Her hand pressed to the stone wall, the cool feeling lovely against her palm as she struggles to keep her eyes open as exhaustion finds home in her veins — weighing her down with this heavy feeling of acceptance.

It was a lesson she would be sure to remember for the next time she make any sort of agreement with Ludo Bagman. He had promised she would arrive in time, and of course, she had arrived just in time to make it before Harry was meant to go in.

Iola had finished before any of the others, but he had never once mentioned that it was mandatory for her to stay for the closing ceremony — a ceremony that meant nothing because the competition didn't really mean a thing (the pretty prize money not included, of course). The bastard had left long before she had even had the chance, putting his duties onto some other announcer that didn't know what he was doing in the slightest.

You couldn't just pull up a quidditch commentator and expect him to understand what they were meant to say.

Breathing deeply, Iola waves her wand toward the hem of her dress, drying away the snow that had melted into the thin material.

There Great Hall was within sight, the nerves bleeding away from her shoulders as her heels clicked along the stone flooring.

There was no denying the small giddy feeling that threatened to blossom in her chest now that she was back in the magical corridors of Hogwarts, but there was a looming sense of darkness in her thoughts that tainted her with the idea of seeing her mother — and she would be seeing Aveline soon. Iola hasn't decided what she was going to do yet. What could she even do to the woman without proof of what she had done? How could you prove that someone was using the Imperius curse against you?

Iola didn't know if she could hold herself back from attacking her mother before everyone.

Maybe she was as truly violent as everyone claimed her to be.

"Mr. Potter, where is your partner?" She could hear one of the professors asking in a stern tone.

"She's not here yet."

"Where is she?"

Turning the corner quickly, she takes the stairs as easily, holding the length of her dress up with one hand. She could feel their eyes in her, the attention making her feel some sort of ridiculous way.

Harry beams at her and guilts bites through her at the fact that she had stressed the poor boy. "You made it."

Her smile is soft as she moves to his side, placing a hand on his elbow. "Of course, I told you I would be here."

"I wasn't sure with the report in the Prophet. You were still in Austria yesterday morning."

"Yes, well, I have tried very hard to ensure that I would make it," she says softly, leading him back tot he other champions.

Iola greets Viktor silently, wiggling her fingers kindly. She mouths a hello to Hermione and Fleur, not caring if they reply as she quickly turns away to the professor that did not look so upset as when she had first arrived.

"Miss Bouchard is your date?" The professor asks.

Harry pulls a face. "Is it that hard to believe, Professor McGonagall?"

The old woman looks down the bridge of her nose at her, thoughtfully eyeing her. "There are harder things to believe. Come, line up. Line up."

They stood behind Cedric and his petite date, Harry fidgeting constantly at her side and she squeezes his arm tighter in silent reassurance. For a bit that was incredibly familiar with the spotlight, he didn't seem as though he was used to the attention.

"You are handsome in your dress robes," she comments lowly, distracting him from all of the people turning to face him the moment that they enter.

"I like your dress. It's very nice on you," he squeaks, voice cracking on the words.

She laughs softly in her throat, tapping his arm. "Thank you. I had it made. It is one of a kind."

"You had Dinah's dress made, too," he whispers, nodding toward the crowd.

Iola spots his friend easily at the girls side, her pink dress standing out against the much duller gowns around her. At least she matched Ron's dress robes a little. His frills and lace were complimentary to the expensive gown, even if he did look miserable to be in them.

She nods to the girl, smiling as she scowls and holds up her wrist to show the pretty gold chain around her wrist. Iola truly did love giving Christmas gifts. It was the only way she was truly allowed to celebrate the holiday.

Looking for so long turned out to be a mistake as she spots the twins, as she spots him specifically, standing near his brother. Somehow, from the very beginning, she had always been able to tell them apart. George would just make her heart flutter against her ribs and her cheeks burn, but looking at him now with a tall, pretty girl at his side, she felt incredibly cold — as though she was faced with her own ice defence, freezing from the inside out as crystals formed in her lungs forcing her breath to come in short and airy.

Merlin, she was so stupid for letting her emotions get the best of her. If she never saw George Weasley again it would be too soon.

"I did. She deserves something pretty to wear. She is a good friend."

He looks uncomfortable as he glances down to his feet. "I'm sorry they've been so terrible to you," he mutters, trusting as she guides behind the other pairs. "George feels really bad. He was miserable when Dinah brought his letter back."

