Are There Deleted Scenes Where Klance Is Canon?

Counting up Andromeda Tonks' connections in the canon feels like untangling a stubborn little knot of family pride, quiet rebellion, and real maternal warmth. At the center is her immediate Black family: she is the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, which sets up one of the sharpest contrasts in the series. Bellatrix is fanatically loyal to Voldemort and the pure-blood ideology, and that hostility toward Andromeda’s marriage is explicit and poisonous; Narcissa is more complicated, tied to family expectations but ultimately capable of compassion in her own way. The Black tapestry and the whole idea of 'always' pure-blood superiority make Andromeda’s choice to wed Ted Tonks an act of social exile — she’s literally disowned for love, and that shapes how she relates to the rest of her kin. Beyond the Black household, her marriage to Ted Tonks and her role as the mother of Nymphadora Tonks are what define her most warmly in the books. Ted is the reason she’s estranged from the Blacks, and Nymphadora’s presence in the Order and her friendship with people like the Weasleys and Remus Lupin creates a whole network around Andromeda. In 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows' Andromeda shows up at Shell Cottage and later becomes Teddy Lupin’s guardian after the Battle of Hogwarts; that grandmotherly bond is tender and canonical — she’s the family anchor for the next generation. Then there’s Sirius Black: he’s a cousin who shares her disgust for the worst parts of the family’s ideology, but both he and Andromeda suffer from family fracture and exile in different ways. There are also ties, quieter but meaningful, to people like Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Weasleys, Bill and Fleur — those friendships and alliances are part of what lets Andromeda live a decent life removed from pure-blood fanaticism. For me, her relationships are a small, compassionate counterpoint to the big, ugly loyalties in the series, and I always end up rooting for her steady, stubborn kindness.

Loads of folks ask whether the books follow the same canon as the games, and the short truth is: they don't line up perfectly. The trilogy—'The Silver Eyes', 'The Twisted Ones', and 'The Fourth Closet'—and the later 'Fazbear Frights' stories are written as their own continuity. You get familiar names and settings, but character motivations, timelines, and even some explanations for what the animatronics are and why they act the way they do can be very different. I love both versions for different reasons. The novels read like a horror-mystery with more focus on human characters and a neat, contained plot, while the games build lore through mechanics, minigames, and cryptic messages that encourage piecing together a sprawling timeline. Scott Cawthon has said the books are a separate continuity, and although the games sometimes borrow imagery or ideas from the novels, treating them as alternate-universe takes lets you enjoy both without getting frustrated by contradictions. Personally, I flip between them depending on whether I want suspenseful reading or puzzley, interactive lore hunting.

If someone pops into a conversation asking what kind of animal 'Arthur' is, I usually grin and say: he’s an aardvark. It’s neat because the character feels so familiar and friendly that people sometimes misidentify him — he looks a bit like a rabbit or a little bear at first glance — but Marc Brown based him on the aardvark from his picture book 'Arthur's Nose'. Over the years the design softened for TV, which is why kids think of him as cuddly rather than scaly or strange. The show and books turned that odd little long-snouted mammal into a totally relatable kid. In real life aardvarks have long snouts and love ants and termites; 'Arthur' keeps the snout as a visual nod but lives a life full of school, friendships, and feels that are universal. That anthropomorphic switch is part of why the series clicks: you get the novelty of animal characters with human social stories, and that makes certain lessons land with more charm. I still enjoy pointing out to new viewers that the choice of making Arthur an aardvark was a creative one and not random — it gave Marc Brown a playful visual hook and the writers a way to populate a whole neighborhood with distinct animal personalities. It’s one of those small creative decisions that keeps the show memorable, and honestly I love how it turned a relatively obscure creature into an instantly recognizable face from childhood.

