This is written for the Winter Challenge of The Houses Competition. Specifically, the Character Challenge: Dolores Umbridge. I made Dolores ten years old for this glimpse into her childhood.
A/N: Doesn't Dolores have OCD? I was thinking about that, and I was like "why don't I write about that?" so I did. I upset myself, writing this. I feel bad for Umbridge now. I sort of creeped myself out writing it too. Like, anyone else want to take a shower now? xD
Word count: 475
Warnings: OCD, mudblood/half-breed hating, and implied verbal abuse
Disclaimer: I am not making any profit by writing this, it is purely to keep myself amused. I do not own Warner Bros. and I am not JK Rowling. This is just fanfiction, people.
~Blue Rose
Dolores was curled up on her bed, tears falling down her face. Her hair was still covered in goo. The makeup she had so carefully applied was smearing, and it would stain her pillowcase, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Her heart was broken.
She had been over the moon when she'd been asked out on a date by her crush. Of course, she got dressed up in her best pink dress, put on her lip-gloss and even tried her hand at mascara and eyeliner. Her father had been worried that ten years old was too young for dating, but she had assured him that she was a mature young lady.
She curled her brown hair and pinned the cutest hair clip in it, to keep it neat and proper. She had put on her shiniest pink shoes to match her pink skirt and white blouse. She had grabbed her most practical purse—one with a strap that would sit nicely on her shoulder—and made her way to the park where her date was waiting. After, of course, she said goodbye to her father and promised that there would be no kissing.
She couldn't believe that she'd been so stupid. She was so ugly and nobody would ever love her. Her crush had laughed at her. He'd tricked her into thinking he actually liked her, and then dumped something smelly all over her head. His friends had been there to take a picture.
She'd never been so humiliated in her life, or so hurt and angry. She ran back to her house and didn't stop to tell her father anything. She smelled gross, and that would make her father angry. She didn't want him to yell at her again.
She couldn't bring herself to get out of bed and wash away the goo. It was a reminder that Dolores Jane Umbridge could be better than half-breeds and mudbloods, but she wasn't any cleaner. She was so dirty and it made her cry harder.
She jumped out of bed, rushing into the bathroom so she could clean herself. She would be clean, because half-breeds and mudbloods weren't sanitary. She would be better than them. She would never be filthy again. She wouldn't be lesser.
She was scrubbing her skin so hard that it hurt, and her hands were red and puffy, but it didn't matter. She had to be clean. Her father wouldn't know that she had cried, or let some boy get under her skin.
She shivered at that thought and quickly tried to dispel it from her mind, but it kept repeating in her head. Under my skin, under my skin, under my skin . . .
She tried to take deep breaths, to calm her rapidly beating heart, but her flesh felt so itchy and it was like something was inside of her and—
She broke.