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Millicent discovered her Divination partner was in the D.A. graffiti corps when she caught Lavender defacing the Charms corridor.
“Looks like a deformed chicken,” Millicent scoffed at the crimson squiggles. The words, at least, were legible: We rise!
“It’s a phoenix.” Bruises from the Carrows enhanced Lavender’s air of injured dignity. “Well? Are you going to report me?”
“No,” Millicent said mildly. “You’ve not written your inches on pyromancy yet.”
“Of course.” Lavender turned away like she knew all she needed to about Slytherins.
Millicent stepped closer, savoring Lavender’s flinch. A stalemate crackled between them.
She wanted to tell Lavender she knew nothing. That Millicent needed good marks to prove a half-blood was worthy of the Slytherin name. That she was completely alone, shunned by her housemates and the rebels alike. That her tormentors were careful not to leave scars, so she couldn’t even wear them as badges of honor like the D.A. did.
Instead she whispered, “Quickly now. The patrol’s coming.”
Millicent left before Lavender could react. Gratitude and pity were as distasteful to her as they were useless. Her fate was not to be a phoenix rising. No, Millicent had always known she was the ash.