Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snakelike face vacant and unknowing. Voldemort as dead, killed by his own rebounding curse, and Harry stood with two wands in his hand, staring down at his enemy’s shell.
I want an interviewer to ask Louis and Harry about what happened in Wellington so I can sit back with a cold beer and watch them get so flustered they literally explode
Alex Gaskarth from Glamour Kills
don’t do drugs kids