Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling. I wish, because it'd be absolutely awesome if say, Neville wound up being the savior of Harry Potter Universe (TM), but ... Yeah. I'm not her.
Title: It Works Every Time
Author: arimel
Main Pairing: MB/DM
Side Parings: PP/DM, GW/HP, HG/RW, possible slash, and likely pairings all over the place.
Rating: PG-13 for now, I think it's going to remain that way, but it'll probably wind up rather dark.
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
Chapter One
"The Only Sin is Mediocrity" – Martha Graham.
He looked at her as if she was a goddess, and maybe Pansy Parkinson was, now. She'd gone through a pretty wretched adolescence, but emerged with a certain sense of prettiness that surprised even her family. It must have taken some god-like qualities to transform her into … this. She wasn't classically beautiful, by any stretch of the words, but she had the sort of beauty one imagined that Helen of Troy might have had - odd, intense, unforgettable - but of course, in at a much smaller scale. She was short - only about five foot one, or five foot two, and mildly plump, with the sort of figure that Raphael might have painted, but her eyes were large and dark, very expressive, and somehow, the overall affect was sleek, polished, well-cared for. It was quite impressive, considering how she used to be. Professor Snape had, in her last evaluation home, said that she was 'growing to be a lovely young lady – beautiful as well as intelligent, and a joy to Slytherin House.'
He looked at Blaise Zambini as if she were a temptress, seductive and worldly; Hannah Abbott appeared as an attractively wholesome girl next door, the stereotypical Muggle cheerleader adored by the football captain. He made Parvati and Padma Patil feel like he saw them both as separate, different, beautiful young women, and they both greatly liked the attention, and the separate identities. People so often treated them as one half of the same being, and at eighteen, they were so tired of it. In truth, they had spent years attempting to be different – they had both asked the Sorting Hat not to be in the same house, and while Padma had thrown herself into Transfiguration study with the ease of a child prodigy, and Parvati had almost abandoned schoolwork for divination, so many, so many that they knew still regarded them as one being. Draco Malfoy was successful, because he acknowledged easily, without difficulty, Parvati Patil and Padma Patil without making any sort of excessive connection between.
He even looked at Hermione Granger with appreciation, and made two or three tentative gestures, before she looked down her thinly framed glasses at him with that confident, self-assured intellectual boredom regarding the entire male species, and asked him if he would please, go away, she was busy right now. But even she couldn't quite say that she didn't like his attention, though - he was mildly attractive, she had to admit, he had gained some sense of manners between before last year, and he was certainly, most certainly, a charmer. Even she began to warm at him when they spoke in NEWT Potions, idly chatting about scientific method, and the results of their latest experiments. They were both bright and young and beautiful. Was there any reason they should not be friends?
He smiled at them, these girls/women; he touched them, not inappropriately, but on the arm, or shoulder or cheek; he caressed them in casual, oddly intimate ways. He brought them simple, slight, perfect gifts of a book that he'd had for some time, and thought that they'd enjoy, or flowers he had found, or little bits of jewelry that he assured them he had had for ages, and thought would suit them. He talked to them, and seemed utterly fascinated by anything and everything they said. Perhaps it wasn't that he seemed fascinated, but that he was - he was fascinated by women, by everything about them. They were Other - they were different, and completely captivating.
Draco Malfoy loved women. Strangely enough, he wasn't particularly promiscuous - no more than the typical seventeen or eighteen year old male Slytherin, anyway - but he was a flirt, and acknowledged the fact, even to himself, surprisingly enough. It was a quite un-Slytherin-like thing to do, but most people did not seem to notice.
Millicent did, but that was only because she watched him. Sometimes, it felt like she was stalking him, but she tended to ignore those feelings, to let them go away. Draco was handsome, but that wasn't why she paid such great attention to him; he was charming in manner, but she could have blatantly ignored that too. It was just simply that there was something weird about him – something very weird about him that she couldn't quite determine. He wasn't quite like everyone else.
They'd been pals as kids, but slowly moved away, like so many other childhood friends. Once upon a time, back when the Bulstrode clan had been wealthy, even a betrothal had been considered, but nothing had come out of it, and Millicent was glad, now. (As was Draco. Most assuredly. He would have shuddered at the thought.)
As kids, they'd romped about the various estates: all of the Pureblood scions had. Millicent could recall, though only vaguely now, her birthday party at the age of five, with Pansy, Draco, Blaise Zambini, Crabbe (but not Goyle – they hadn't been terribly wealthy then), even the Patil sisters, Rebecca Wright (Ravenclaw – graduated last year), and so many others. Rich, young, pureblood. It was perfect for all of them.
Pansy had lucked out. Millicent hadn't.
