Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

thirty-three. frayed strings

There was a distinct sort of numbness that flooded her system from the moment that Iola stepped into the extravagant hall overfilled with parliament members and other notable supporters of the current Prime Minister that funded the French magical government. 

Iola, of course, was rather used to such a classy audience gathered in one place to meet for ridiculous small talk as a front for business as they would, without a doubt, be requesting further monetary support in their endeavours. Her family as far back as she could recall -- which was admittedly far off as Aveline had her study the family tree on her mother's side in great detail -- had always been linked within matters of the government. It was a terrible business, but fruitful if one wishes to conduct acts of evil under the radar. 

When she had gotten the invitation, her first instinct was to toss it into the carriage fireplace without an ounce of hesitation. Her friends would hear nothing on the matter, apparently, as they had gone to great lengths to convince her to speak with Madame Maxime so that she might get a pass. 

And as Madame Maxime was slotted to be in attendance with the addition of Fleur and Francois' family, she was given no choice but to accept. 

It was, of course, the personalization to her invitation that encourageed her to accept as well. They wanted her not only for her money, but for her position as a champion duelist and Quidditch Keeper whose team was to be in attendance as well. 

It was a little odd for her to be added to the French National team for such an event when she was only a substitue player for Bastien and full time for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, but it was falttering that they would think to add her when she hasn't truly seen any of them since the summer -- either of her teams, for that matter, and Iola could only wonder what it must be like for Viktor as he was used to training with his team regularly. 

She had handed her coat, a riculous furr monstrosity that her Aveline had ordered made for her in a variety of different species and materials a year or two back, to a small house-elf that stood just within the entrance, and now as she slowly began to tour the large room, greeting people with practiced smiles and softly spoken words, she took in the detail that stood out around her.

The sparkling clear windows overlooked the court garden of Versailles, the fountain shown with soft lighting at the center of the court, the surface magically unbothered by the stream. 

She turned away, falling into mingling conversation with the skill of a well-bred pureblood in the mist of high company. 

It was surprisingly easy to become that girl again, that person that was aloof and empty inside. Who smiled reflexively and not because she meant to, that spoke politics and vacations that she had never actually taken since she was too busy with training -- and she spoke of training, let disgusting old men peer at her body as though she wasn't aware of their actions, let them spectulate her skills and critisize as though she wasn't there before them and able to tearthem apart where they stood without a thought. 

"They've had a good year, those Malfoy's. They graciously allowed the ministry to buy a couple of cases of their Superior Red this year," a stout wizard blubbered on, tasting his wine with a wiggle of his curled moutsahce. "A comendable thing indeed, to impress the French with their wine." 

"I suppose. I much prefer the Moretti flavouring. They have such large orchards in Italy and only sell the top, best of their products. Taste the bright peach and cheery wine and tell me that those Malfoy's can still hope to compair," Francois bubbly father exclaims, and truly, how she had ended up at his side was beyond her. 

"Speaking of the Moretti, I heard that your son was courting the young heiress," Mrs. Coutillard whispers conspriationally. 

Iola hums. "Yes, you've heard correctly. My dearest friends Sofie and Francois have been courting since the start of the school year. What an accomplished, poweful match they will surely make, don't you think? You must be very proud of your son, M. Duchesne, for securing the heart of such an accomplished young lady," she speaks clear and in defense of her friends to these snobby wizards. If only the Duchesne had been a bit more careful with their money. She sipped her Moretti wine purposefully, steam held delicately in deft fingers. "Let us not speak on those that aren't here. Tell me of your newest shipment from Japan, M. Coutillard. I have been informed by my staff that they are in search of some of their specialized teas."