending shockwaves of agony through Tony’s system. Tony’s eyes flutter shut again.
“He’s dying,” Bruce announces, voice tight. “And not even from the fucking gauntlet.”
Tony does not open his eyes.
“We must think of our people,” a familiar voice cautions. “The Garden is gone, and our supply of apples is limited.”
“He will die without it, brother,” Thor says. His voice is strong, even, without a trace of doubt or fear. He sounds like a king. “He has saved us all.”
“Very well.”
His mouth is opened, and something is poured in. Tony is too weak to splutter, too weak to choke or even swallow. A hand massages his throat until he takes the liquid by reflex rather than choice.
He is tired.
And then… he is not.
Tony opens his eyes.
Thor is kneeling beside him, hand warm and big on his shoulder.
Behind him, a group hovers. Rhodey. Peter. Vision. Bruce. Strange and Loki, for some reason.
What an odd mix, Tony thinks, dazed. His eyes linger on Peter and Vision, something settling in his chest slowly.
Alive. They’re alive. We did it.
Tony clears his throat, shrugging off Thor’s hand and pushing himself into a sitting position. He focuses on Peter, eyes narrowing, allowing a flicker of annoyance to surpass the relief.
“You’re still sixteen, right? Because you are so fucking grounded.”
Peter stares at him, wide-eyed and dumbfounded.
“Oh my God,” Rhodey laughs, bright and relieved, and look at that, he’s tearing up.
Vision swoops forward before Tony can tease him, landing on Tony’s unoccupied side and bringing a red hand to his face. “Father…” he whispers.
“Hey, Vis,” Tony smiles, taking the hand in his own. “I missed you.”
Vision crumples, bending over him and hugging him tight to his chest, long fingers pressing through his hair. “You’re okay,” he pleads.
It shakes Tony out of his surprise, makes him reach up and hug back. “I’m okay, V. It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re alive,” Tony laughs, tight and joyous, still disbelieving.
He looks over Vision’s shoulder, catching Thor’s gaze.
“We actually did it?” he asks. “All of them? Every one?”
“Aye,” Thor beams. “You did it, Anthony. For my people and yours.”
Tony looks down at his left arm, surprised to find it intact. He distinctly remembers it melting away under the gauntlet, the stench and pain of his own flesh burning apart. He moves his fingers, one by one, testing.
No nerve damage that he can detect.
“Well fuck me,” he murmurs, fascinated despite himself. Nothing aches, his head feels fine, and he’s apparently regenerated a limb. “Did someone inject me with Extremis?”
“No,” Thor insisted. “Brother thought ahead and salvaged all the golden apples of Idunn already picked before enacting Ragnarok. I have fed you one in thanks for your efforts.”
Tony’s eyes flicked to Loki. The trickster watches him with calm eyes, appearing somehow lighter than Tony had ever seen him before. Probably a byproduct of Thanos’ existence being wiped from reality.
Tony flashes him a smile, sharp and quick. “We both have the other to thank for being alive, then. Even?”
Loki’s gaze sharpens.
“It was by my decree,” Thor cautions, though whether he was talking to Tony or Loki was up for debate.
“And his sleight of hand,” Tony shrugs, still holding that green gaze. Something flickers in it, and then Loki inclines his head.
“We are even, Stark,” he agrees.
“Sweet. You can let go now, Vis. We’ll cuddle later,” he teases gently.
“My scans conclude you are healthy,” Vision says into his hair. “However, despite conclusive evidence I find myself unwilling to release you.”
Tony chuckles, running a hand over his bald head. “Alright, darling, I’m pretty sure the gauntlet wrecked all my nanotech anyway. Feel free to give me a piggyback ride to wherever’s next.”
“Certainly, sir,” Vision says, in a tone so dry and utterly JARVIS that Tony feels a pang of loss and joy combined.
“The sass,” he sighs happily, unwinding from Vision just enough for the android to turn his back.
“Uh, Tony, since when are you Vision’s dad?”
“Don’t worry, Brucie-bear, you’re technically daddy too. You just weren’t around when I was raising our boy, so I get preference.”
Vision makes a noise of dissent. “I do not believe I would refer to you as such no matter the circumstances, Dr. Banner,” the android says, somewhat tartly. “I have access to all of JARVIS’ data, and thus recall his time as Father’s AI fondly. I have no such memories of you.”
