Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

twenty-three. sitting pretty

The time passes in a blur, much of it spent with Hermione and Dinah that were willing to push her in much the same way that her mother had. It was invigorating, really, to have the weight of their dependency on her shoulders, their hopes that she would win. Iola would not let them down, it wasn't even an option -- not when they had taken the time to bring her around to their Professors McGonagall, Moody and Flitwick for swift lessons that neither could assist her in. 

She was a far superior duellist in comparison, something that they were equally accepting of, and had taken the care to ensure that she got the challenges she needed. She had faced many students within the castle from all three of the schools. 

It was a thrill, a boost that pushed her to make sure that those who continued to believe in her, those that were willing to be flung around by her, weren't disappointed by what she was. 

And Iola was ready, she had to be ready. 

She had pushed and pushed further and harder than she had even with Aveline, had let her vulnerability and weakness show to others that were capable of assisting her in turn. 

It was like Hermione and Dinah had taken Aveline's structure, taken the routine that she had always known, the one that she was familiar with and knew was proven to work, and had made it better because they gave her time to practice quidditch with the teams that were grounded for the year and Viktor that was simply happy to be playing again. 

They had given her weekends with George where she ate all of his ridiculous candy willingly and followed dutifully to get him out of trouble.

She had never thought that Hermione could be such a good friend, as good a friend as Sophie and Fleur were to her, with how she had treated her upon first meeting. Now, though, she was happy to know that she had such a close connection with someone else that she had chosen to befriend on her own -- someone that she had won over in the end. 

Sometimes Iola wondered truly what it was that Aveline was trying to keep from her, if there was something that was truly wrong with friends other than the distraction to her training. Before, when she was on her own with only her mother's word to lead her, every moment had been spent training for one thing or another in some odd shape or form. Then, there had been a never-ending loop of repetition that had no visible ending in sight. 

Friends were a distraction, they were a weakness, something that people could target, but that didn't mean it wasn't worth the motivation that they gave. 

As much as she enjoyed her newfound relationships, Iola didn't want to be seen with them as she left the school. She would leave and arrive alone. She would fight alone and win alone. She was not a child to be coddled or held, not a blathering infant that needed sweet words to gather her courage. 

Madame Maxime saw her off, had walked her to the edge of the school grounds and ensured that she was prepared to go alone before she made her way off. 

No one knew that she had left that morning, none had thought that she would leave two days before she had claimed so that she could arrive in London alone. 

Sofie and Fleur would be rather displeased at her, she imagined, as she had disappeared before they had the chance to speak with her, but with the tension that continued to grow and multiply between them, spreading likes weeds, she was not entirely prepared to open up to any of that just yet. 

As for the others, well, Viktor was the only one who knew, but she was the only one that she expected to know. Iola was well aware that he was not the most brilliant of men, but he wasn't completely daft either. He knew her, this side of her, the competitive bit that required certain events to go as she planned. Viktor had not said a thing as he patted her shoulder that morning after breakfast, just as Iola had said nothing about the carefully posed question about breathing underwater.