#ho headcanon

thepostmodernpottercompendium:

The Sacred Twenty Eight: the Most Ancient and Noble Houses of Shafiq and Shacklebolt. (Part ¼)

When they first saw the list, they laughed.

When they asked them why they laughed, they only shook their heads and did not answer. How could these people understand? To them the world was simple. There were three kinds of people: the pure, the sullied and the impure. The ones without wands were aliens, a different kind of species. Sub-human.

They knew better.

They had built civilizations. They were there when the Babylonians planted their trees in the Hanging Gardens. They were there when they laid the first stones in the pyramids. They were there when the Mesopotamians wrote their first histories and humans first recorded time. They were there at the founding of the first cities of the earth. They were there when the first men ploughed the field and built their homes. They were there at the breaking of the continents. They were there, among the first men of the Earth.

And while these savages were still scrounging around in the earth, speaking a primitive language of grunts and growls, they had been there reading the stars and considering the very nature of being and existence. These savages who were only learning how to wield the plough when their people were at the very height of their civilizations. These savages who were still shepherds and the like during the waning of their peoples.

Oh yes, they knew better.

They understood what differencemeant. They saw it in the eyes of the pale-faced muggles who eyed them on the streets. They heard it in the speeches of politicians who called them dirtyandoilyandcorrupt and claimed that their blood would soon flow freely on the roads of England if they did not go back home. They felt it in each death and in each drop of blood shed to fuel the Empire.

These people mourned over the tragic nature of Grindelwald’s short lived rule and conveniently forgot other horrific numbers. Eleven million, ripped from their homeland and shipped across the sea for the fat to get fatter. Three million dead, so that Britain could eat and fight their war on full bellies. 200 years of pure destruction.

But they would never forget. These were their people. It did not matter if the blood in their veins was magical or not. These were more their people than these savages waving their wands, who thought that this wand waving magic was the only form of magic worth knowing. Who thought that those who did not wave wands were without magic. But in truth, where they came from, magic was a part of the lives of everyone from the highest king to the lowliest slave and dalit. Where they came from, everyone lived their lives by the signs they read in their stars. Medicine and magic were one and the same, for healers were witches and witches were healers and every village had a witch-healer. They all came together to ward their homes and lands against evil spirits and evil eyes. They all sang the songs of mysticism together, deep spells to work magic that the non magical folk called miraculous. Magic worked for the sake of magic, for enjoyment and pleasure. Deep magic which called for time and patience and acuteness of mind to thread together all the spells in a pattern as complicated as life itself.

And these people, these wand-wavers now deemed them worthy enough to join their little club of those pure enough to be elevated above the rest of magical Britain.

How noble!

How gracious!

How patronizing! - but they did not say this aloud though they thought it many times.

No. The Shafiqs and Shacklebolts only smiled, and did not bother to tell these people that being a Shafiq and Shacklebolt was not a matter of a tightly knotted family tree, but a question of beingness. Nor did they tell them that this list was young and they were old, old as the very bones of the earth: they did not need this list to tell them their worth or explain who they were. They knew, even if these foolish children did not.

They smiled and they did not speak, for centuries had taught them this at least:

Never cross the white man
And he will not hurt you.

[Picture sources: Pureblood 28 List by thestagpatronus,detail from the Ishtar Gate in Babylon,Girl with a parrot from the Tutinama manuscript,Igbo Maiden Spirit Mask,Nabta Playa,the Goddess Nut,Astrolabe, The assembled animals complain to the raven of their mistreatment at the hands of man by Miskin (or a student) c. 1595-1600, Leopard, kingdom of Benin, Nigeria, ivory with copper inlay, 47 cm high, late 19th century.

In case you’re wondering why there are pics of Igbo/Benin artifacts alongside Egyptian/North Africans one, I have a well planned out migration route for the Shacklebolts and I’m not just saying stuff because I can’t be bothered to pull out culturally specific works of art. Ditto Shafiqs.]

[[As far as my Shafiqverse is concerned, this is canon.

I’m kind of busy the next couple of weeks, but I’ll reblog more from this series - I’ve contributed a bit to this story and it looks to be more amazing than I’d anticipated.]]