Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

twenty-six. things are

The corridors were just as chilled, just as comforting as Iola remembered them to be. She loved that sort of enchanted feel that made her feel as if she was both alone and not even while surrounded by people.

Hogwarts was simply that big, the reputation that heavy. She loved how it shifted between light and dark. It was different from Beauxbatons and the fanciful halls that felt like she was a high born lady or a fairy princess. No, Hogwarts was more medieval, more based on the idea of defence. It was a castle through and through with dark colours and ever-changing staircases.

She loved it, being back. She loved that she had the chance to visit another wizarding school when such a possibility was normally impossible for anyone else.

Iola wasn't sure why she was suddenly so emotional, so poetic with her thoughts, but it was a nice change from the constant dreary bore that she found that she typically was. When she had grown so fond of the place, she couldn't quite pin, but she was content to be back.

Those that are awake stare as she passes, and she's not sure entirely what draws there attention -- the medal around her neck, the arm in a sling and the injuries that she confidently displayed, or the leather of the wand sling that she had proudly on display.

With her jacket hung loosely around her shoulders, everything was on display. She didn't try to hide any of it from anyone. They would read of it in the papers, the would gape and point regardless. Gerome had been right. Iola wasn't a coward and she wasn't going to hide.

The smell was divine, the fresh, hot breakfast making her stomach grumble. It was a struggle to keep her steps even, steady, as she carried herself to the Ravenclaw table and began to fill a plate for herself.

Greedily, she served herself far too much, but Iola deserved to reward herself. She needed to get that into her head. That she was to reward herself for her success instead of being miserable over something that had passed.

It was easier now that she was in public, the urge to present herself with all the grace, success and power that she truly possessed too strong for the absolute chaos that was her true feelings at having only gotten to eighth.

Which wasn't horrible! It was a grand accomplishment and she should be more proud of herself.

If she repeated it enough, perhaps it would come true. Proud of herself. What an odd way to make yourself feel better about failure.

However, there came the small comfort that it might make Aveline's hard literally stop if she found out. The shame would likely overwhelm her mother.

One could hope, she supposed.

"You shouldn't fill up on bacon," Gerome notes, much slower as he serves himself.

"Why not?" she counters stubbornly, lifting a piece with her fingers.

"The grease will make you sick," Sofie comments softly as she eases herself down at her side across from Francois. "It has always made you sick."

Fleur scoffs. "Let her eat what she wants. She is a champion today."

Idly, she wonders why she had believed it to be a good idea to bring them with her. They were treating her as though she has glass, this fragile thing that might explode with violent tendencies. She supposed that she could, in a sense, but that didn't mean she would. Iola had such a tight handle on her emotions that she had truly expected them to know her better than that.

See, it was as though they thought her friendship with them so fragile that they needed to cater to her every need -- that, or they thought that blind worship of her wouldn't be seen as the pity that it was.