Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

thirteen. things you aren't

Cheeks burning from the intense heat or cold, she wasn't sure, but they stung, like a terrible windburn that bites at her face after long hours flying high up near the clouds.

Still, Iola wasn't sure if she was to stop just yet or if Aveline was going to have her carry on.

Her mother had no remorse when she returned to Hogwarts, drilling Iola relentlessly on her spell work.

And she understood, of course, that the ISDC's were going to have a greater level of difficulty than what she was used to in the past, but she seriously doubted it was to the extent that she was losing blocks of time that she just couldn't seem to catch up on.

It was nearly time for her to leave already and she couldn't remember how things had moved along so quickly.

Fleur and Sofie were avoiding her, that much was clear, and part of her wondered if it had been something she said in those moments that had driven them off.

It was a lot like losing her mind as things crumbled around her and all she was left with was duelling and quidditch and training because ambition could never stab you in the back, only people were capable of such emotions.

She didn't want to think things were as intense as her mother making them out to be, that her friends were simply distant because they wanted to leave her without distractions, but she couldn't shake the fear that it was something more than that. Iola couldn't shake the guilt that she had done or said something terrible.

"Focus!" Aveline snaps, and Iola's knocked back to the snow-covered lawn with a harsh blow to her stomach. "Do you want to see yourself fail? Do you want to feel that sort of embarrassment?"

Airbrushes from her lungs, puffing over her in a white cloud. She blinks up at the fluffy flakes that flutter down around her.

"No, mother, of course not."

"Then on your feet and take this seriously, girl!"

She groans as her ribs protest, back aching as she stands. "Yes, mother."

"Enough with your twittering. Stand straight and go again!"

Swallowing thickly, she plants her feet before trying again, the firestorm facing around her. Iola tried to keep it there, keep it moving as she pulls down her arm to cast another spell — one vicious and painful toward the training dummy.

They have been out here for hours, long since the early dawn and lunch had passed them over. Perfecting the spell was a tedious process and Iola didn't plan on restarting her count of a hundred.

"I do not want to see you holding back any longer," Aveline warned, her own wand held threateningly in her hand.

She nods, ribs screaming as she goes again. The flames whip around her, burning her eyes, and she holds them for a moment, building them up until she's able to switch.

It only lasts for a few minutes moments once she lets go, already fading away as she fires the next spell.

Iola's ready for the hit the second her spell only clips dummy. She tossed up and dropped down hard.

"Pathetic!" her mother screams, wand still pointed as Iola struggles to stand.

"Excuse me! I'm sorry, but Madame Maxime is requesting for you in Dumbledore's office, Madame Bouchard."

That was Harry. She wasn't sure if she should be elated or worried.

She doesn't look away from her mother's boots, unable to bring herself to move as she waits for the woman to react -- her grip on her wand hurting her arm with the force she's holding it with.