FIC: Fallacies (PG-13)
Title: Fallacies
House Category: Slytherin
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Millicent Bulstrode
Author: dexstarr
Beta Reader(s): J.
Rating: PG-13
(Highlight to View) Warning(s): None.
Note: As usual, this wasn't the story I intended to write, but somehow it's what came out. This was supposed to be about the girls of Slytherin, but Millicent kept hijacking the story until I had to write her own. Also, HP and all assorted belong to JKR and are not mine.
Summary: There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. That's what the good guys say-Millicent Bulstrode sets the record straight.
All Death Eaters are Slytherins, so therefore, all Slytherins must be Death Eaters.
They still say that, even though the war is long over. For those of us who couldn't buy our reputations back, the war never really ended-we are still looked at as the scum that supported the Dark Lord. Just yesterday, someone sent me a Howler after seeing me at a Harpies game. And then my new intern 'accidentally' burnt the draft of my article, so I had to stay late to meet my deadline.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
All Death Eaters are Slytherins, so therefore, all Slytherins must be evil.
I am sick of hearing such fallacies, and yes-I know Muggle terminology. My mum was one. She taught me for the first eleven years of my life; I went to Hogwarts knowing more about 'vermin' than most of my housemates.
I am Millicent Bulstrode, Senior Quidditch correspondent for The Daily Prophet, and a Slytherin. I may have been out of Hogwarts for more years than I care to admit, but I will never quit being a Slytherin.
When I was eleven, my mum kissed me good-bye and said she would be proud of me no matter what house I ended up in. Father took me to Platform 93/4 and sent me off with a stern lecture. Slytherin was the only house he would accept for me, and if I was sorted anywhere else ... well, he never said exactly what would happen, but I spent the whole train ride terrified.
I know. You probably can't believe it. Me-ugly, trollish Millie-terrified? I was. I could barely walk up to the stool when it was my turn to be sorted, and looking back, I'm still not sure how I sat on the tiny chair without falling off.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life when the Hat screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" I wrote Father as soon as I could, and he sent me the signet ring that his father had given him after his sorting. It was too big at first, but I was wearing it by my second year. I haven't taken it off since. Signs of approval were rare from my father, especially as I grew older, so I suppose have quite a sentimental attachment to the first gift he ever gave me.
He also sent a note with the ring, telling me to make friends with the 'right sort' of girls. It was his way of encouraging me to become a proper pure-blood lady, even though it was obvious I would never be that. I was always more interested in Quidditch and fighting rather than new robe styles or how to wear my hair.
But I made an attempt, because I needed my father's approval, like a broom needs magic to fly. That's how I became part of Pansy's gang, the muscle to back up her nasty mouth. Malfoy, the prince of our house, had Crabbe and Goyle, but Pansy needed only me, and I was proud of that. Sure, there were other girls-the Greengrass sisters and the Carrow twins and even Davis-but I was Pansy's confidante. I was the one she always brought along as backup whenever she teased Potter or Granger, and I was the one she got a spot on the Inquisitorial Squad in our fifth year.
I also think she trusted me because she knew I would never tempt Malfoy, as the other girls in our house did. I was the ugly one, big and brawny even after puberty, more like Marcus Flint than a girl meant to be a socialite.
I even looked like Flint when I tried to dress up for the Yule Ball. In my purple, ruffled robes, I resembled a troll with curls, or so some brave little Ravenclaw said. She regretted that as soon as I stuffed her head down a toilet, but I knew it was true. No one asked me to dance, and I spent the whole night watching Pansy's purse while she danced with Malfoy.
I disappointed my father in that too. I took after my mum in every way, from her lank, black hair to her heavy bone structure. He blamed my appearance and interests on the mixing of blood, and to this day, I still don't know why he married her. Father was a pureblood, and his sisters-aunts I couldn't stand-were all delicate nymphs, with clouds of silky hair and tiny waists. I think he hoped I would turn out like them, given enough exposure to the 'right sort' of girls, but of course I didn't. After my mum died from cancer-another reminder of her Muggleness-he remarried, picking a pure-blood wife from a good family. He didn't want to risk any more mistakes like me.
I sound bitter, don't I? No hippogriff feathers about it-I am.
There were so many I was jealous of.
Pansy was one-her parents provided only the best for her, and she was the darling of our house. Every girl wanted to be her, and I was no exception. She would help me sometimes, when she was in a generous mood, with hair and make-up charms. But no amount of magic camouflage could change me. By fifth year, she had every boy in our house wanting her. Zabini and Nott looked at her like she was a siren in a skirt, and I knew no boy-or man-would ever look at me like that.
Granger was another-even though she was a Mudblood and as ugly as the wrong side of a dragon's arse. I didn't dislike her because of her blood-with my own impurity, that didn't matter to me. No, it was her brains that I wanted, because I always thought it was unfair that I was ugly and average in the intelligence department. And all the teachers-except for Professor Snape, thank Merlin-doted on her, since she was so bright and such a brown-noser. If an assignment called for five feet of parchment, she would turn in ten, and I would struggle to write four.
