Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

sixteen. themes of a girl

Her hand pressed to the stone wall, the cool feeling lovely against her palm as she struggles to keep her eyes open as exhaustion finds home in her veins — weighing her down with this heavy feeling of acceptance.

It was a lesson she would be sure to remember for the next time she make any sort of agreement with Ludo Bagman. He had promised she would arrive in time, and of course, she had arrived just in time to make it before Harry was meant to go in.

Iola had finished before any of the others, but he had never once mentioned that it was mandatory for her to stay for the closing ceremony — a ceremony that meant nothing because the competition didn't really mean a thing (the pretty prize money not included, of course). The bastard had left long before she had even had the chance, putting his duties onto some other announcer that didn't know what he was doing in the slightest.

You couldn't just pull up a quidditch commentator and expect him to understand what they were meant to say.

Breathing deeply, Iola waves her wand toward the hem of her dress, drying away the snow that had melted into the thin material.

There Great Hall was within sight, the nerves bleeding away from her shoulders as her heels clicked along the stone flooring.

There was no denying the small giddy feeling that threatened to blossom in her chest now that she was back in the magical corridors of Hogwarts, but there was a looming sense of darkness in her thoughts that tainted her with the idea of seeing her mother — and she would be seeing Aveline soon. Iola hasn't decided what she was going to do yet. What could she even do to the woman without proof of what she had done? How could you prove that someone was using the Imperius curse against you?

Iola didn't know if she could hold herself back from attacking her mother before everyone.

Maybe she was as truly violent as everyone claimed her to be.

"Mr. Potter, where is your partner?" She could hear one of the professors asking in a stern tone.

"She's not here yet."

"Where is she?"

Turning the corner quickly, she takes the stairs as easily, holding the length of her dress up with one hand. She could feel their eyes in her, the attention making her feel some sort of ridiculous way.

Harry beams at her and guilts bites through her at the fact that she had stressed the poor boy. "You made it."

Her smile is soft as she moves to his side, placing a hand on his elbow. "Of course, I told you I would be here."

"I wasn't sure with the report in the Prophet. You were still in Austria yesterday morning."

"Yes, well, I have tried very hard to ensure that I would make it," she says softly, leading him back tot he other champions.

Iola greets Viktor silently, wiggling her fingers kindly. She mouths a hello to Hermione and Fleur, not caring if they reply as she quickly turns away to the professor that did not look so upset as when she had first arrived.

"Miss Bouchard is your date?" The professor asks.

Harry pulls a face. "Is it that hard to believe, Professor McGonagall?"

The old woman looks down the bridge of her nose at her, thoughtfully eyeing her. "There are harder things to believe. Come, line up. Line up."

They stood behind Cedric and his petite date, Harry fidgeting constantly at her side and she squeezes his arm tighter in silent reassurance. For a bit that was incredibly familiar with the spotlight, he didn't seem as though he was used to the attention.