“Ah, sorry V.” Tony smirked over the android’s shoulder at Bruce. “He’s grown a bit of a grudge against you, leaving like that. You abandoned our child, babe. I expect back pay child support in the form of Science.”
“Science?” Bruce snorted.
“The only mistress I desire,” Tony said dramatically, clinging to Vision’s back like a koala when he stood. “I’m done with that magic, space altering bullshit.”
“Your mind has expanded,” Loki said, a glint of something hungry in his eyes.
Tony waved him off, making a shushing gesture.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bruce asked, turning.
“Nope, nope, nope, nope,” Tony tsked, clicking his tongue irritably. “You’ve said time and again that you aren’t that kind of doctor. And Strange, neuro was hardly your specialty, so don’t you dare jump in. Whatever info Princess has deduced - or thinks he’s deduced - is privileged medical knowledge. Which means nunya business. Capiche?”
“Tony, I just–”
“No means no, Bruce,” Tony snapped. “I feel violated! Don’t violate my mental sanctity, that’s mind rape. Extremely uncool. Vis, make them be nice to daddy.”
“I suggest,” Vision said, sharp and cutting, “that you choose your next words very carefully, doctors, sorcerer.”
Loki actually paled, and Tony leaned forward to find the mind stone glowing from its return to the center of Vision’s forehead. It was the only stone Tony hadn’t been rid of.
Tony tsked again, raising his left hand unthinkingly to cover the stone. Instead of burning as Tony had half-come to expect, the stone cooled under his touch, tendrils of sharp fury nudging at his mind. It was inordinately simple to push the presence back. “Be calm, sweet boy. Take a breath in. Good, now hold it. And out. Again.”
Tony coaxed Vision until his breathing had steadied and the stone’s glow faded. Loki was watching him with something like wonder on his face, while Strange was narrow-eyed and Bruce still and a bit green around the gills.
“Do you need some breathing exercises as well, Bruce, or is Jolly Green coming out to say hi?”
Bruce huffed, the green receding from his skin. “I’m sorry, Tony, Vision. I didn’t mean to upset either of you, I was just… concerned.”
Tony flicked his hand dismissively. “It’s alright, I’m used to being ignored when privacy is involved. Just be a bit kinder to Vis, hm? Lack of consent sort of presses his buttons.”
“Funny considering that thing in his forehead,” Loki hissed lowly. Tony shot him a sharp look, running a finger over the stone possessively. The last time it was removed from Vision, he died. If Loki gave any indication of trying to displace it…
“Just because I willed you back to life does not mean I won’t snuff you out if you raise a finger against my family.”
Green eyes met brown and held for a taut moment.
Loki inclined his head. “I have no intention of harming your child, Stark. Just keep the Mind Stone clear of me and all will be well.”
“V does what he wants,” Tony shrugged, clinging a bit tighter to his brain baby. “That said,” he murmured into the android’s ear, “we should discuss that sparkly stone in your forehead later, Vis. For now, try to keep in mind the way us humans fear things they don’t understand.”
“You do not, Father.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m special before you’ll believe me?” Tony pouted.
Vision laughed, the sound low and warm. “You’ve never had to say that for me to know it.”
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Stiles figures out the whole werewolf thing when he’s nine years old, and never mentions it.
Not when he’s eleven and his dad is stressing over mountain lion manslaughter, when he’s fifteen and his best friend ditches him for the Hale brood, or when he’s seventeen and Cora punctures his tires with claws after he beats her out for first place in a countywide Young Writers competition.
If the Hale’s want to kill supernaturals invading their territory, that’s their right. If Scott wants to pretend they weren’t once brothers to each other just because he’s no longer dangerously asthmatic or socially stunted, Stiles can accept that too. And if Cora wants to take out her petty frustrations on Claudia Stilinski’s jeep - well, fuck yes will he get his vengeance but he’s certainly not going to blackmail her just because she’s stupid enough to pop claws in broad daylight.
(Instead Stiles threatened to leak photos of Cora making out with her twin’s ex-girlfriend in the bathroom of the local diner - time stamped before they broke up. It was enough to make her personally change and finance his baby’s tires, plus teach the stunted bitch a lesson on messing with Stiles.
It may also help the girls' dismal attempts at subterfuge.
