Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

twenty-nine. smiling means

They met out on the lake. Stands were built high around the water with room for everyone. Iola could see her friends amongst the blue. She could see the twins in the mass of red, George arguing avidly with his brother as he wrote something on a tiny notepad.

She found herself miserable at the judges' table as she listened to the Weasley brother, Percy, titter and mumble aggravatingly under his breath. He was only making everything worse as tension rose, and she had to resist the urge to simply shove his chair off the ridiculous platform.

Dumbledore was calm as ever, as were Cedric and Moody as they waited for Harry's slow arrival, but Percy was simply making the others voice their wants to proceed without the boy more and more clear.

She met Fleur's eyes, silently pleading with her to keep her thoughts to herself at the moment as she sat back in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair. It creaked as she shifted.

Her sole saving grace was that she didn't have to go into the water. She was allowed to stay nice in warm in an outfit that set her apart from her school as it would insight cries of favouritism.

Her warm, thick black dress hugged her close, tight as it cut above the knees was infinitely better than the blue of robes of Beauxbatons at the moment. And the gold detailing around her neck, the overlay of intricate leaves and flowers embroidered up the length of her neck was a stunning spark of colour compared to the drab, regular attire that they wore in support of their schools. 

Additionally, Iola had the luck of a dress robe that was currently hanging loose around her shoulders as she stretched out comfortably.

She met Fleur's eye once more, grinning as her friend tugged her thin jacket closer to herself. The water would be a horrible shock if she didn't get used to the cold now. She tried to convey as much with a single look.

"You didn't wear your medal," Bagman notes conversationally, antsy on his feet as he paced about.

With slow, deliberate movements, she reaches into her dress robe and summons it from deep within the confines of her pockets. It dangles from her grip, swaying back and forth as she holds it there. "I have it with me, of course."

"You should wear it. The reporters will mention it in the papers."

She sighs, letting it fall heavily against her chest as she sits up once more -- prim and proper. She might actually die if someone managed to photograph her sitting so relaxed and unmannerly. There were certain aspects to her image that had always been of the utmost importance, certain beliefs that her mother had instilled her with, and despite her personal beliefs and morals outright opposing Aveline's, she had always believed that holding oneself with a refined sort of grace and self-importance only enhanced ourselves true image.

That wasn't to say that she wasn't going to relax more often when she could, but Iola wanted people to see the best in her -- wanted them to either look at her in envy or awe, she didn't care which. She wanted her name to carry the weight of her image, to carry the fill of her power and strength.

If that even made sense, anymore, when her thoughts were in such disarray most of the time these days.

It was embarrassing. She should have more control of herself and it was beginning to become a struggle to piece it together once more.

Perhaps she ought to have Gerome yell at her. That always seemed to work in her favour.

Or she could speak to George. He always had such a powerful hold on her thoughts, able to command her mind and attention with startling ease, as if he knew the inner workings of her head so overwhelmingly that he was able to clear her of every other concern. He didn't fix a thing, simply made her forget, made her redirect.