Being back in school meant two things: Jacinta got to leave Blarney and Cork all together and that she had to be with her housemates. Both of which had to be bittersweet for the dirty blonde lass. Jax probably got out of her rented flat every other day, and only once was it to be with her schoolmates; the one time she was out, she got shit-faced drunk and she could only hope that the mix of slurred words and her thick accent that whoever she ran her gab at didn’t understand or even remember.
Hell, she didn’t even remember who she told. How could she have done that? Jax felt so boneheaded, so god-awful for saying whatever she said. It didn’t quite matter what it was, it was all bad. The best she could’ve done is cry over her dead mother, and the worst—well, the worst was for her to talk about her dad, her mum, her brother, the whole lot of abuse, torture, and upset.
The Irish girl plunked herself onto the couch in the dungeons with her book, “Shooting an Elephant and Other Essays ” by George Orwell. She’d seen it on the shelf in her rented flat over holiday and nabbed it.
She only got a few pages in when she was interrupted by the shifting of the couch and the deep, familiar voice of a fellow Slytherin.