He doubted it, though.)
For all that people go on about Stiles not being able to keep his smart mouth shut, he’s very good at saying nothing of substance.
In the end Stiles moved away for college without anybody discovering he knew all about Beacon Hill's supernatural secret.
(He warded the Sheriff’s house to kingdom come. It was subtle enough that the local pack wouldn’t notice, but if anything looking to hurt his dad came bumping through the night they would sooner be burned to ash than touch a hair on the Sheriff’s oblivious human head.)
Stiles gets the call on Christmas Eve.
Parrish - the only Deputy he doesn’t have a file full of blackmail on - tells him his father is in the hospital and might not make it. He says he hasn’t been shot when asked, but stays vague when Stiles demands to know what happened even as he throws together a bag and sends an all-caps text to Jocelyn, a study partner who works at the airport and will be able to get him on the soonest available flight to San Francisco.
Stiles emotionally manipulates and cajoles and blackmails, and still gets nothing more than vague replies from Jordan. Clark, Whittings and Jones don’t answer their phones.
When Stiles gets to Beacon Hills heads are going to roll.
-
Stiles pulls into Beacon Memorial at three in the morning Christmas day, parks in the first spot he sees (because fuck reserved parking) and hightails it towards the nurse’s station.
“Get me the status of the Sheriff,” he orders a vaguely familiar nurse, who doesn’t even bat a lash at his brisk tone. The hospital staff is almost as familiar as the police force; they helped raise him when his mother couldn’t, and even after, when he hung around after school with Scott.
Beacon Hills residents acknowledged that Stiles Stilinski didn’t mess around about his father's health.
(When Stiles was fourteen the Sheriff got shot in the gut. The condescending prick of a doctor who refused to give ‘a child’ information on his father was fired, ruined, and run out of town within the month.)
“He was found with a head wound but it’s stopped bleeding, and I know his vitals have stabilized,” she says, first off. “You’ll have to ask his doctor for more information, hon. Room 317.”
Stiles doesn’t relax, can’t until he sees his father is perfectly alright for himself, but he nods and tries for a smile. It strains across his face and drops within a few seconds, so he turns and makes for the ICU.
“And Stiles?” calls the nurse. “He has visitors.”
It turns out ‘visitors’ means that there are three Hale’s, an Argent, and an ex-best friend hanging outside the Sheriff’s room. Stiles feels well on his way to bashing in a couple of faces, especially when Scott looks up at him like he’s an injured puppy and says, empathetic, “Stiles.”
See, this is why it took some convincing to get Stiles to accept his full-ride to NYU. Stiles just fucking knew that his dad would get drawn into supernatural shit while he was gone, and he had been stupid enough to believe that the Deputy’s would actually do as ordered and keep him updated on more than just his father’s eating habits.
Oh, he would be having words with Robins.
Out of the assembled Hale’s - Talia, Laura, and Peter - two look long-suffering and one is arranging their face into something resembling sorry. Chris Argent is showing no emotion but the way he watches Stiles is careful, almost wary. And Scott just looks plain guilty, which isn’t a good sign for his continued health because Stiles has killed to keep his dad safe before and he would damn sure do it again.
(Maybe he’ll kill them all, if the Sheriff dies.)
Stiles drops the calm facade that he’s been clutching at for the past twelve goddamned hours, takes a step forward, and stares down the local Alpha.
“What are you doing here?” he demands. It’s inconspicuous enough, something an oblivious human would ask when apparent strangers were crowding the waiting area.
“Stiles, isn’t it?” Talia asks, standing to meet his height and reaching out for a handshake. He doesn’t spare the limb a glance, narrowed eyes demanding answers. “We were assisting your father on a case when he was injured. We’re here to make sure he’s alright.”
Stiles modulates his scent, his heartbeat, his rage. His eyes turn to Scott and a sneer pulls at his mouth. “You too, Scotty? Were you helping my father on a case?”
Scott McCall is a terrible liar and everybody knows it.
His throat bobs, his eyes dart to Talia, and then to Chris, and then back to Stiles, who is considering punching his lights out.
Peter Hale is Talia’s enforcer. Laura Hale is set to inherit the mantle of Alpha. Chris Argent is the local hunter. They all have a reason to be here, to be involved, but Scott - Scott is just a beta, which means Scott is probably what pulled the Sheriff into this mess. Why else would a low ranking, bitten wolf be here?