She sniffs, turning her nose up at the thought. "It is none of my business how he feels. May we not speak of him, or any of them? It is making me have this uncomfortable feeling in my chest."

"Sure, of course."

"You know, Dinah has told me that you are very oblivious. It does not really seem like so," she mentions, taking a seat beside at his side as he was excitedly waved over by the ginger with glasses.

It's only when she's close, looking at his freckled cheeks and familiar brown eyes does she realize who he is. She could vaguely recognize him from the World Cup. How many children could the Weasley's have?

"I've been promoted," he said before Harry could even say a word. "I'm now Mr. Crouch's personal assistant and I'm here representing him."

"Why didn't he come?" Harry asks reluctantly, casting a glance around the table.

She turns, letting them have their own conversation knowing she wasn't interested to begin with — actively ignoring Fleur at her side, the part Veela girl moving her chair conveniently closer to Iola. The pale blue tint to her grey dress was incredibly flattering she would admit, but she had no plan in telling the girl that.

Fleur grumbles some sort of complaint about the decorations, voice growing louder with each moment no one speaks out to stop her.

She sighs, turning to the firm with a quiet snap to silence her offending remarks. If she wasn't careful Madame Maxime would hear her speaking so miserably.

"What is it to you what I say?" Fleur demands, finally turning away from her date. "All that I say is true."

"I don't care if it's true. What you're saying is rude and demeaning to our schools character."

"That is all you care for. Our schools character?"

Iola bars her teeth before she speaks to her plate to order. "I care for many things. What you think of me is not one of them."

Fleur is silent for a moment as she slowly eats her own meal. Viktor and Hermione are still speaking loudly from the other side of the table.

The Weasley boy talks loudly to Harry, but she can see his attention focused on her, the concern in his gaze one that soothes her growing annoyance.

She smiles, nodding reassuringly.

"I'm not sure what you're expecting me to say," the blonde mutters. "You're the one that's been dreadfully awful."

Her fork clacks against her plate aggressively. Did she think so little of her that they would believe all that happened was her?

Could they not see that something was wrong with her? That she was ill?

Sheer, white hot furry tore through her faster than she could push it back, push it away. Her mother was at the table over with the other professor's. Iola didn't need to look to know where Aveline was.

She had her hand. She always had her wand on her, always prepared. She could deal with her mother now, when her back was turned and unprepared. Iola could strike her sown, tear the woman apart for all that had been done to her.

The headmasters were right across from her, all she needed to do was open her mouth, let the truth tumble free so everyone could see what was done to her, see how she had been ruined and controlled her entirely life. She could just speak and they would all know —

Just how vulnerable and weak she was. Aveline had made her pathetic and weak. She had been made into everything that Iola had strived to erase from herself.

What good was a person that was nothing more than weak and pathetic? What would they say when they knew what she truly was?

"Iola, are you alright?" Harry asks softly, the genuine concern something baffling. 

She startles out of her thoughts. "Yes, yes, of course," she tells him, smiling gratefully before she turns back to Fleur. "Whatever you think I've done or believe me to have said is your problems. I've never lowered myself to people that are undeserving and I'm not about to start—" Iola stabs at her food viciously, lips curling into a dangerous grin— "but do not presume you know a thing, not when you've been just as blind as I was."

"Blind to what?"

"I believe that isn't part of your concern any longer," she sniffs, purposely turning away. "You've lost the right to my friendship when you so easily tossed me aside."

"I never tossed you aside, Iola!"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not here for you," Iola says dismissively. "I'm not speaking to you any longer."

The girl didn't turn back to her friend once, didn't listen to any of her eager calls to shift her attention. No, she spoke to Harry and the Percy boy, she spoke to Viktor when he pulled away from Hermione for seconds at a time, and had introduced herself properly to Cedric and Cho. It was all that she could do ignore Fleur and all of her efforts were not for nothing.

She wanted Fleur to feel the backlash of her disdain, to know what it was like for a friend to know you were there, to see you, but want nothing to do with you. Why should she make it any easier for her, for any of them?

They had been friends for years but it was the people she had met at Hogwarts, people she had practically just met, that stood at her side. Iola knew that she wasn't the best friend to exist, that she wasn't entirely a good and kind person at heart, but she knew what she deserved and it wasn't this.

