Delicate Magic ► George Weasley

thirty. fluttering wingtips

Her own words stared back up at her the next morning, bright and clear as she read Fleur's Magic Gazette forwarded to her every morning since they loathed delivering their mail to Hogwarts. 

Justine Delacour has written a tiny, little teasing note asking for details about the mystery man that was seen crouching at her side in the photo. They could tell from the faint detail of colour that he was ginger, even with the near black and white tint of the photo. 

She was thankful that they couldn't outright tell who it was in the photo, though, the people of the school could tell it seems as they continued to spare her the occasional glance over their own copies of the article -- likely in some pale, cheap insidious tone of gossip by the likes of Rita Skeeter or someone else just as foul. 

The saving grace, it seemed, was that George and Fred were late to breakfast that morning, even if Helene and Dinah were not. The younger girl poorly hid her amusement as she openly discussed the article loud enough for her to hear from where she sat eating the last few bites of her meagre breakfast before she was to take over the duelling lessons for the morning whilst the Madame was away dealing with business at Beauxbatons while she could. 

From what she understood, the first and second years had worked together in a ridiculous attempt at a protest against the amount of homework they were getting in relation to their non-magic courses, along with some disagreement with the way that the new apparent permanent charms teacher ran their class. Julie Moreau was younger than most of the other professors and took a much stricter approach to teach now that she knew she was up for the full-time position. 

Iola believed it was likely the lack of attention they received now with the Triwizard tournament and the differences they were experiencing from the separation of their families coddling -- of course, it could be likely that they simply opposed the new order of having so many examinations that they simply weren't accustomed to the stress. 

It was easy to let the younger students get out of hand, more so when Aveline, the firmest and harsh of the professors was gone and Iola among the other brightest students of their age were no longer there to set the shining example of grace and decorum. 

The chance to teach, to bully the other delegates without getting in trouble, was more than enough to have her agree to cover for the morning. She was typically out practicing as it was, training in the morning before running to class only to rush studiously through her work and return for an evening train -- or rather, that was how she worked before her mother was incarcerated and she decided to give herself an evening further break to slightly relax and do as she wished whilst wallowing in her own misery. 

She was finishing her goblet of milk as he turned up and she nearly choked on the intensity of his eyes as he spotted her, his gaze bore into her as though he was trying to read her mind or her soul. It brought a shudder to work down her spine, a warmth pooling low in her stomach as she swallowed thickly -- ducking her chin as she hastily wiped small dribbles of milk from her lips before she set her goblet back down and stood with enough force to nearly knock over the bench. 

Muttering a few words about returning to the carriage so that she might lay down a few feeble barriers to protect the grounds from so many shooting spells, Iola dismisses herself with as much dignity that she could muster while snatching two butter croissants from the table, holding them in her left hand. 

George's sleeve is caught with her right, dress robe tugging as she pulled the boy alongside her with her head held up proudly. 

"I've never seen you so interested in having this sort of talk," he mentions casually, not making a move to free himself from her hand.