mirabilos

“Yeah but they turn people to stone not petrify them.”
― Irish216, The Sinistra Ward and the Chamber of Secrets

“And lastly, you must always remember to cover your crystal ball with a dark cloth when it’s not in use.”

Hermione uncharacteristically snorted again. “I suppose it’s to keep the spirits from gaining a foothold in the land of the living,” she sarcastically added.

Professor Trelawney slowly turned her shawl clad frame to the Gryffindor and gave her a stern look. “It’s because the ball is crystal and if the light hits it just right, the prisms will filter it and burn your house down…”
― NinjaPandaScholar, The Medium Between Life and Death

“Hermione’s not the only one willing to open a book, you know? It’s textbooks I don’t care for… hundred pages of twaddle for every useful bit.”

McGonagall replied archly, “That ‘twaddle’ represents a thousand years of intensive study and improvements in practice, Potter. Our people have deified the Hogwarts founders for far too long, and I ask that you reject that example. Rowena Ravenclaw, for all her greatness, could not have performed much of third-year transfiguration — even the tools for constructing spells at that level did not yet exist.”
― Mike [FP], Harry Potter and the Last Horcrux

“Myrtle Warren—a sixth year Ravenclaw and muggle-born—was an overly emotional girl with glasses too big for her face and a voice too shrill for her age. She was plain in appearance and not at all charming, but her unpredictable, chaotic nature pulled Tom in like a moth to a flame.

He still remembered the first time he’d met her. It was only a few weeks in to their first year, and the Slytherins were already gossipping about the strange girl in Ravenclaw. They disparaged her looks, her lack of a wizarding surname, and her bold rudeness. And yet, despite their clear dislike of the girl, there was an undercurrent of fear in their voices when they spoke of her.

She wore a Dark artefact around her neck, or so they claimed, and anyone who asked about it was regaled with a tale of a man tortured to death in a ritual to purify the souls of his followers. A wreath of thorns place atop his head. Nails driven into his hands and feet as his bloodied body was secured to two wooden beams. A spear in his side. Left to die alone and in agony, forsaken by his father. The symbol of that brutal murder hung from a slim chain so that she could always carry its memory with her.

Tom had to fight not to laugh hysterically when he’d heard. These stupid purebloods were terrified of a simple crucifix necklace and the story of Jesus Christ. Myrtle Warren wasn’t Dark or dangerous at all. She was Catholic.

Afterwards, he sought her out to congratulate her on her clever trick. She’d laughed too loud and for too long at how effective her plan of scaring off her would-be tormentors had been, and asked if Tom would be kind enough to back up any claims she made about growing up in a cult that consumed the blood and flesh of their tortured savior (the eucharist sounded terrifying when she put it like that). He eagerly agreed. If this is what it took for muggle-borns to be respected in the wizarding world, he was more than happy to play along.”
― blackholebabey, The Parseltongue Twins:: Year Two