Notes: Written for the 12 Days of Christmas Style challenge. For this story, Sally-Anne is in Hufflepuff.
Warning for alcohol abuse.
It starts as a dare. Go on, Sally-Anne, come on, you aren't a chicken, are you? Come on, just take a sip. And she does, and the firewhiskey burns her mouth and scalds her throat and she coughs, smoke trailing out of her lips, and they laugh. They laugh at her, like they always do, and she can only stay at the table a few minutes more before getting up and stumbling away, murmuring something about homework. They don't believe her, and she knows they don't, but they don't follow her, either.
The taste of firewhiskey lingers on her tongue, and three hours later, when they are all collapsed about the common room in various states of snoring, drunken disarray (and won't they have a fun time explaining that to Professor Sprout in the morning?), she tiptoes back down, searching for the firewhiskey bottle. It's perched awkwardly on the edge of the table, and still half-full. When she picks it up, the liquid inside sloshes rather noisily and she freezes, wondering if someone will wake up, will notice what the "goody two shoes" of Hufflepuff House is doing.
But no one does wake up and she escapes back to her four-poster, drawing the curtains around her and taking a deep breath. She's never done anything like this before, and she doesn't know why she's doing it now. Her uncle has an alcohol problem and ever since she found out, her parents have taken to warning her about the dangers of alcoholism. But surely a sip or two won't do any harm, right? The idiots in the common room were drinking a lot more than a couple sips, she reassures herself, and pretends to forget the fact that the bottle is half-full. And that she intends to take more than a few sips.
"Drink up," she whispers to herself, and takes a swallow. It burns just as badly this time, and she pants for breath, tears coming to her eyes. But she perseveres and by the fourth sip, she can't feel anything anymore. After the tenth sip, she ends up sprawling back against her pillows, giggling to herself in as quiet a voice as she can manage and wondering what the idiots down in the common room would say if they could see her now. Not so goody-two-shoes now, she thinks and takes another swig. Her lips crack as the alcohol stings them, but she ignores it. She's very good at ignoring things. Like the way her parents only talk to her to criticise her, and the way no one in her own House will talk to her half the time (even though this is supposed to be the loyal, friendly House. Yeah right, she snorts, and takes another drink).
Before she knows it, she's emptied most of the bottle, and the room is decidedly blurry. With a sigh of regret, Sally-Anne corks the bottle, stows it under her pillow for safe-keeping, and snuggles down into her cold blankets. The firewhiskey keeps her warm, and she decides, with a hiccup, that perhaps she should find out where the idiots in the common room get theirs.
It might help her ignore things in the future, too.