If there's a single technique from 'Naruto' that always makes me geek out, it's Shinra Tensei — that almighty push is iconic. Canonically, Shinra Tensei is a Deva Path technique tied to the Rinnegan: it's the repulsive-force ability granted by the Deva Path. The clearest, most obvious user shown in the series is Nagato (the Pain bodies). He uses Shinra Tensei in multiple scales, from small repulsions to city-level devastation and even the large-scale move that ultimately destroys Konoha. Because Nagato operated through multiple corpses, the Deva Path was the body that demonstrated the technique for the whole group we call Pain. Beyond Nagato, the rule in canon is pretty straightforward: if you have a Rinnegan and can manifest the Deva Path, you can learn or use Shinra Tensei. That means other Rinnegan bearers — like Madara after gaining the Rinnegan, and even Hagoromo Ōtsutsuki in principle — have access to Deva Path abilities. However, not every Rinnegan user necessarily demonstrates Shinra Tensei on-screen: Sasuke's Rinnegan, for example, emphasizes space–time techniques (he favors Amenotejikara), and Obito never shows Shinra Tensei despite his power set. So in strict canon terms, Nagato is the main on-screen practitioner, while other Rinnegan owners can learn it if they manifest the Deva Path. Makes me admire how much personality gets baked into which Rinnegan powers characters actually use — pretty cool continuity detail.

Lately I've been chewing over why William's parentage sparks so many heated threads, and honestly it's a perfect storm of story design, character secrecy, and real-world adaptation choices. In 'Outlander' the situation is deliberately left fuzzy: the timing around conception, Claire's traumatic experiences, and the way characters choose to remember or withhold details creates room for doubt. When a narrative gives you just enough information to point in two directions but not enough to close the case, fans will happily fill in the gaps with plausible biology, motive-reading, and emotional need. People latch onto different kinds of clues — dates on letters, throwaway dialogue, physical descriptions — and interpret them through their favorite lens (romance, revenge, family drama). Beyond textual ambiguity, the debate is fueled by how important paternity is to character identity. If William is Jamie's biological son, that shifts the moral and emotional stakes of several scenes: reconciliation, jealousy, and legacy all land differently. If he's not, the questions become about survival, trauma, and who has the right to a name and inheritance. The show vs. book differences add another layer: casting, visual hints, and where a screenplay tightens or loosens a scene can amplify uncertainty. Fans who want closure push for one reading; those who appreciate moral complexity prefer the doubt. At the end of the day I think the fandom's obsession says more about how invested people are in the characters than about any single textual clue. I enjoy the detective-work and the heart behind each theory — it's part of why 'Outlander' still feels alive to discuss years later.

I've always been fascinated by how 'anyone else but you' AUs twist canon dynamics into something fresh yet oddly familiar. Take 'Attack on Titan'—Eren and Mikasa's bond is intense but often one-sided in canon. In these AUs, writers flip it: Mikasa might be the distant one, or their roles reverse entirely, with Eren as the protector. It forces you to re-examine their core connection through a new lens. Some fics even transplant the pairing into modern settings, stripping away titans but keeping the emotional weight. The best ones retain their canon tension—Eren's stubbornness, Mikasa's loyalty—but let it play out in coffee shops or college dorms. What makes these stories click is how they preserve the essence of the CP while bending the context. The emotional beats feel earned, not forced, because the writers dig into what originally made the pairing compelling.

I’ve spent way too much time diving into 'Cars' fanfiction, and the way fandom handles Lightning McQueen’s vulnerability is fascinating. Canon gives us glimpses—his pride, his fear of failure, especially in 'Cars 3'—but fanon cranks it up to eleven. Writers love exploring his emotional walls, how he struggles to admit weakness even to Sally. There’s this recurring theme of him fumbling with words, overcompensating with bravado when he’s actually terrified of losing her. One popular trope is him having nightmares about his crash in the first movie, and Sally waking him up. Canon would never linger on that, but fanfiction digs into how trauma shapes his relationships. Some fics even tie his vulnerability to Doc Hudson’s death, showing grief as the crack that lets love in. It’s way more nuanced than Disney’s kid-friendly approach, and honestly? I live for those late-night heart-to-hearts in fics where he finally stops pretending to be invincible.

slow-burn relationships is fascinating. They often pair him with unexpected characters, say Barry Allen or Slade, to explore trust and betrayal deeper than 'Arrow' ever did. The fics layer his guilt over Tommy's death with romantic tension, making his redemption arcs feel raw and personal. Some stories even flip his dynamics with Felicity, turning their tech banter into something darker, where love becomes a liability. I read one where Oliver's PTSD isn't just background noise; it fuels his connection with a reformed villain, blending action with heartbreaking vulnerability. The best works don’t just rehash fights—they make you question if canon ever really understood his pain.