She dreams at night. It is, she knows, quite typical to dream, but she thinks that maybe her dreams are different than the norm. She hears the other girls talking, giggling over boys or groaning about teachers. She sees them casting beauty charms to catch the eye of some Quidditch-obsessed teenager. She smells spilt ink and parchment mingling with perfume as homework is shoved aside for clandestine evening meetings. She feels - or could, at any rate, if she so chose - the soft satin and velvet and lace they put on under their plain, heavy robes. She sees them, plain little girls playing dress-up and house, dreaming of their One True Loves and fucking anyone who's willing.
She has little to do with their dreams. She knows she isn't like them; no pretty Lavender or Angelina, no exotic Cho Chang or Parvati Patil. She is not exotic or pretty or even particularly attractive at all, and she knows it well. She is aware that they laugh at her behind her back and to her face. She has few redeeming qualities to them. She is not smart enough to help them with their schoolwork, not brave enough to try anything truly daring, and certainly not loyal enough to defend them against others. She has only the cunning and ambition of her house, and few of them have any use for others' ambition. They have no use for her at all, in fact, and mock her. "Millicent is an ugly name for an ugly girl," they say, and "Milly's so ugly she couldn't even get a stupid troll like Flint."
She puts up with their mockery because she knows they cannot stop her dreams. She even lets them sneer; it makes little difference to her what they think of her, and they leave her alone. She is quite certain she's one of the few Slytherins to know an Anti-Beauty Charm. She learned it through hard work and practice and, finally, a few hours' sequestered meeting with Hermione Granger. Sequestered, because her housemates would have mocked her for socializing with a dirty Mudblood. They wouldn't have guessed at the reasons she acts; couldn't understand the logic behind pretending to a schoolgirl crush on Marcus Flint.
She is smarter than she lets them know. They see her laboring for hours over parchments; they don't know that she finishes her essays quickly, then writes for hours on end. They don't know that the big, clumsy girl has a poet's touch. They couldn't believe, if they knew, that she avoids the boys because she chooses to. They would not understand the impetus behind being ignored; they do not know that the glances they perceive as jealous are actually full of scorn. They know she watches them, and assume she wishes she could be like them. They would not believe that she writes of them, of vanity and shallow friendships and petty jealousy, and dreams of a day when she will be able to show the world what they are like. Their idea of a good writer is Rita Skeeter; she dreams of being published, respected, and liked.
She pretends, during the day, to be the girl they want her to be. She acts oafish, cruel, and jealous; she takes pains to be as unattractive as she can. In sunlight, she is the Millicent they expect. She dreams at night.
She has little to do with their dreams. She knows she isn't like them; no pretty Lavender or Angelina, no exotic Cho Chang or Parvati Patil. She is not exotic or pretty or even particularly attractive at all, and she knows it well. She is aware that they laugh at her behind her back and to her face. She has few redeeming qualities to them. She is not smart enough to help them with their schoolwork, not brave enough to try anything truly daring, and certainly not loyal enough to defend them against others. She has only the cunning and ambition of her house, and few of them have any use for others' ambition. They have no use for her at all, in fact, and mock her. "Millicent is an ugly name for an ugly girl," they say, and "Milly's so ugly she couldn't even get a stupid troll like Flint."
She puts up with their mockery because she knows they cannot stop her dreams. She even lets them sneer; it makes little difference to her what they think of her, and they leave her alone. She is quite certain she's one of the few Slytherins to know an Anti-Beauty Charm. She learned it through hard work and practice and, finally, a few hours' sequestered meeting with Hermione Granger. Sequestered, because her housemates would have mocked her for socializing with a dirty Mudblood. They wouldn't have guessed at the reasons she acts; couldn't understand the logic behind pretending to a schoolgirl crush on Marcus Flint.
She is smarter than she lets them know. They see her laboring for hours over parchments; they don't know that she finishes her essays quickly, then writes for hours on end. They don't know that the big, clumsy girl has a poet's touch. They couldn't believe, if they knew, that she avoids the boys because she chooses to. They would not understand the impetus behind being ignored; they do not know that the glances they perceive as jealous are actually full of scorn. They know she watches them, and assume she wishes she could be like them. They would not believe that she writes of them, of vanity and shallow friendships and petty jealousy, and dreams of a day when she will be able to show the world what they are like. Their idea of a good writer is Rita Skeeter; she dreams of being published, respected, and liked.
She pretends, during the day, to be the girl they want her to be. She acts oafish, cruel, and jealous; she takes pains to be as unattractive as she can. In sunlight, she is the Millicent they expect. She dreams at night.