Mischief Managed Y2 Part 2: The Truth of the Tournament

Chapter 1/2: Damn Feelings

AN: This is an extra chapter due to the voting opportunity in the last book. The actual start to Year 2 Part 2 is the following chapter. 

TW: Drinking

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Patricia slammed her bottle of Beetle Berry Whiskey down on the bedside table. The burgundy bottle still had shredded evidence of the sticky label on it which Patricia had scraped off in case one of her roommates entered. Not that anyone within a few-foot radius of her could miss the smell of the strong alcoholic beverage that she had been consuming steadily for the past hour. Patricia stumbled over to the window, forcing it open with a great deal more of a struggle than it usually took her. Looking down over the grounds she caught a glimpse of a couple walking with their arms entwined.

DAMMIT!

Last night had been a shite show with a reprieve of mild interest when Dumbledore announced someone had been hurt because of the Whomping Willow. Patricia knew she should have skipped the whole thing but part of her had hoped she could rise above her predicament. Sure, going with the smooth talker passably cute guy from, Braesalts or whatever they were called, had been pleasant enough. But it hadn't stopped her eyes from following a certain person across the dance floor slowly swaying with someone that she desperately wished had been her. Thinking about that person caused Patricia to decide against stopping her methodical draining of the powerful liquid. Rather, for good measure of obliterating any thought of last night and of 'that person' in particular, she decided to drink more. Patricia took another swig, enjoying the tingly burning sensation down her throat that had become almost as addictive to her as the effects of the alcohol itself.

Please stop it. You'll kill yourself drinking like that.

She ignored the voice in her head, knowing exactly who it sounded like and refusing to give any more thought to 'that person'.

Unlovable. Unladylike. Undignified.

"Well fuck you, grandpa," she screamed, smashing the bottle that unfortunately had still been in her hand onto the floor. Luckily she had enchanted the damn thing. She knew herself well enough not to take chances. She was not about to waste a drop of the precious liquid that she personally believed to be her only hope of dulling the throbbing pain in her chest. Not only had the dance been a scummy shite show, but before the dance had been downright depressing. Something inside her cold dead heart sparked upon remembering the helpless look on little Lupin's face. He was normally so put together and the dark look in his eyes had reminded her far too much of a much smaller version of herself burning mounds of letters from her backstabbing mum who she hadn't seen since.

"Throwing yourself a pity party again," came the snooty voice of Charleen.

"You would know all about pity parties, wouldn't you?" Patricia shot back, feeling proud of herself as Charleen turned an ugly puce colour and crossed her arms over her chest, the girls' perfectly manicured nails sparkling with an obnoxious amount of glitter on them.

"I just came to tell you that Amelia's worried about you. If you don't quit drinking all of us are going to tell." Charleen tsked, wrinkling her nose and keeping a good deal of distance between them. Patricia stared down at Charleen who thought she was a badass but was about as much of a faker as they came. Patricia disliked Charleen. Well, she disliked most of her roommates.

Come to think of it she disliked most people...

"If you do that then Professor Flitch will be finding out about how you cheated off of that Stewart boy during charms," Patricia said calmly, looking at her bitten-down nails as if they were as polished and pretty as Charleen's. Her sassy roommate predictably stomped her foot in response. The two of them had been in a similar situation multiple times.