Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

three. humdrum monotony

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her face, running a continuous path along her jaw to drip from her chin. It was terribly hot, disgustingly hot, and the way she continued to work drove was going to drive her nuts.

It was ridiculous how the heat continued to wear on into the start of the new school year, the mountain altitude doing little to beat out the sun that beat on the down south.

Iola knew that she was going to have to stop soon, that her next lesson would be coming around any minute and she was going to have to grab lunch before she heads to herbology, but she wasn't near her daily goals.

Mother had a schedule for her to keep her fit and had a way to know when she didn't follow every step.

And truly, Iola felt terrible when she didn't accomplish her daily goals, but it was difficult to continue her workout with the sun's glare in her eyes.

"You're going to be late if you don't come in now."

She pauses, catching sight of one of her dearest friends and the thin blue robes that she had pulled up to sit higher on her legs. Fleur was stunning, the Veela blood that ran through her veins truly nothing in comparison to how she was inside and out. Kind and caring, the girl had her moments, but Iola wouldn't trade her in an instant.

Because Fleur was the first friend she had ever met at Beauxbatons and even if she didn't come off as the most modest or humble off girls, she knew her friend meant well.

"There is no spell that will get you clean as a shower will."

Iola scoffs. "Is that meant to imply something?"

"Yes, that you're horribly sweaty."

"It's important that I keep myself in top form, you know this. There is no time to rest for this sort of thing."

"Haven't you just returned from a tournament?" Fleur asks, not stepping out from the shade of the thin tree. "There shouldn't be one for quite some time."

"Mother wishes for me to compete in the winter competition come December in the senior division. I'll be of age by then."

"Is that not very soon?"

"She believes—" she pants, breathing out in a long blow from her mouth— "that I will be more than ready by then."

"Should you follow her intense regimen," Fleur mutters.

Twisting in a way that opens and stretches her hips, Iola frowns at her friends words. "I can't tell if you're angry with me or with my mother..."

"I am angry at neither. I am simply upset that it is difficult to spend time with you. Madame Bouchard keeps you busy at almost all times."

Snickering, Iola finishes her stretches before grabbing her back from the base of the tree. Her things for the rest of her day were already there, as were s few snacks for when she got peckish in class.

"Mother will be pleased to know how she's inconvenienced my personal life."

"As if anything could keep me from your side," Fleur sniffs, turning her nose up haughtily.

"Oh, my dearest friend, what would I ever do without you," Iola teased, racing to pull her friend into a sweaty hug.

She shoves her. "Touch me and I will blast you to the cold of Bulgaria."

"I would like to see you try," She laughs, cocky with the pride that swells in her chest.

"You are not invincible," Fleur shoots back, already striding ahead.