“I, uh. Yeah, I was. Y’know. Helping. There were animals involved, and I’m studying to be a vet, so, aha, he - he was going to ask Deaton, but he’s… out of town. So your dad ended up consulting me instead?”
Yes. Truly terrible.
“I see. So instead of using a qualified veterinary technician, my dad decided to ask a first year from BH’s community college, who likely hasn’t completed his introductory courses. That makes so much sense. Your logic is so very sound. Ten out of ten.”
Stiles skin itched. He was getting impatient.
He was getting angry.
Stiles turned his back on the small crowd, pushing into the Sheriff’s room without mind to the sputtering Scott. The doctor wasn’t there so he grabbed the chart from the end of the bed, scanning it quickly, adding it to what he already knew.
His dad had no physical wounds. He had been found unconscious in the parking lot of the police station. He wouldn’t wake up.
Something supernatural was going on here, and no amount of human medicine would help, period.
Stiles laid the chart back down and pulled out his cellphone, typing out a quick text, before giving his dad’s hand a lingering squeeze and exiting the room.
Everyone was watching him with sharp eyes, except Scott who was scowling at the ground. It seemed unimpressive and childish on his twenty year old face.
“Argent,” Stiles says, zoning in on Chris. He’s never liked Talia, never appreciated all she let her children get away with and the obviousness of her pack. Chris, however, he had extensively researched. He was a hunter coming into Stiles’ town, but unlike the werewolves he was discreet. Smart. “What are you hunting?”
Chris’ brow creases at his phrasing, but he didn’t acknowledge it as anything odd. “I don’t know much about who did this. He was found unconscious in the parking lot at the police station, and the doctors are still running tests to determine the cause of his condition.”
“Tests that won’t find anything,” Stiles says back, as calmly as he can when it feels like he’s about to shake out of his skin. “Most shifters would have left some kind of outward marking, and there’s no sense of magic around him so I doubt it was a Druid or Wiccan. I’m assuming you all know, so tell me. What. Was. It.”
“Stiles, you know—”
Talia interrupts Scott. Just as well, because Stiles feels like hitting something the longer they stall. “Just what do you know about all this, Stiles?”
“Your family has never been the most subtle, I figured out about the supernatural when I was nine. My dad, however, wasn’t wrapped up in any of this until I left for college — presumably, he only got involved in the past few months, since his deputy’s haven’t informed me that he suddenly started hanging around Argent, Deaton, or you Hale’s.”
Talia opened her mouth again, and Stiles held up a finger. “Stop. I don’t have time to deal with your insipid questions. Just tell me what we are dealing with. Now.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Stiles slanted his eyes to the hunter.
“I’ve been hunting a rogue fae,” Argent said. “Several people in town have fallen comatose, including one of your father’s officers.”
“Fae. Of fucking course, it always has to be fae. What kind?”
Argent looked at him blankly.
“Come on. Was it seelie or unseelie? An elemental? Changeling? Elf?" Argent's forehead creased. "For chrissakes, did it even originate in this country, or do I have to brush up on my Welsh?”
A throat cleared behind him, and Stiles spun to face the enforcer. “Sweetheart, Christopher has no clue what you’re talking about. I doubt the Argent bestiary takes time to classify the fae beyond methods for killing them.”
“But you don’t even kill them all the same way! It’s—” Stiles groaned in frustration, running a hand over his face. “Forget it. Did anybody get a good look at it? Scott?”
Scott jolted, mouth snapping shut. “Uh, why do you think I—?”
“Because you’re here, so either you’ve seen it or you dragged my dad into this shitshow. Which one?” Scott shifted.
“Both,” Peter chimed in unhelpfully. Stiles considered wringing his neck, but he was the only one providing any actual information.
“Okay. Okay, we’ll deal with that later. Was it male or female?”
Scott didn’t say anything, glancing towards Talia again.
“Scott, answer my goddamn questions! This is my dad we’re talking about!”
Scott winced back at his decibel, jerking his eyes from Talia to the floor. He looked guilty, as well he should. “A-a girl.”
“Tall or short? What did her skin look like?”
“Uh, tall. Like, taller than you. She was grey, and her eyes—they were completely black.”