Soon, Dumbledore stood and with a wave of his wand the tables vanished and a stage appeared — the Weird Sisters coming up next to their instruments as a hush fell onto the room in anticipation.

The other champion pairs moved to the dance floor and she gripped Harry's elbow as she guided him along.

"Come on," she whispers encouragingly. "We have to dance."

His eyes are panicky, skin growing paler. "I don't know how to dance," he admits.

Adjusting him as casually as she could without making it obvious, Iola smiles kindly and she knows that there's mirth dancing in her eyes. "It is a good thing that I do."

She leads him along, spinning him this way and that in a show of grace and finesse without making it known that she was actually leading the dance. It was a difficult thing to do, that, making it look like Harry was the one that was leading when he hadn't a clue what to actually do.

When the song finally ended, the final note of the bagpipe drawing out, They still, clapping politely before a new, much faster song kicks up.

"Oh, I like this song!" She calls over the music before grabbing him again, jumping around sillily to the loud music, dragging Harry to join her with it.

It takes a moment for him to join in, but soon they're spinning around and bouncing like anyone else as she holds tight to his hand so he can't disappear in the crowd.

"Your mum is watching," he shouts, leaning close to speak to her.

"Let her watch!"

"Won't you get in trouble for something like this?" He asks, eyeing the angry woman.

Iola laughs. "Yes! I will!"

She makes a show of spinning him, tossing her head back as he has to duck slightly to get under her arm.

His cheeks are flushed and she's sure she must look the same when they leave the dancing in search of a drink.

And it's a wonder how he could find Ron so easily when there was so much going on already.

"You lot look like you're having a good time," the boy comments bitterly.

"Where is Dinah?" She counters, eyeing him.

He has the decency to blush. "She went to get a drink."

"And why do you not dance with her?" She presses, sipping at her drink. "She did not ask you just to be ignored for the night."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't seem to mind," he bites, eagerly turning away from her as Hermione comes over, fanning herself with her hand.

The ensuing fight is outrageously ridiculous and makes her want to smack the boy at the back of the head. Even as Dinah returns, happy smile painted on her lips with drinks in hand, and Harry gapes are the pair as accusations fly between them, and Hermione turns to her with harsh words speaking quick and clear with the intent to devastate her, does she still want to smack the boy round the head — because she had always known Hermione felt some sort of terrible way about her, but she had never thought it would be a sentiment echoed among Ron.

At least now she understood a little bit better why George seemed to suddenly hate her so. It was a collection of things that she simply wasn't going to let herself forgive.

"That's enough!" Dinah snaps, drinks shaking in her hands. "You have no right to speak to her like that! She hasn't done anything wrong!"

"Anything wrong?" Hermione demands, rounding on the other girl. "How can you say that when—"

The yelling continues when Harry stands abruptly and takes her hand, pulling her back towards the dancing.

"Let's leave them to it," he says, not turning back once as he walks determinedly. "They fight like that all the time."

"But they do not always fight over me."

"They just— they don't understand."

Iola shrugs. "What is there to understand? They think the same of me that everyone else does."

He stops. "What they think is wrong," he says and she had never seen him so sure and convinced of anything before. "It's all really just Aveline, isn't it? It's her they should hate."

Freezing, she forces away the icy feeling that spikes through her veins, chasing the chill that bites at the warmth of her happiness.

"What?" She breathes, glancing around. "What are you speaking about?"

"Dinah figured it out," he admits, doing well not to reveal a thing.

"When did she tell you?"

"When she was first suspicious."

"When she was first suspicious?" She repeats, shaking her head. "When was that?"

"Iola..."

"When was it, Harry?"

"When you first started acting odd."

A terrible, ugly feeling built in her chest, spreading infectiously through her lungs until it was hard to breathe.

They had known, a horrible part of her whispers, that's the only reason they stayed at your side.

She's slow as she steps away from him, body moving of its own accord to carry her toward the entrance of the Great Hall. She couldn't be here right now, she couldn't be surrounded by so many people as every part of her raged and cried and screamed.

Iola wasn't sure what she should expect from them, wasn't sure if she should even be angry, but some part of her, some small, tiny part of her wanted them to just accept for everything that she was.

Had she actually had something wrong with her, then she truly would be alone.

Her steps carry her out into the cold, winter child biting at the bare skin along her chest and back, pin pricks of cold spreading down her arms as snow flutters around her.

