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CHAPTER THREE SISTERS OVER MISTERS (OR NOT!)
IT WAS NO SECRET THAT WHEN IT CAME TO NINETY-NINE PERCENT OF THINGS, MARE LACKED MOTIVATION. She'd never felt like putting in the effort for schoolwork or trying to maintain her "pureblood reputation" ('cause apparently that's extremely important to her mother). But seriously, why put effort into something that wasn't that important to her or her daily life? Most people would say that is a poor outlook to have in life—that it wouldn't get her very far and maybe that was true but Mare liked to think very short-sightedly so, did she care? No, not particularly.
If Mare wasn't even motivated to try in her NEWTs, was anyone surprised that she wasn't even motivated to wake up in the morning? It's not like she had day-long quidditch training sessions to look forward to anymore.
"Jesus Christ, Mare, you're going to miss breakfast at this rate," someone was saying as they repeatedly bashed her over the head with a pillow. She hoped that if she ignored them long enough, they'd eventually go away and she could go back to her very enjoyable (slightly erotic) dream. Suddenly, the person tore her blankets away and she let out a surprised yelp. "Good, you're awake," Bea said sweetly, tossing a hairbrush at her sister.
Mare grumbles, "what time is it?" Honestly, forcing students to pay attention to classes before midday had to be a form of child abuse. (Then again, it was Hogwarts, half the shit that went down here was probably actually child abuse.)
Bea, who was standing in front of the mirror doing her tie up, scoffed at her. "It's eight, you got an hour before classes start," she tells her before picking up her bookbag and heading for the door. She stops when she hears Mare groan again and roll onto her stomach to block out the light. "I'm not leaving 'til I see you out of bed."
Mare groaned for a third time before sliding (not-so-gracefully) out of her four-poster bed and onto the floor. "Happy?" She asks bitterly, crossing her arms. Her eyes were focused on her socks, big toe sticking out a hole. Wearing socks in that state felt like her own private act of defiance against her mother, who'd go ballistic knowing her daughter was wearing something with imperfections.