Stiles' magic spiked, sparking out of his fingers unhelpfully. Stiles clenched his hands shut and ignored it. “Were there any markings on her forehead?”
“Yeah, there were, like, purple swirls—”
Stiles cursed. Explicitly.
Talia looked scandalized.
“How long has it been since dad? When was he found?”
“Eleven hours ago. Parrish called you almost immediately.”
“At least one of the deputy’s are being a good boy,” Stiles murmured thoughtlessly, pacing now. “How long has she been waiting between victims?”
“There have been two a day for the last week.” Peter offered.
Stiles frowned, stilling. “That doesn’t make sense. She shouldn’t have such an appetite, unless…”
“Unless what?” Peter prodded.
“Unless she’s pregnant,” Stiles whispered. He sounded like he was about to faint, and looked little better. “Oh god, a pregnant Aatmanand. I’m surprised this town is still standing.”
He pulled out his phone, flipping through his contacts and trying to ignore the way his hand was trembling.
She picked up on the second ring.
“What is it, Stiles? I’m trying to study.”
“I need your help.”
The person on the other line’s breath hitched, before coming back, smooth as silk. “Are you calling in your favor, Spark?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come to you?”
Stiles glanced at the camera in the room and short circuited it with a spark of energy. Someone gasped.
“Yes.”
In a flash of light, Adelaide appeared. She was still in her human form except for her gleaming quicksilver eyes, blonde hair tumbling down her back in unruly waves, wearing a monochromatic polka dot pajama set. She took in her audience briefly before turning to Stiles, eyebrow cocking.
“What will you have me do?”
“I have an Aatmanad problem.”
Adelaide took a step towards him, nails sharpening to a point. Her smile was all pointed teeth. “You know I hate those uptight prigs. Just point me in the direction, little Spark.”
“You can’t kill her,” Stiles ground out, fingers clenching. Adelaide’s nostrils flared, eyes dilating with rage. Stiles held up a hand to stall her protests. “She’s pregnant.”
“Excuse me? I will not meddle with the Expecting, even for you!” Adelaide hissed.
“I’m not asking you to,” Stiles said impatiently. “I can track her down without you. I just need you to release the knots she weaved about one of the victim’s souls, and drain her leftover magic into a rune.”
Adelaide’s expression twisted again, this time in amusement. “You think much of my abilities. My kind has never been known for this capability.”
“Your kind has never been known for a lot of things,” Stiles returned. That earned him a laugh, quick and dark.
“Very good, Spark. If I do you this favor, my debt is repaid.”
“Agreed.”
“Wait a minute.” Stiles turned to Talia, eyes narrowed.
“We may not have a minute,” he said coolly. “They die at the twelve hour mark, don’t they? Otherwise Parrish wouldn’t have bothered to say his condition was life threatening. That’s how long it takes her to properly establish her hold and drain them.”
Talia frowned. “You may know something about the supernatural, but this is my land. You cannot summon creatures here without my permission.”
Stiles stared at her. Behind him, Adelaide laughed.
“What a stupid little wolf,” she smiled. “I can kill her for free, Spark. Alpha’s have the most exquisite aftertaste.”
Peter stood, taking his place behind Talia’s left shoulder. His face was cleared of the previous smirk, eyes hard and calculating.
“Go fulfill our deal. If I need to kill anybody, I’ll do it myself.”
“You’re no fun,” Adelaide sighed. “I need the rune first.”
Stiles gave her a look, but she just grinned back. Stiles rolled his eyes, grabbing the Sheriff’s badge from his pocket to obscure the transportation spell from curious eyes.
He held out his hand expectantly, and Adelaide grinned at him, snatching his wrist and gouging into his index finger with a claw. Somebody growled, low and threatening.
Stiles didn’t wince, just cleared his throat until she dropped his appendage with a pout.
He drew the anchor rune quickly, all too aware of the eyes in him, and gave her the badge.
“Remember what I told you when we met,” he warned, when she turned to the room. Adelaide stiffened, glancing over her shoulder at him, and nodded.
“I would not go against a Spark.”
Stiles turned back to the red eyed Talia. “I don’t fall under your laws,” he said, eyes half-lidded. “As your enforcer could tell you. And even if I did, that is my father. I would tear apart worlds to keep him safe.”
