Mia Black loves many things. Renaissance paintings, the muggle movie Pulp Fiction (have you seen a narrative timeline so fucked up?)... and maybe George Weasley?
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four mia goes fourth
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FUCKIN' PRICK, MIA THINKS, as she weaves through the living room in Briar Crouch's house. The lights have been dimmed as a way to set the mood, but Mia doesn't know what this mood is supposed to be, considering in one corner, Briar's gossiping with three French girls, and in another, one of Mia's ex-boyfriends is talking to his friend, and he's staring at Mia the whole time. Fucking fantastic. Mia would rather go ginger than talk to that piece of shit.
"Hey, Mia..." She hears him say, but Mia walks away before she can hear what else he's got to say. Knowing him it'll be him mentioning Cedric, and somehow turning it into something about himself. That's what he's like. Which is a shame, because he is good looking, and he was nice... Or, at least, Mia didn't notice how full of himself he is, until they were a few kisses deep and she was pretty sure she fancied Cedric, anyway.
Mia gets herself another drink. What, there's no ginger on her shoulder, telling her, maybe you shouldn't have another, blah blah blah. And, anyway, she's fine. Just because she can't walk in a straight line doesn't mean she's dying. She isn't. Dying, that is. The worst that'll happen is that she'll feel like shit tomorrow. She feels like shit every day, anyway, so what's the difference?
Like, Merlin, she isn't going to get any sort of addiction. She's a teenager. She's drinking. It's not a big deal... Just because George fucking Weasley is judging her for it, and every other decision she's made in the weeks they've been forced to sleep under the same roof, doesn't mean she's terrible. Fucking hell.
And then that ex-boyfriend reappears, like a cold in the winter months. Like... Like a cold that doesn't just make you feel stuffy and tired for a week, but also, the kind of cold that leaves your nostrils stinging from the amount of snot dripping out of them, your lips chapped like it's never even thought of petroleum jelly. Like... Your head's so bunged up with your own mucus that you sort-of want to drown in a bowl of chicken soup. Like... Well, you get the gist.
