Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

twenty-five. a better ghost

The chill that blew down from the snowy-peaked mountains that morning was near insufferable had it not been for the overbearing heat of the train ride back to Hogwarts.

Iola was early, exactly as she wanted so that it would be as little a spectacle as possible when she returned with little fanfare and a desire to sleep in a proper bed that she was at least partially comfortable in.

It wasn't as luxurious as the one she had at the condo, but that one had been cold in such a desolate place. At least the carriage was familiar to her. It provided Iola with a great deal of many well-rested nights that she simply wanted to do away with the deeply-seeded notion that sleeping past a certain hour was the appearance of ill-bred manners and broken dreams, and simply rest for as long as she felt that she needed.

Her luggage bumped and rattled along behind her on the uneven path that led up to where she could see the carriage that was ever unchanging from when they had first arrived, the promise of her bed only pushing her to go faster than she already was.

She could not remember a time that she had been so exhausted in her life and it was such an odd feeling to be faced with it now. She had slept well on the train, just as she had each night that she was away, but here she was dragging her feet more and more the closer that she drew to the carriage that promised warmth and sleep and quiet.

Truly, she wished to see Ponpy so that she might have someone that was willing to talk to her as much as she actually wanted. There had been so many needless, empty conversations, so much small talk that meant nothing, that she felt like she hadn't spoken to anyone in days.

But the possibility of speaking to an actual person drew a glare to her face that was likely to set anyone aflame if the so much as looked at her.

Flames that had been absorbed into her, flames whose heat had burnt so hot around her that she was likely never to be rid of that horrible sensation of burning.

Perhaps that was what was keeping her warm.

Or maybe her fondness for ice was only growing and she no longer focused on such an inconvenience as the cold.

It was dark within the carriage, rather, darker than the pale sunlight of the rising sun that made the outside glow. There was only the occasional candle that lit the way only enough for you to see where you were. Students were not meant to be out of bed, no one was, so it would be incredibly unnecessary for any more light than there was.

Iola found it odd, though, as she watched the tiny flame flicker and bend, curling inward, down, only to shoot back up. It was like she could see every speck of it, every inch that made up the dripping wax and burning wick.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up until later." His voice makes her skin itch, hands twitching at her side.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with you right now, Gerome. I just want to go to sleep."

"You have a hell of a way of just going to bed. You've been staring at that candle for five minutes. What's wrong?"

She blinks slowly. Five minutes? That didn't seem right, it didn't seem possible. Time didn't pass so quickly and she had only been looking for a moment.

"Nothing is wrong."

"You're a terrible liar, Iola. What happened?"

"Nothing happened, Gerome. I'm just tired."

"You've never let something so simple like this get to you before."

Her mind echoes with the command to turn, telling her to move and she does so mechanically, body stiff and jerking as she faces him. He was in his pyjamas still -- checkered bottoms and a loose-fitting crew neck shirt -- as he held his wand in a weak grip, a soft lumos lighting the tip.