Talia frowned, glancing at her brother. “Peter?”
“He is a Spark, Talia. The Councils combined don’t have enough power to put a leash on his kind.”
“He can’t be,” Laura said, standing to meet her pack. “We would have noticed anything that powerful growing up here. He went to school with Cora, Mia and Scott.”
“‘He’ is right here,” Stiles said drolly. “And consequently doesn’t care what you think.”
In 2014 I spent a lot of time defending purity-culture fandom behavior on Tumblr. "They're young," I said, "and they have the sort of platform we" (millennials) "didn't. We would have posted the same black-and-white things at 15. No need to call them out and embarrass them; as they get more exposed to the world, they'll see the grayscale. It'll sort itself out."
Whoo, was I wrong. I massively misread the dangers in the self-selective ideological isolation of social media. I also did not foresee the effect of transitioning from webboards and Livejournal (where you were expected to define, develop, and defend your media interpretations in nested essay conversations) into streetcorner shouting platforms where conversation is impossible, let alone position refinement.
Ten years later, and not only did the 2014 15-year-olds not grow, 2024 teens are trapped in/have embraced a spiral of extremism that 2014 fandom sowed. Because no one has to look at, and certainly not discuss, anyone else's perspective, fandom discourse has become a rotted, stagnating field of strawmen. Media literacy is dead and this is how you wind up with people posting -- in total sincerity -- that liking a fictional romance between a short adult and a tall adult is endorsing pedophilia.
sibling relationships are so strange... like i love you. you will never understand me in a way that matters. we are the same person in drastically different ways. we are sewn together. we don't talk. we are attached at the hip. you wish i was never born. can i call you. let's eat together. i forgive you. etc
i don't have enough photos of you on my phone to make one your contact picture. we got the same tattoo completely by coincidence. why do you always get to be mario. i love the meals you cook. we live in different universes. you can stay at my house if you need. we have never been friends. you are more important to me than anyone on this earth
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"harry wasnt that powerful, he literally only knew 3 spells and had a horcrux in him and he wouldnt have survived without-"
listen to me, LISTEN TO ME
the boy was in survival mode for literally all of his life. almost all of his defense teachers tried to kill him. he was more worried about surviving the next voldy jumpscare. his "mentor" was raising him to die.
do u think he had the time to learn and master an arsenal of spells when everyone who was meant to help him are either dead or keeping him in the dark ? do u think he had the time to train when hes getting into life or death scenarios practically every year ?
he was a growing teen who had to deal with a murderer going after him, a world who thinks hes just off his rockers, adults who rarely take him seriously, the natural hormonal teen years, and the typical fights between friends who have vastly different life experiences but arent emotionally mature enough to address those yet . i dont think he even had that much positive reinforcement from everyone around him
stop calling harry james potter a weakass fuckass just because he doesnt have a shiny arsenal of weapons and the mind of a master strategist . thats literally a child and then a teen who keeps on getting retraumatised over and over and over, and you keep on taking the piss on him because he doesnt react like a levelheaded YA protagonist who has everything under control ?
hes just a dude who had to practically raise himself, who tries his goddamn best but fucks up constantly and is always haunted by his fuckups, and who still manages to get the job done at the end
AND EVEN AFTER THAT the people still put more responsibilities on his shoulders like "he couldve redid society with his influence" "he couldve done this he couldve done that" "he couldve done more"
how much more of himself does he have to give before society is satisfied ? why cant the adults take charge for once and rebuild the system that THEY broke ? why's it all on harry's shoulders ALONE ?
"he couldve used his influence-" did u conveniently forget how the wizarding world showed him over and over how easily their views and treatment of him cld change at the flip of a coin ? do u think he'd trust them to listen to him after all this time ? NO
like i get it, "chosen ones" have the influence and the responsibility . "chosen ones" should be powerful and their skills and abilities varied by the end of the series . they could do more and many chosen ones have done more . but harry's just part of the subset of chosen ones that is just tired and beat down at the end of the it all .
idk give him a break, hop off his back, let him retire to the countryside
[The artist, putting a simple cake next to a much fancier one: “Aw man, that guy’s cake is way better than mine.” The Audience, gleefully holding up a knife and fork “HOLY SHIT! TWO CAKES!”]
2087
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
pixelskylines
snowghoul
