Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

thirty-six. next right thing

When there was a crack and warp of light that accompanied a  portkey and Harry appearing with a rather still, rather motionless Cedric, Iola wasn't quite sure she had ever thought she would be prepared for such a sight. 

There wasn't any real, true way that a person could be prepared to see another dead, yet she found herself rather overjoyed, in some unbelievably twisted way, that it was Cedric and not any of the others. While Fleur had gotten out early, Viktor had come out stunned, disoriented, and bleeding after a professor had gone in after the red spark had been shot into the air. 

The upheaval, the outcry of fear had resonated far too near for Iola, far too deep as she faced such an overly bright emotion of good as she watched a father cry knowing that her people would still be warm to her touch, would still be able to wrap her tight and respond to her sharp words. She had recoiled at the feeling, had burned with the image of her mother in her mind, of the sound of her dark chuckles and the knowledge that rushed forward of every spell that could kill a person. 

Iola knew far too many. 

They hadn't remained long after the thought crossed her mind. Madame Maxime had been clear with her words, ordering them back to the carriage without delay -- placing herself and Francois responsible. 

No one disapproved when she took the lead, wand pressed tightly to her palm as she hurried her schoolmates along. No one had wanted to remain in the dark. No one wanted to be left behind. No one was willing to get lost in the jumble of the Hogwarts students returning to their houses. 

The Madame had remained to assist. Karkaroff was nowhere to be seen. 

Iola ushered them into the carriage, spelling the doors behind her as she was last to enter. "Go on," she snapped at them. "Don't gather around in the entryway." 

"No one will care if you stay with your friends tonight," Francois quickly tacks on, gentle and soft. Sofie clings to his side, knuckles white and lips trembling. "Try to get some rest." 

Gerome was silent against the wall. Fleur had been whisked away by her family, taking refuge in the castle at the Madame's assistance. Iola expected that they wanted to ensure that she wasn't affected in ways that no one had thought to suspect before. 

Iola herself could only guess, only draw terrible conclusions because of the things that she had read, things she had seen, because of her mother. 

Many things in her life seemed to return to her mother. 

Waiting until the room was clear, people going back to their beds, clinging to friends as they whispered their shock and terror, Iola took a deep breath -- dropping into the first available chair and crossing her ankles. 

Francois gently led Sofie to sit, letting the girl fall into his side. Gerome remained plastered to the wall. 

"You should go to bed, Sof," She tells her friend. "You don't need to stay up." 

"I won't leave you to sit here alone... I-I don't want to leave Francois either." 

Shaking her head softly to herself, she lifted a brow at Gerome in question. 

"The beds will be too loud and crowded, I'm sure. Much to difficult to get some quiet time." 

Despite the instinctive reaction to make a rather biting comment, Iola holds her tongue and nods, choosing to be sympathetic, empathetic, or whatever the hell it was. Just because she hadn't been nearly as touched, didn't mean that they weren't affected by this in some way or another.