Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, - if I was, would I be wasting my time writing these? No. Uncle Vernon would be dead, Dudley'd be at one of those irritating world-renowned child psychiatrists you see on those ever present day time talk shows, Harry would have it so much easier, Ginny and Tom Riddle would be madly in love, and Hermione and Draco … maybe. I like Draco. I don't know why – I just do. I don't know. Remus and Sirius definitely, although … wait, all these lovely characters to be paired together!! Hmm … What else would happen? Lily Evans would … Eh, I dunno, but I am still rather partial to the Lily/Snape concept. Maybe it was Liz Barr's There Is No Such Place. Haha. Subliminal message: READ THAT STORY. It's … incredible. One of my absolute favorites.

Title: It Works Every Time

Author: arimel

Main Pairing: MB/DM

Side Parings: PP/DM, GW/HP, HG/RW, others.

Rating: PG-13 for now, I think it's going to remain that way, but it'll probably wind up rather dark. I might bump it up to R if I feel like it, but I don't know.

Genre: Drama / Angst

Summary: The Wizarding World is about to implode, and the silent Millicent Bulstrode, she of the striking troll resemblance, may just prove to be the grudging key to the survival of the Muggle Race, and the universe as a whole. MB - DM.

It Works Every Time

Prologue

Millicent Bulstrode did not talk in Transfiguration class that week, even to make excuses for her homework, which was, as it always was, unfinished. That bit that appeared to be finished also appeared to have been attacked by a furious chicken, cackling, pen in claw. Her handwriting was many things, and former teachers had used many adjectives in the past – beautiful, it was not. Scrawling, messy, unfinished, scratching, scribbling, next-to-impossible to decode …

As impossible as Millicent herself, Severus Snape had once thought, grading papers after a third-year class. He guessed that she had written 'asphodel' and had marked it correct, but she could, he admitted, as easily have written 'aspen' or 'asphyxiate' or even 'aphrodisiac,' and he would never have been able to tell the difference. Brilliant? No. Idiotic? No, though she chose to present herself that way at times. A bit of an enigma, she was, passively and not so passively aggressive, idealistic, sullen, insightful, cruel, just a little too far off-key. She was one of the strangest of his House; sometimes he really wondered what she was thinking beyond that stone face, those hard, glassy dark eyes. Could it be that she was more than they thought she was, that she knew what people were thinking and saying and chose to ignore it?

No, he decided, with finality. I'm trying to form her into genius, a talent, a diamond in the rough for me to discover and polish brilliantly. She isn't as nearly as complex as I am trying to make her. And he continued to grade, and she passed from his mind as easily as she did from everyone else's.

Back in the transfiguration classroom, fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins sat, scrawling endless pages of notes, as the professor continued with a dry lecture, which she had, with a little laugh, admitted to purposely making dry, to test study skills. Lectures, questions and answers, more lectures, practicals, more lectures … Every fifteen and sixteen year old in that classroom was close to going insane. O.W.L. reviews. They were torture.

… McGonagall, she had feared, might call on her, just to be the spiteful bitch that she was, but by Thursday she had relaxed. The stern-faced professor had not even glanced her way, instead focusing on her obnoxiously precious Hermione Granger, and why shouldn't she? It was important to pay the most attention to those sure of continuing the subject at N.E.W.T. level, and that would obviously be Granger, less obviously … almost everyone else. Millicent was neither a brilliant student nor a slow one, but rather average. Her spellwork was decent, though mediocre, and she was no disruption, either, unlike most of the Slytherins. After completing the classwork, she remained calmly in her chair and read silently for the ten to fifteen minutes until she was dismissed for the Slytherin haven that was Potions. She was a very quiet figure in class, always—never expressing her distaste for Gryffindors while the teacher was present, or at least, not loudly—and far from the typical problem child, except for the little issue of paying attention, rather than doing geometric designs all over graph paper for potions class; although looking back, that might have been best for her.

It is not a healthy mental situation for a person to spend their life being gazed right through, particularly for a young one, and at fifteen, Millicent was still but a lonely child, for all she did not look it.

