Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

nine. badge of honour

There was a daily prophet tossed to the side, neatly folded and left out of the way after she had read through the entirety of the ridiculous article claiming her to be some jealous simp, angrily attacking students whenever they got near because she hadn't been chosen for the tournament.

It was slowly driving her mad, the whole thing with Rita Skeeter sewing as they seemed to have a sort of understanding before all of this. The woman was beginning to become a real thorn in her side.

Resting her head agains the carriage window, she traced the old raindrops that glimmered in the sunlight that was slowly peeking out from behind dark clouds.

Ever since the article where Skeeter had interviewed the champions, Iola had been stacked with more and more viciousness. Rita has always been absurd with her news, but that didn't mean she was allowed to just attack her because she wasn't able to defend herself. Apparently what had happened in that scary professor's class that one time had finally reached the woman because it was bent and morphed into something not even close to what had truly happened making her out to be some sort of heartless monster... again, because people loved to believe she was terrible for being successful at Duelling.

Which was absolutely ridiculous because she didn't need to ruthlessly attack anyone to prove how truly great she was.

And really, she didn't care in the slightest if she had been chosen for the tournament. She had much more interesting goals that she was reaching for.

The wood creaks with the wind, the carriage groaning along with the forest, and she sighs, wishing that someone was interested in humouring her foul mood, but Sofie and Francois have run off somewhere alone and Fleur was meeting with Madame Maxime, leaving her alone with Gerome and Gabrielle and neither were entirely good options.

"You have a visitor," Gabrielle says as she makes her way over.

Thanking the girl, she unsticks herself from the window seat, buckling up the shoes she had loosened to get comfortable before moving to meet her guest.

The air was cold against the exposed skin around her legs, chasing away the small warmth awarded from the tights as it blew her loose hair around her cheeks.

But Viktor looked comfortable in his thick jumper and slim fit seat pants. His gloves were on, a hat pulled snug over his ears.

"What can I do for you today?" She asks, leaning her shoulder against the wood. "Or is this personal, my friend?"

"Personal," he says, voice gruff as he ducks his head into his jumper. "Do you want fly?"

He holds up the broom she didn't notice before, holding it at his side expectantly.

Well, she was supposed to go out flying today anyway. She didn't see the harm in going out together. Grinning, she nods before she summons her broom, the charm bringing it to her quickly as she reached for her flying jumper, the one that was freshly washed and set aside for her practice, before darting out the door. She wasn't really dressed for the occasion but that wasn't going to stop her.

Changing would only bring attention and things were beginning to grow a little tense with the first task coming up. Aveline did not want them speaking with the 'enemy' unless it was for spying purposes. Madame Maxime did not feel the same exactly, or at least she had not said it in so many words.

Running off with Viktor so close to the competition would only upset Fleur if she found out.

She didn't mind being a little cold for a little bit of fun. It was practice, anyway, just what Aveline wanted.

They took to the sky with a kick, zooming off together, and she filled his example as he sets about in a simple game of catch with a small red ball that they've enchanted to go long and far, giving them the chance to actually practice their flying — if they garnered a small audience that gawked from the lawn below then it wasn't her problem. Her only concern being the length of the dress she wore riding up, pulling away from how she held it close to herself.