When they were a couple of years younger, and Millicent had been a couple thousand times more interested in the making of friends, they had been. Both. Friends, I mean, but plain, as well. Neither had been particularly brilliant, though Millicent had a bit of a knack for potions, and neither particularly attractive, although Pansy had had the assurance of good genetics on her side, and parents who would be willing to pay to fix her face, if necessary – and Millicent hadn't. They'd bonded their first year, though they'd always been friends growing up, mainly because they both had nothing interesting about them. Millicent was dull, poor, and unattractive, while Pansy was dull, rich, and unattractive, and this made no difference at first, and then all of the difference in the world.
Millicent still smarted a bit from that. Pansy had had such potential – why did she feel the need to turn into such a bitch?
Millicent didn't care about her anymore.
It still hurt.
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N.E.W.T. Potions, right before lunch. Millicent wasn't in it. She should have been.
Instead, Millicent was hiding in her dorm, reading a bit of Keats, and trying to pretend that she didn't exist. She had wanted to take Potions this year; she had wanted to take that class unlike any other she had ever taken. She wasn't taking it, and it wasn't because her grades weren't good enough – Snape never took daily grades, only tests and quizzes, exams, and she'd done quite well on those – but he'd sent her a short note before breakfast:
Miss Bulstrode – I have received a notice of your elected participation in N.E.W.T.-level Potions class, and I am looking forward to working with you. However, due to new Ministry standards, I am now required to have oral examinations as well as written ones, and I am well aware of your obvious reluctance to do so. Please speak with me as quickly as possible.. Send a reply.
He'd signed his name with great flourishes and loops, and written it in green pen (a little school spirit, Snape?) and Millicent wasn't going to reply. God damn it, and God damn him. She was not going to do oral examinations, N.E.W.T. Potions class or no N.E.W.T. Potions class. Damn the Ministry. She felt almost as if she were about to begin to froth at the mouth, and she wondered if she should warn people of rabies. Maybe it would make them stay away.
Millicent flopped over onto her stomach, and felt as if she were about to scream. She did, muffling her face into a pillow, but it was pointless, because no sound came out. It was a silent sort of scream, but she could hear the air emerging from her throat – a gasping, choking, wheezing sort of silent scream. She wasn't crying, though. She was tired of tears.
She didn't know where to go from here.
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Millicent cut her third period transfigurations class, and figured that while, yes, McGonagall would probably try to hunt her down, no, McGonagall would not be able to do so, and besides, the class was worthless. It was like, Senior Year Transfigurations for Dummies class, Rocks for Jocks (though there weren't any athletes in the class), and she could practically hear McGonagall's teeth grind every time she tried to lecture, and finished fifteen minutes early, screeching at them to silently read the rest of the chapter, as they were clearly incapable of taking notes. The class sucked; the teacher sucked; her grades sucked; it all sucked.
It sucked having a teacher who thought you were an uneducable moron, who looked down her nose at you. It sucked being made to feel like an uneducable moron, especially when she wasn't, dammit It sucked having a vocabulary so sucky the only adjective (verb?) she could use was 'suck.'
Millicent didn't believe herself to be brilliant by any means, or even particularly intelligent, but she was quite self-aware, and she recognized that. She was offended by McGonagall's presumption that she, Millicent Bulstrode, had the intelligence of a particularly unintelligent wombat, but she didn't honestly care to correct this misconception. The class was worthless. McGonagall was worthless. Christ, this all sucked.
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Millicent skipped dinner that night, and, stealing one of Pansy Parkinson's contraband Muggle diet sodas, went outside onto the field by the side of school to think. There was a torch above her, so that she could see, and she'd brought a book – The Unbearable Lightness of Being. God, she needed to get over these Muggle-literature kicks. The rest of her dorm mates were getting quite wary.
All of them had some sort of Muggle fancy, of course – Pansy Parkinson's diet sodas and fashion magazines, Blaise Zambini's Dior lipsticks and fascination with mechanical pencils, Draco with his (and his father's) gun collection, Crabbe and Goyle, who as young children, had been obsessed with the game of football, and rooted for Manchester (Millicent thought they fit in there quite well – the thugs) – but it wasn't proper to discuss it aloud. Every pureblood-witch or –wizard enjoyed these, but talking was rude. Muggles were good to keep in silence, were often cute playmates for the littles, but it wasn't proper to talk about it in public, except among themselves. Muggles were Muggles, and witches and wizards were exactly that, and ne'er the two should mix … except when they did.
Millicent remembered how she'd had one of those little buddies when she was a midget – her name had been Karen, she thought, Karen Alig, and she wondered, what's happened to Karen Alig now? –but she didn't really think about that playmate anymore. Pansy had, too – some kid, she couldn't remember the name, strawberry blond hair, he'd come to her house before. Most, if not all of them had. There weren't enough purebloods around to be completely segregated in choice of playmates, and besides, most pureblood adults believed that it was very important to teach their children how they were superior.
