Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

six. pass me by

The blue of her blazer seems exceptionally bright in the carriage lights, the already darkening sky of the Hogwarts grounds turning it into an exceptional colour. It made her bitter that she wasn't the only one wearing it. The uniform was terrible that way, making it so she looked pitifully the same as everyone else.

It was hung over her arm as she stood around with the other students, each buzzing with barely contained excitement, each hoping that their name will be called — because they were a much smaller number than the others, she believed, and it gave them all a much greater chance at the tournament. Has Iola wanted to compete she would have felt the same way, though, at least she would have been able to present herself better than they were. Dancing around with loud giggles and overly confident remarks was simply embarrassing.

Rolling her eyes at the lot of them, she settled at the back of the group, avidly avoiding her mother's hawklike gaze as she finished making herself presentable.

She was shown up late for the set meeting time, having taken her potion as she was told and set into a walkabout that castle that had gotten her so lost that she had to cut her quidditch practice short, Aveline was beyond furious. Her drills were likely to become more difficult.

It wasn't the first time she wondered if she ought to quit one of them — duelling or quidditch— but she could never quite decide which she would miss more. Being a Keeper was something that she adored, something that felt incredibly normal and dirty and freeing. It was something that everyone enjoyed, that everyone loved, and Iola loved that it gave her the chance to feel like she wasn't stuck up.

Because she knew that's what people said about her, even if it wasn't true.

But duelling was all she had ever known, all she had trained for all her life, and leaving it behind now when she was so good when she craved that thrill of the win that let her know she was the best... Iola was addicted to the sensation.

Shaking her head, she dismisses the thought as something to be considered later. Much later, as in, if it ever came up that she needed to make a decision because right now she was more than willing to do both

Though, she could do without her mother's intense style of training.

Iola pulls on her blazer, shrugging into the cover from the warmth with a contented sign — buttoning it with nimble fingers as she trails behind the rest of the group.

The big, giant groundskeeper was upfront, speaking to the headmistress with this misty-eyed hopefulness, this sort of odd, instance attraction that she wasn't sure she had ever seen before.

She bites down on her grin to hide it from her Aveline's disapproving stare. She didn't much like the people here, it seemed.

"He is rather odd," one of the boys comment quietly, mumbling the words. "I don't know why the Madame is humouring him."

"Perhaps you should mind your business, then," Iola snaps, running her fingers through her hair. "I doubt anyone has ever humoured you before."

"Don't be foul, Bouchard, it's unbecoming," Henri LeBlanc rebuts snidely.

"Presuming you have the right to speak to me is unbecoming. Your voice is giving me hives," she drawls, linking her hands behind her back. "Hold your tongue or I'll hold it for you."

"Uptight, little—"

"Do you wish to upset me?" Iola rounds on him, her wand already held loosely in hand. He takes a step back, not having seen her pull it. "Do you wish to issue a formal challenge?"