Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

seventeen. faire son chemin

There was a still sort of silence that seeped through the castle and as Iola sat in one of the hospital wing beds, knees tucked to her chest as she watched snow lazily flutter down through one of the high windows, she couldn't help but want for their to be some loud, blaring sound that didn't leave her with only her heartbeat for company.

It was late in the night, or incredibly early in the morning, depending how you looked at it, and she had been alone for hours unable to find a peaceful rest.

Aurors had come and taken Aveline away. They said she was incredibly good at covering her crimes. Iola gave them permission to search her home as long as they promised not to destroy the place.

Her mother went to Azkaban.

Her fortune, as if in preparation for any such a thing ever occurring, had half already deposited into Iola's personal vault. The other half went missing.

She didn't know what to tell them, didn't know how to respond to their suspicions the way they so clearly wanted because Iola was just as much in the dark about her mother's activities as they were — perhaps more so than they were.

Her memories were faulty, after all, and she wasn't sure if she should trust a thing when the blank, empty spaces were a constant reminder to what her mother was capable of.

Aveline Bouchard wasn't above using her daughter as some sort of tool, it would seem, because their was no other way the girl could accurately explain how it felt.

It brought a hollow feeling with it, this newfound freedom that she hadn't even known she wanted, because she was suddenly, incredibly alone. She had friends. She had people she thought were friends. She had fans and supporters.

But at the end of the day, at the end of it all, Aveline was the only family she ever had, the only family she had ever known, and despite how deeply she would admit caring for her friends, she knew that it would always end up like this in the end — a disappointing, foreshadowing glimpse into the life she was destined to have.

Alone in a room too big, too quiet. Holding herself as a reminder that she was real and not a paper person that would crumble or float away.

It was a cold and terrible feeling. Utterly lonely.

Part of her wanted the doors to open, to have a familiar face running through with reassurances sweet as sugar falling from smiling lips. She didn't care if they were empty promises or practiced phrases.

Part of her wanted to jolt awake. She wanted to see Ponpy gently tapping at her cheek with mumbled greetings and a schedule for her to attend to. She wanted her mother's sharp voice and piercing glare as she helped her train under the French summer sun where none of this had ever happened and she was still blissfully ignorant to the dark shadows that curled around her mind.

Her mother had always been so careful with her before this year. Iola wasn't sure if she should worry about what has changed.

Shifting on the bed, she pulls her too thin camisole back into place over her stomach, stretching the ache in her back while she's at it.

Iola had never felt so invisible her entire life.

She was pathetic.

A clock ticks somewhere nearby, steps slow and steady grow louder into the quiet as she sits waiting — breath held as she faced the door, wand held tightly in hand.

Her fingers are stiff, stubborn to preform the action. They tell her that her duel with Aveline was more of a blur than anything else. They say it only lasted a few minutes, that the speed at which she moved was unlike anything they had ever seen from her before.