One must be around with one's inferiors at times, Millicent remembered Narcissa Malfoy lecturing, at one of those pureblood 'playgroups', it is a responsibility to act properly and politely. Of course, they are not worthy of being our constant companions, are they children? But of course, we will be forced to entertain … Mudbloods…. and Muggles at some point in our lives, will we not?
It was so important to regard them as inferior, but to be polite. So important.
Millicent didn't regard Muggles and Mudbloods as being revolting – she regarded them with pity. Poor little Muggles—trapped in their silly little world to do silly little things before they die. What must it be like not to have magic?
Most purebloods (and halfbloods, truth be told) regarded Muggles the same way, and Mudbloods, by extention. It hadn't been until about forty, almost fifty years ago that they'd done away with calling them Mudbloods on official papers; officially, the term did not exist any more. It was 'Muggle-born' and that was to be that. Millicent scoffed at the idea.
Hermione Granger wasn't a 'Muggle-born' witch. She was a Mudblood. Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood. The term didn't mean anything rude. Well, maybe it does, but it's what they are. Millicent didn't believe in this newfangled 'political correctness' –it was no longer Pureblood and Halfblood and Mudblood officially. It was 'Magic-born Wizard' and 'Mixed-Parent Wizard' and 'Muggle-born Wizard.'
What if they're just Mudbloods? Honestly.
Millicent took a large gulp from her soda, and closed her book. She wasn't reading, anyway, just trying to think.
She was glad that she hadn't gone to dinner. It was always so awkward, what with most of her house ignoring her, and Pansy Parkinson occasionally attempting conversation in order to seem nice, despite receiving only grunts in return. It was so awkward walking in and getting the quick look-over by the Gryffindors, and some others; it was so awkward, so awkward.
Millicent was ugly, but she wasn't stupid. She saw the side-glances, and heard the comments, and they made her somewhat angry. Stupid, stupid, stupid people. Always trying to stick your noses in someone else's business, aren't you.
It was nice to be alone, sometimes, alone from Slytherin House and Professor Snape's occasional interferences and Pansy Parkinson's ersatz likeability, and—and—and—
All of that. All of it.
It was so nice to be alone.
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Four classes a day; five days a week, and her core classes were two or three times a week, and some electives only once.
Monday and Wednesday, first period – she had Practical Charms for Life Use
Tuesday and Thursday, first period – Ancient Runes Advanced. It was like silent study hall, and she was good with silence. Turn in a paper of what's been translated once a week – hurrah! It was her one mildly honorific class—she took with Terry Boot, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Justin Finch-Fletchy, and all the other geniuses about campus. Silence is golden.
Friday, first period – Free period.Sleep? Senior Somnia.
Monday and Wednesday, second period – Theoretical Defense Against the Dark Arts (and any sort of knowledge whatsoever – this was Stupid-Stupid DADA, which meant that they were afraid to let the geniuses inside use their wands for anything)
Tuesday and Thursday, second period – ought to have had N.E.W.T. Potions, instead, appeared to be enrolled in Senior Honors Potions Course for Those Who Want an Honors on their Graduation Certificate but cannot Hack it in the Actually Difficult Course, Thus, are Enrolled Here. Snape, obviously. He was a saint for teaching this—Millicent supposed that she would have winged the students about five minutes into the first class. He was saintly, but it was morbidly dull.
Friday, second period – Divination for Dummies. Her favorite class. It meant she could sleep until lunch.
Monday, Wednesday, third period – Senior Herbology. Hateful class. She was terrified that she'd kill something.
Tuesday, Thursday, third period – Senior Transfiguration for Jocks and the other mentally impaired.
Friday, third period – Arithmancy for those with less than ten fingers. It was like a Muggle math course, only, easier. Simplicity at its finest. Agony, indeed.
Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, fourth period – Free Period..
Wednesday and Friday, fourth period – Modern European History of Magic.
Her schedule was almost as bad as her life.
Millicent glanced over this, her final copy, her final year. All of these stupid, stupid classes for stupid, stupid people—hadn't she been quite bright, once? All of that early promise, and it seemed to slip away, year by year. She'd taught herself to read at age three, and was a voracious reader by age seven; she'd done early maths with joy and happiness; she'd been bright as a pin, sharp as a tack, very clever.
And where had it gotten her? A stupid girl in stupid classes doing stupid things for stupid reasons that even she, in all her stupidity, could not understand.
What had happened to her life? This wasn't what she'd expected as a small girl. Her life was like that wedding ring, in that poem. All right, that's a lousy metaphor, but what the hell…
My wedding-ring lies in a basket
as if at the bottom of a well.