The Boy-Who-Lived, Harry fucking Potter-I was jealous of him too. He had no family yet everyone loved him. He could do no wrong, no matter what he did. If anyone else had tried half as much as Potter and his friends, they would have been in detention for a decade. But Potter always was the Gryffindor golden boy. He brought war to Hogwarts and was responsible for hundreds of deaths during the war, but all that was forgotten because he killed the Dark Lord.
At least I was never jealous of their sidekick, the ginger-haired Weasel. Sure, I'm no beauty, but who would want to look like a wormy carrot? And don't get me started on his Quidditch skills. A flobberworm would have made a better Keeper.
In Slytherin-the house I had originally only wanted to be in for my father's approval-I found my true home. During my seven years in its dungeons, I learnt to be ambitious, and how to ignore my own shortcomings. While I was never pretty or smart-two things that would have made my life considerably easier-I forged ahead anyway. I built my own reputation, until nobody messed with Millicent Bulstrode, because they knew I would beat their face in if they did. True, I wasn't as subtle as other Slytherins, but each of us had our own way, and brute force was mine.
Of course, my violent reputation didn't help me after the war. Unlike the Malfoys and the Zabinis and the Greengrasses, my family couldn't afford to buy our way out of trouble. Even though Father was never a Death Eater, he worked at the Ministry while the Dark Lord controlled it, which as good as condemned him.
Pansy did the same to our house, sentencing us all to suspicion when she tried to turn over Potter during the battle. It was one of the few times she acted without thinking, but I don't blame her. During seventh year, we made bets on who-or what-would finally kill Potter, but nobody expected him to show up at Hogwarts, alive and ready to declare war. Too bad I didn't think of that possibility-I could have used the Galleons.
At the start of every year, Professor Snape would come into the common room to address us. In our seventh year, instead of the usual lecture about pride and expectations, he talked about potential. I wonder if he knew how the year would end? He must have.
After the war, I clawed my way up the ranks at The Daily Prophet. Unlike Pansy or the snippy little Greengrass sister, there were no offers of marriage for me, so I had to make my own way. At first, I only knew one way-force-and that didn't get me far after I gave the wrong person a black eye. Eventually I got a little smarter and started to act more like the snake everyone expected me to be.
And wouldn't you know it-I succeeded.
It might have taken me a decade, but last month, I was named Senior Quidditch correspondent. I would never have gotten that far if I hadn't learnt in Slytherin how to win at all costs, and to do whatever was necessary to come out on top.
And while idiots still spit at me on the street because they think that all Slytherins are evil Death Eaters, well, I don't care.
I am proud to be a Slytherin.
House Category: Slytherin
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Millicent Bulstrode
Author: dexstarr
Beta Reader(s): J.
Rating: PG-13
(Highlight to View) Warning(s): None.
Note: As usual, this wasn't the story I intended to write, but somehow it's what came out. This was supposed to be about the girls of Slytherin, but Millicent kept hijacking the story until I had to write her own. Also, HP and all assorted belong to JKR and are not mine.
Summary: There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. That's what the good guys say-Millicent Bulstrode sets the record straight.
All Death Eaters are Slytherins, so therefore, all Slytherins must be Death Eaters.
They still say that, even though the war is long over. For those of us who couldn't buy our reputations back, the war never really ended-we are still looked at as the scum that supported the Dark Lord. Just yesterday, someone sent me a Howler after seeing me at a Harpies game. And then my new intern 'accidentally' burnt the draft of my article, so I had to stay late to meet my deadline.
But I am getting ahead of myself.
All Death Eaters are Slytherins, so therefore, all Slytherins must be evil.
I am sick of hearing such fallacies, and yes-I know Muggle terminology. My mum was one. She taught me for the first eleven years of my life; I went to Hogwarts knowing more about 'vermin' than most of my housemates.
I am Millicent Bulstrode, Senior Quidditch correspondent for The Daily Prophet, and a Slytherin. I may have been out of Hogwarts for more years than I care to admit, but I will never quit being a Slytherin.
When I was eleven, my mum kissed me good-bye and said she would be proud of me no matter what house I ended up in. Father took me to Platform 93/4 and sent me off with a stern lecture. Slytherin was the only house he would accept for me, and if I was sorted anywhere else ... well, he never said exactly what would happen, but I spent the whole train ride terrified.
I know. You probably can't believe it. Me-ugly, trollish Millie-terrified? I was. I could barely walk up to the stool when it was my turn to be sorted, and looking back, I'm still not sure how I sat on the tiny chair without falling off.
It was one of the proudest moments of my life when the Hat screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" I wrote Father as soon as I could, and he sent me the signet ring that his father had given him after his sorting. It was too big at first, but I was wearing it by my second year. I haven't taken it off since. Signs of approval were rare from my father, especially as I grew older, so I suppose have quite a sentimental attachment to the first gift he ever gave me.
He also sent a note with the ring, telling me to make friends with the 'right sort' of girls. It was his way of encouraging me to become a proper pure-blood lady, even though it was obvious I would never be that. I was always more interested in Quidditch and fighting rather than new robe styles or how to wear my hair.