Fairy lights twinkled brightly, the occasional couple sat close together on benches, but she wasn't enchanted by the idea of sitting among any of them. No, she moved on to sit at the side of the fountain — icy droplets touched her side, but it was a wonderful sight at the entrance to a rose garden.

They had made such efforts to make the Yule ball something incredibly beautiful. It was a pity their were such ugly feelings in her heart.

"Iola? What are you doing out here?"

The girl doesn't turn to her friend as her voice makes her stomach turn. Sofie has said horrible things to her in that letter.

"Are you alright?" Sofie continues, stepping closer. "What are you doing out here?"

"Go away."

"Iola, please, I'm so sorry for the things that I've said to you. I didn't know..."

It's enough to turn her to face her friend, emptiness spreading through her. "Has Dinah told you as well?"

"Does it matter how told me? What's been done to you is far more important!"

Iola rolls her eyes. "It was hardly an issue before, you know. No one could even tell."

"So you're just alright with everything? You're not angry?" Sofie demands, voice rising.

"Do you honestly think I would be alright with any of this? What Aveline has done is illegal, but what she's done to me is much, much worse!" Iola snaps, hissing the words as she stands tall to face the girl. "She has been stealing my free will from me my entire life, Sofie. She has taken away from me entire gaps of time leaving me with spaces in my memory that I have never thought to question before now because she was my mother and I am supposed to trust her!

"I am furious. I want to watch her fall to nothing. I want her to be nothing," she breathes, growling the words dangerously. "I want to be the one to stand over her with my wand and my spells to bring her down, but I where and when am I to do so, Sofie? How can I do that when not even you believed me for a second?"

She finds herself with an armful of Sofie, the girl shaking with soft tears. "I'm so sorry, Iola! I'm so sorry! I'm a terrible friend, a terrible person!"

"You aren't," she says softly, not entirely convinced herself.

"I am. I do not deserve you."

Iola pats her back, silky feeling of her dress smooth beneath her fingers. She's not sure what she should say.

But a shiver runs down her spine, hairs raising at the back of her neck at the familiar sense of dread and hawklike attention that only one person was ever capable of instilling her with.

Her hand twitches — a light, weightless giddiness taking hold of her mind.

Pushing Sofie away, her palm tingles with the each to slap her, to hit her away, which was ridiculous because this girl was her best friend no matter how angry she was.

She hurt you, a voice whispers, hit her. Hurt her back.

Her hand raises, moving on its own before she rebels, yanking away with a trembling gasp.

Looking up, she faces her mother's sharp gaze and her anger doubles, spreading like wildfire.

The shift is quick, instantaneous, as she spins Sofie from her arms to stand behind her — facing the tip of her wand readily.

"What are you doing?" Iola's surprised by the strength of her voice. "What gives you the right?"

"It's for your own good," Aveline says softly, gently. "I only want what's best for you."

"What's best for me? And what's that? To control me? To steal my life?"

"I did what I needed to make you the best that there is, the best that there ever be."

"And that required you to try and steal my life?"

Aveline scoffs. "I haven't stolen a thing that wasn't rightfully mine!"

"How can anything be rightfully yours? You don't own me, mother!" She screams, hands shaking at her sides.

"I own every bit of you. I created you, girl, I made you into what you were," she seethes, holding her wand higher as she speaks. "You would be nothing without me, Iola. You would be just as useless as your father."

Rage bubbles through her, red flaring through her vision. Fingers dig into her arm, nails pinching the exposed skin. Sofie shivers behind her.

"Don't. Don't you dare bring him into this," Iola says, voice trembling. "You are the terrible one. How much have you taken from me?"

"Darling—"

"No! No, you don't call me that! Stop lying and just tell me the truth! How much have you taken from me?"

"I haven't taken a thing."

She breathes heavily through her nose. "How much have you taken from me?" Iola repeats, emphasizing each word.

"There are people watching," Sofie whispers, sticking herself closer into her side. "They're crowding the entrance."

Iola doesn't look, doesn't move her gaze from her mother and the wand that she was facing down. There were other professors around somewhere. She had heard Hogwarts potion master taking points away from his students in the rose garden.

"Look at how she cowers. Look at how she shields herself. I have only done what is necessary to turn you into the fiercest, most powerful version of yourself," Aveline argues in that sweet honey, silky voice of hers. "You are meant for such great things. I've promised him that you were. Come with me, daughter. Let us show the world your strength."

