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#before everything goes down the drain – @thelethifoldwitch on Tumblr
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The Lethifold Witch

@thelethifoldwitch / thelethifoldwitch.tumblr.com

Potterverse Headcanons of varying length, on varying topics.
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Ezra-Selene Selwyn had never much cared for the gender-binary. They’d announced this at the dinner table, aged eight, and the statement, so adult from a childs mouth, had finished the argument over whether they were to wear the ruffled or the lace-edged robes to the Notts winter ball.

Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn had quickly helped them pick out a name and Ezra-Selene loved to play with it, some days just Ezra, some days just Selene, some days neither, some days both. They/them were always preferred.

Their younger brother Silas was at first confused but quickly grew to understand that all people were their own and, provided they could wield a wand, who was to argue with their perception of self? (They were something of a blood-purist family after all. There were some traditions there was no escaping.)

But Ezra-Selene grew up remarkably well-adjusted for a child of a Dark family and was sorted into Ravenclaw where they thrived. When Voldemort rose in Britain however Ezra-Selene fled. They had seen too much of the Muggle-Grindelwald’s antics on the continent, heard of those outside the norm like themselves bundled away into camps and never heard from again. It scared them.

Ezra-Selene fled to America and joined the southern wixes, living in the mountains and the prairie and minding herds of winged horses and unicorns. They quite liked the stories of the muggle cowboys and decided to buy a gun. You could never be too careful – a protego might deflect spells, a stupefy might stun the enemy but a gun dealt with them, and no shield yet devised could deflect a hard metal bullet.

They became well known over time. The first of the mage-riders to wield a gun, tucked into a holster right beside their wand, the first to prove its usefulness. Ezra-Selene was never proud of it. But they did so love people not forgetting their pronouns for once, even if they did stutter slightly when asking for an autograph.

(Image One from Here. Character is an invention for a Fic I (essayofthoughts) am writing, do say if you perceive Ezra-Selene as potentially problematic)

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Ezra-Selene Selwyn had never much cared for the gender-binary. They’d announced this at the dinner table, aged eight, and the statement, so adult from a childs mouth, had finished the argument over whether they were to wear the ruffled or the lace-edged robes to the Notts winter ball.

Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn had quickly helped them pick out a name and Ezra-Selene loved to play with it, some days just Ezra, some days just Selene, some days neither, some days both. They/them were always preferred.

Their younger brother Silas was at first confused but quickly grew to understand that all people were their own and, provided they could wield a wand, who was to argue with their perception of self? (They were something of a blood-purist family after all. There were some traditions there was no escaping.)

But Ezra-Selene grew up remarkably well-adjusted for a child of a Dark family and was sorted into Ravenclaw where they thrived. When Voldemort rose in Britain however Ezra-Selene fled. They had seen too much of the Muggle-Grindelwald’s antics on the continent, heard of those outside the norm like themselves bundled away into camps and never heard from again. It scared them.

Ezra-Selene fled to America and joined the southern wixes, living in the mountains and the prairie and minding herds of winged horses and unicorns. They quite liked the stories of the muggle cowboys and decided to buy a gun. You could never be too careful – a protego might deflect spells, a stupefy might stun the enemy but a gun dealt with them, and no shield yet devised could deflect a hard metal bullet.

They became well known over time. The first of the mage-riders to wield a gun, tucked into a holster right beside their wand, the first to prove its usefulness. Ezra-Selene was never proud of it. But they did so love people not forgetting their pronouns for once, even if they did stutter slightly when asking for an autograph.

(Image One from Here. Character is an invention for a Fic I (essayofthoughts) am writing, do say if you perceive Ezra-Selene as potentially problematic)

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The house was a fair size, and quite beautiful. Full of things from around the world and from different eras, a few muggle sculptures, many magical paintings, one huge ancient map, framed in gold, waves lapping at the scalloped pattern of the heavy frame.

A child hurtled down the corridor, dark hair sticking up in any and all directions.

A moment later a house elf, clad in what seemed to be two tea-towels, and a lot of mashed up carrot ran past, panting.

"MASTER ANTINOUS, MASTER ANTINOUS, COME BACK HERE!"

The child took no notice, giggling and hurtled around a corner, using a statue of a pogrebin as a pivot with which to speed himself up.

The House elf took a breath *CRACK* and appeared in front of the child.

"MISTRESS AMARYLLIS SAID YOU MUSN'T," They managed to say, trying to stop the child who ducked around the exhausted house elf into the next room.

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Turns out, the nice bloke with the obnoxious name Hope’s been seeing for some time now is a wizard. You know, does magic - wand-waving, weird Latin chants (spells, Hope, spells), broomsticks, goblins and pixies; that sort of thing.

Good. Maybe he won’t think the worse of her when she tells him she’s one of those girls. Protests with the youth wing of the CND movement. Staunchly Labour. Thinks Harold Macmillan’s a right tit.

She’s surprised to discover Lyall Lupin doesn’t particularly care, scratch that, doesn’t know what she’s on about. But he’s quite obliging about it. He solemnly agrees with her when she tells him The Bomb’s a terrible invention that no one ought to be able to get their hands on. Nods sweetly when she tells him that Harold Macmillan’s Winds of Change is all a dodgy scam. Refreshing change from the Alfs and Harrys and wossnames who insist she can’t wear pants, leather jackets or smoke cigarettes.

Of course, nothing quite beats the look on his face the night she tugs him into the back of her da’s old, beaten-up Morris.

(Submitted by the fantastic postmoderpottercompendium who often comes up with lovely pieces on their own wonderful blog)

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