But I made an attempt, because I needed my father's approval, like a broom needs magic to fly. That's how I became part of Pansy's gang, the muscle to back up her nasty mouth. Malfoy, the prince of our house, had Crabbe and Goyle, but Pansy needed only me, and I was proud of that. Sure, there were other girls-the Greengrass sisters and the Carrow twins and even Davis-but I was Pansy's confidante. I was the one she always brought along as backup whenever she teased Potter or Granger, and I was the one she got a spot on the Inquisitorial Squad in our fifth year.
I also think she trusted me because she knew I would never tempt Malfoy, as the other girls in our house did. I was the ugly one, big and brawny even after puberty, more like Marcus Flint than a girl meant to be a socialite.
I even looked like Flint when I tried to dress up for the Yule Ball. In my purple, ruffled robes, I resembled a troll with curls, or so some brave little Ravenclaw said. She regretted that as soon as I stuffed her head down a toilet, but I knew it was true. No one asked me to dance, and I spent the whole night watching Pansy's purse while she danced with Malfoy.
I disappointed my father in that too. I took after my mum in every way, from her lank, black hair to her heavy bone structure. He blamed my appearance and interests on the mixing of blood, and to this day, I still don't know why he married her. Father was a pureblood, and his sisters-aunts I couldn't stand-were all delicate nymphs, with clouds of silky hair and tiny waists. I think he hoped I would turn out like them, given enough exposure to the 'right sort' of girls, but of course I didn't. After my mum died from cancer-another reminder of her Muggleness-he remarried, picking a pure-blood wife from a good family. He didn't want to risk any more mistakes like me.
I sound bitter, don't I? No hippogriff feathers about it-I am.
There were so many I was jealous of.
Pansy was one-her parents provided only the best for her, and she was the darling of our house. Every girl wanted to be her, and I was no exception. She would help me sometimes, when she was in a generous mood, with hair and make-up charms. But no amount of magic camouflage could change me. By fifth year, she had every boy in our house wanting her. Zabini and Nott looked at her like she was a siren in a skirt, and I knew no boy-or man-would ever look at me like that.
Granger was another-even though she was a Mudblood and as ugly as the wrong side of a dragon's arse. I didn't dislike her because of her blood-with my own impurity, that didn't matter to me. No, it was her brains that I wanted, because I always thought it was unfair that I was ugly and average in the intelligence department. And all the teachers-except for Professor Snape, thank Merlin-doted on her, since she was so bright and such a brown-noser. If an assignment called for five feet of parchment, she would turn in ten, and I would struggle to write four.
The Boy-Who-Lived, Harry fucking Potter-I was jealous of him too. He had no family yet everyone loved him. He could do no wrong, no matter what he did. If anyone else had tried half as much as Potter and his friends, they would have been in detention for a decade. But Potter always was the Gryffindor golden boy. He brought war to Hogwarts and was responsible for hundreds of deaths during the war, but all that was forgotten because he killed the Dark Lord.
At least I was never jealous of their sidekick, the ginger-haired Weasel. Sure, I'm no beauty, but who would want to look like a wormy carrot? And don't get me started on his Quidditch skills. A flobberworm would have made a better Keeper.
In Slytherin-the house I had originally only wanted to be in for my father's approval-I found my true home. During my seven years in its dungeons, I learnt to be ambitious, and how to ignore my own shortcomings. While I was never pretty or smart-two things that would have made my life considerably easier-I forged ahead anyway. I built my own reputation, until nobody messed with Millicent Bulstrode, because they knew I would beat their face in if they did. True, I wasn't as subtle as other Slytherins, but each of us had our own way, and brute force was mine.
Of course, my violent reputation didn't help me after the war. Unlike the Malfoys and the Zabinis and the Greengrasses, my family couldn't afford to buy our way out of trouble. Even though Father was never a Death Eater, he worked at the Ministry while the Dark Lord controlled it, which as good as condemned him.
Pansy did the same to our house, sentencing us all to suspicion when she tried to turn over Potter during the battle. It was one of the few times she acted without thinking, but I don't blame her. During seventh year, we made bets on who-or what-would finally kill Potter, but nobody expected him to show up at Hogwarts, alive and ready to declare war. Too bad I didn't think of that possibility-I could have used the Galleons.
At the start of every year, Professor Snape would come into the common room to address us. In our seventh year, instead of the usual lecture about pride and expectations, he talked about potential. I wonder if he knew how the year would end? He must have.
After the war, I clawed my way up the ranks at The Daily Prophet. Unlike Pansy or the snippy little Greengrass sister, there were no offers of marriage for me, so I had to make my own way. At first, I only knew one way-force-and that didn't get me far after I gave the wrong person a black eye. Eventually I got a little smarter and started to act more like the snake everyone expected me to be.
And wouldn't you know it-I succeeded.
It might have taken me a decade, but last month, I was named Senior Quidditch correspondent. I would never have gotten that far if I hadn't learnt in Slytherin how to win at all costs, and to do whatever was necessary to come out on top.
And while idiots still spit at me on the street because they think that all Slytherins are evil Death Eaters, well, I don't care.
I am proud to be a Slytherin.