Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

twenty-eight. urge to say

Iola would loathe to admit that she was hiding, but she really was, truly, hiding, or rather, her version of it. She kept herself busy with extensive physical exercise now that she was cleared to do so, forcing herself to keep as busy as she could with work and training to keep others from demanding her time and attention. 

It was the only way that she was able to fully keep her mind focused, keep herself from dwelling too deeply on her parentage. It was so utterly ridiculous, so profoundly ridiculous, that she didn't think she could focus on it all at once. 

There had been a time that she had been overwhelmingly invested in what her father might think, of what he might say if he met her, if he could see what she had done. She wanted to know if he would be proud of her, if he would have been thrilled to see how she had grown. 

Now, though, now, his approval would feel more like encouragement to do the wrong thing, like pressure to be someone that held such wrong beliefs so deeply down to their core. 

It was rightfully something that she wanted that she couldn't process all at once -- or apparently not within the span of a week as she continued to push herself. 

She continued with her classes and her homework, and when she wasn't doing that she was running or strengthening her reflexes, speeding through the chaotic motions with precise steps in her mind that linked her from one thing to another with ease. 

Speaking to people when they went out of their way to join her, she ended up spending most of the week with Viktor and his steady silence as they did their workouts together. 

It was simpler this way, even when he braved the silence to ask her about Hermione. 

As awkward as she felt about giving him advice, she wasn't going to pick favourites to vie for Hermione's affections. She could work that out for herself who she would come to pick, whether it be Dinah, Viktor, or another contender. 

So really, she wasn't hiding in the typical sense of the word, but it was hiding enough for. Really it felt a lot like when she was younger and had been scolded by her mother for one thing or another and she had thrown herself into training because of it. 

There were just too many things that she was taking on as her responsibility when she knew that they weren't, something that she would normally never do, and Iola really wanted it to stop. She wanted to go back to the same sort of attitude that she had before, that same sort of living that made it so much easier to get on with her day. 

Fleur and Sofie understood as much. They knew her better than anyone else and knew when and how much space she often needed and were usually willing to give it to her. 

Perhaps it was part of the reason that she was gracing the library once more, wandering the rows aimlessly much as a ghost would, the soft material of her Beauxbatons dressed fluttering about her thighs as she carried herself along with a soundless tune. She was searching for something interesting for her to read, something to do with some fanciful charms that would be pretty to the eye but useless at any other time. 

It was how she came upon Harry. He was bent over a book, head in hand and mouth parted with silent snores. His glasses were askew, hair a ratty mess that she could point ut the places that he's tugged at it furiously. 

She tapped his shoulder gently, shaking him awake with a start and gasp that she quieted with a sharp look and a hissed noise between her teeth. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I am waking you so that you do not sleep in the library. What are you doing?" 

"I was--" he scratches his head nervously-- "I was looking for a spell for the second task tomorrow."