It's far easier for us, as humans, to pay attention to the beautiful and interesting, the attractive things in life, and Millicent, being neither, was doubly damned. A large, plain girl, she was thrice so condemned for her belligerent personality, aggressiveness, and far from occasional impulses of vicious sarcasm. She was not the least likeable, Miss Millicent Bulstrode, and she was not the least liked. Feared, yes, for she had a great deal of potential, and almost respected, in a grudging sort of way, but liked? Hardly. Even those who bothered even off-handed examination found her unpleasant, though those closest to her understood a little. She just was, to them, and they thought that they could accept that.

What had begun as a mere case of severe mid-year boredom now became a strange obsession to her. Just how long could she continue her self-imposed ban on speech? Forever? It seemed eternity, or else, a very long time. It was not difficult to avoid doing so. If asked a question or spoken to, she would smile, or nod, or grimace… She would make an expression, but not say a word. It seemed like she was embarrassed, like she was shy. Like she was stupid, like she had not done the past night's reading, like she did not know the answer. Like she was nothing more than the troll she appeared, and it was generally a successful attempt. In fact, it may have been a little too successful. Millicent did not speak to another human being for the rest of fifth year.

And then summer came, and she went home, and abandoned the empty spirit of Hogwarts for the emptiness of home. The house was large enough to have held over a hundred family members, and had, at one point in time, but now?

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the Bulstrodes were a great clan, proud and wealthy. Wizarding nobility of the highest stature, they were on par with the Malfoy and Black families (Parkinson, one of the latest nouveau riche, hadn't even begun its ascent) with holdings spanning much of England, and there was much elsewhere. Now, after years of civil war throughout the wizarding world, they were only proud, no longer wealthy, or great. Along with their pride, only the barest remnants of their past remained, the ancestral home, unkept and wild, in ruins. It was lonely there, for it was alone without Millicent, nine and a half months out of the year.

Without company, yes, but no, it never was alone. The elder Bulstrodes, Millicent's parents, her grandparents, her great-great-great-great grandparents, up to the first of the Bulstrode clan in the ninth century, they were always there, twelve months out of every year, one hundred years out of every century, lying in most gracious state for millennia. Her parents' graves lay in the family cemetery, far in the back land, behind the manor, lying under the willow trees. Millicent used to visit them often, you know, as a child, at the age of nine or ten.

She used to visit all of them. She used to go and pluck daisies to put on their graves, and then talk to them, in that curiously confidential naivety of childhood, but she does not, does not ever anymore. She has not for years. She cannot.

The Ministry never interfered with her personal life; they never attempted to place her with a foster family of some sort, and for that, Millicent is thankful. Thank Merlin that some respect for the oldest and proudest of pureblood families still remains—they dare not remove her from her property, from her estate, for fear of protest. She has few friends in Slytherin, but even those who loathe her most would be more than glad to protect her, should the Ministry attempt any affront to her dignity.

She is a pureblood. Purebloods are above the law. Purebloods are the law.

The Ministry would never try to remove her.

Even the house elves had long since departed Bulstrode Park in search of greater employment in a healthier household, with more to do, with more people. Bulstrode Park was disintegrating before their very eyes. Now Millicent was the only person ever to go there, and even her acquaintances in Slytherin didn't know of what she did to keep herself occupied during the long, lonely, lazy days of June, July, and August. Read, they supposed, for she was always reading. And not just textbooks, or Witch Weekly, which were the juvenilia to be expected of a teenage witch, but…

Unsentimental and unromantic as she was, Millicent enjoyed poetry, Muggle as well as magic. It was an enigma to her dorm-mates, who couldn't comprehend how Millicent, their powerful, angry classmate, could possibly mellow so much when she spoke of that sort of thing. It made no sense, but some of them believed her occasional far-fetched philosophical whimsies to be just tension release, different from their methods, but the same in origin. Certainly more healthy than the other self-destructive mannerisms they had picked up over the years. It was, thought some, perhaps a better way to lose ones' self than not, and they might have been interesting to speak with her on occasion. Some would even have befriended her, truth be told. It was a pity that she never learned precisely what they thought, but Millicent, with all her complaints of never being heard, rarely ever listened.