Nothing will come to fish it back up
and onto my finger again.
It lies
among keys to abandoned houses,
nails waiting to be needed and hammered
into some wall,
telephone numbers with no names attached,
idle paperclips.
It can't be given away
for fear of bringing ill-luck.
It can't be sold
for the marriage was good in its own
time, though that time is gone.
Could some artificer
beat into it bright stones, transform it
into a dazzling circlet no one could take
for solemn betrothal or to make promises
living will not let them keep? Change it
into a simple gift I could give in friendship?
Millicent wasn't in love. Pity.
She had no fulfillment here, either. Maybe it'd be best if she found someone who wanted a wife and settled down to raise ugly children in a suburban home. She couldn't be anyone anymore, but they could.
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Millicent had become preoccupied with love.
She didn't want to be in love herself (she'd gotten over previous mania) but as she sat in her first period class on Thursday, in mid-September, she wondered. Ancient Runes Advanced, and she didn't glance at her seatmate, Gwen Harwood, some genius Ravenclaw fifth-year.
Instead, she watched Draco Malfoy and Adrienne Rich, quietly flirting at the side of the classroom. Adrienne was pretty, dark-haired, lovely. Hufflepuff. Stupid. But not unintelligent.
She was another one of those bright girls who didn't notice what was in front of her—that Draco Malfoy wasn't a bad type, but that he didn't care about her personally, that he didn't care about anyone personally. That he only cared about himself, and women.
Perhaps she was wrong, and wronging him, but Millicent doubted it. She thought that she was right. Malfoy had to be uninterested in these girls; Millicent needed him to be.
She wasn't in love with him, or in lust with him, or in like with him.
Millicent needed proof of common humanity. She couldn't be the only one frozen, the only one who felt so empty, so different, so solitary.
Solitude
stands by the window
She turns her head as I walk in the room
I can see by her eyes she's been waiting
Standing in the slant of the late afternoon
And she
turns to me with her hand extended
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame
Solitude
stands in the doorway
And I'm struck once again by her black silhouette
By her long cool stare and her silence
I suddenly remember each time we've met
And she
turns to me with her hand extended
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame
And she
says "I've come to set a twisted thing straight"
And she says "I've come to lighten this dark heart"
And she takes my wrist, I feel her imprint of fear
And I say "I've never thought of finding you
here"
I turn to
the crowd as they're watching
They're sitting all together in the dark in the warm
I wanted to be in there among them
I see how their eyes are gathered into one
And then
she turns to me with her hand extended
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame
And she
says "I've come to set a twisted thing straight"
And she says "I've come to lighten this dark heart"
And she takes my wrist, I feel her imprint of fear
And I say "I've never thought of finding you
here"
Well, Millicent thought, I never thought of finding you here, either.
She stared at Draco Malfoy, and at Adrienne Rich. She wasn't in love with him, and she wasn't in love with her. She was in love with love.
She didn't want someone to care.
She wanted something to do. She needed a hobby. She needed a dream.
Millicent, she addressed to herself, before turning back to her Runes, you really need a plan, don't you? Where're you going from here?
She looked up from her paper once more, but she gazed at the wall blankly, thinking. She needed to find something to do before she slit her wrists in annoyance. Something to do, and she wanted to find it fast. She couldn't stay in stasis forever.
Millicent didn't even want to whisper, but times like these, she felt like screaming.
I wonder what would happen if I did scream. Would they turn around?
You really need a plan, don't you?
Where're you going from here?
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Poem 1: 'Wedding-Ring' by Denise Levertov. Written in 1978.
Poem 2: Excerpt from 'Solitude Standing' by Suzanne Vega. Indie artist – this song's on the album also entitled 'Solitude Standing.' Couple of very morbid songs on there: Tom's Diner, Luka, Solitude Standing and Calypso, mainly, but SS and Tom's Diner give me the shivers.
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Alianora of Toure-on-Marsh: Ahh, Tessa, m'dear. Ask, and ye shall receive. Here you go!
Faerelei-GwilwilethAww, thank you. J'adore your name – gorgeous. Thanks for commenting!
LarzdinnAch, don't you hate that? It's almost impossible to be original nowadays with fanfic. Thanks so much for replying to moi (and I enjoy your story as well, actually – looked it up!)
EvilstrawberryThanks for replying, dahlink!
Catgrl52" Lizgib, dear – thanks for review; j'adore, and I fixed my spacing, k?
DarcelThank you! (For all of your million million zillion reviews.) You're quite kind.
CatspookWhy, thank you! I've read several of your fics, and they're quite well done. I appreciate the feedback.
Fan: Hmm … Well, you see, my idea is that she's not completely silent. She just grunts, or makes noises that sound like she's just not interested in conversation with anyone else. You know, like that. Thanks for reviewing!