Millicent would have been able to tell anyone about poetry, about its forms, the subtle art which lay behind it, for hours upon hours on end, but she refused to do so. It was pointless, worthless. No one would have listened to her, even if she tried. She knew this.

By the time seventh year rolled around, Millicent had not spoken to another human being for almost two years, and had hardly uttered a sound for over a year. She was nothing; she was no one even more than before. A plain girl who lived and breathed poetry, a future dark witch of indeterminate power and low intelligence. A terrifying troll, a mediocre student, a boring girl. Dull. Dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull.

So very dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have. She was dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have. She was dull. No wonder they wouldn't try to speak to her. She was dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have…

Perhaps they merely thought she was shy.

The thought amused her, but the amusement was a fleeting feeling.

It was with a heavy heart that Millicent traveled back to Hogwarts for her final year. She had figured that she would be once more the plain, silent outcast, and she was almost prepared for that. She had her sanctuaries, both mental and physical, she had herself, she had her mind. She would be alone, but she wouldn't need them. She was Millicent Bulstrode, ugly and dull, but she was herself, they couldn't take her away from herself, even if they tried. She had one more year to go, but once it was over, she could retire back to Bulstrode Park, live in isolation, and try to rebuild the Bulstrode name.

She could live alone, read poetry, try to rebuild herself and her clan. She'd be nothing, but oh – the Bulstrodes would be something again. She'd be revered for the dedication she put into restoring the family, for purebloods almost worshipped those dedicated to the family, to the status of being pure and good and wizardly. She'd be able to live her life and have her grave remembered.

There was one error in her calculations, however; and he was a big one.

She rose at nine o'clock in the morning on September the First, and was at King's Cross Station by eleven-thirty. Millicent was through Platform 9 ¾ and on the train by eleven-thirty-five, and found a seat quickly. She waited, not feeling up to reading, and watched the world go by. A certain first year had for a pet, neither an owl, cat, nor toad, but rather, a baby manticore for a pet, and was rather confused as to why people were screaming. A fifth year Ravenclaw that Millicent knew slightly was attempting to make out with his best friend's girlfriend, to the supreme disbelief of said best friend, who proceeded to wallop the other male, and one of the second years from Gryffindor was busy attempting to egg them on. Hermione Granger was, as could be expected, Head Girl, and Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff, Head Boy. Harry Potter, quidditch captain, Ron Weasley, prefect once more … It seemed the Dream Team was back for one last blow at glory…

Millicent could hardly wait. She was so looking forward to this.

It was now One-twenty-seven in the afternoon. Sitting in a train compartment with Blaise Zambini, Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Vincent Crabbe, listening to them discuss a house party Blaise had hosted over the summer, apparently a very good one, and one which she herself had not been invited to, Millicent proceeded to recite a poem, silently, in her head:

'This is the one song everyone

would like to learn: the song

that is irresistable:

the song that forces men

to leap overboard in squadrons

even though they see the beached skulls

the song nobody knows

because anyone who has heard it

is dead, and the others can't remember.

Shall I tell you the secret

and if I do, will you get me

out of this bird suit?

I don't enjoy it here

squatting on this island

looking picturesque and mythical

with these two feathery maniacs

I don't enjoy singing

this trio, fatal and valuable.

I will tell the secret to you,

to you, only to you.

Come closer. This song

is a cry for help: Help me!

Only you, only you can

you are unique

at last. Alas

it is a boring song

but it works every time.'

'Siren Song,' by Margaret Atwood. (I know nothing about her…. Sorry. I just thought that the poem was cool. Found it in one of those poetry anthologies they make you get for school.)

Author's Note: PLEASE review! You KNOW that you really want to…. Come on, press the bluish-grayish-whateverish button right underneath this. Make my day! Please?

-arimel