Shaking her head, she twitches, hand moving fast to free her wand from her thigh — twirling herself and Sofie around, moving quickly out of the blast range that blew out toward the fountain, she shoots back the protection spell that covers them as she shoves the Italian girl away into the hold of another student before turning back to face her mother fully. Calmly.

Her hand is deadly steady for the war of emotions that flare through her.

"I would never go with you anywhere," Iola says, jaw aching with how tightly she clenched it. "I'm never going with you anywhere ever again."

"Don't make me force you."

She arches a brow. "Don't make me force you to put your wand down, mother."

Aveline eyes darken, chin lifting so her head was held high and regal.

"You will regret standing against me, daughter."

The resounding blast is terrifying, a shiver of panic rushing through as the fountain explodes and pieces go flying around her. Apparently other students were too stupid to get out of the way.

Her wand moved on instinct, spells shooting out as a counter, decidedly focused on her mother that moved with hauntingly familiar steps.

Iola had never faced her mother before, not like this, not with the intention to hurt, to bring her down without mercy — painful. Each time before had been practice, gentler, but this... this was real, this was her fighting against the illegality of her mother's action and the years of unforgivable torment she was subjected to.

But this was difficult, this wasn't fair or evenly matched as her mother didn't care who she hurt to get what she wanted.

It was a shadow, a force that hung over her as she blocked one of the nastier spells and returned in kind.

Letting her instincts take over was easy, letting her anger get the best of her as she bore down against her mother was easy.

It was like a pulsing behind her eyes, a click that held her tightly in place.

Aveline's spells grew darker, more dangerous, and some distant part of her heard the fear that ran through the onlookers, but Iola would recognize these anywhere. Her mother taught her everything and gave her access to any book she wanted.

The dark arts weren't so scary when you knew how to use it properly, after all.

"Iola!"

The voice shoots through her, passing through her like a spark and a zap, and it pulls her mind away.

She's blasted across the courtyard. She rolls along the stones, skidding and scrapping.

It comes down heavier, faster. Weakness was terrible, disgusting. It was vulnerability and every part of it was what she deserved.

Her wand is slippery in her hand, but her hold is tight, strong, as she hears the steps approaching her. Heels of shoes scuffing along the ground.

Iola breathes deeply, steadying herself as she pushes up with a groan. "Inconvens sollicitus," she breathes, watching the shimmery lavender waves as it seeps into her mother.

The woman stills, eyes staring unblinking as she wavers. Her face morphs into an expression of pain, of terror.

Aveline collapses, legs crumbling beneath her.

Slowly, so slowly, Iola drags herself to her feet, standing to her full height, confident, and she feels tall, powerful.

She can't look at herself, not with adrenaline thrumming through her and her body wonderfully light, weightless.

Instead she hold her wand to her mother, tip still alight with a glowing lavender. It flares brighter when she puts more focus into the spell. Aveline whimpers, back arching.

Her head tilts curiously, watching the reaction. Iola had never seen it herself, but she knew how much it hurt, how it tore at your mind and soul with all of your fears and nightmares, with memories that come back to haunt you.

"Come now, Miss Iola, you can let her go now," someone tells her gently.

Her hand twitches.

"It's alright now, dear, you don't have to fear her anymore." There's a soft touch to her arm, hot and burning, and she flinches away, wand tumbling from her hand and she gasps and shakes.

The world snaps into focus around her, settling into place.

The destruction was horrible, but not entirely surprising. It felt like the natural course, a natural conclusion to what, she wasn't sure.

"What? What have I..." she shakes her head, fingers curled close to her chest.

"You're alright, dear, it's alright. You did a good thing," the woman tells her, a Professor McGonagall that wraps a cloak around her shoulders and pulls her away from her unconscious mother.

Another professor swoops in, picking up her dropped wand as he follows after the pair.

They are clearing the crowd away, sending them to bed, and Iola feels rightfully terrible about ruining the ball.

"I am sorry," she gasps, forcing the words out, unable to look away from the woman. "I tried to stop her."

"I know. You did well."

"I tried. She is so fast and there were so many people in the way, I could not do anything to stop her."

"You stopped her. She didn't hurt anyone," Professor McGonagall tells her.

Iola starts. "She did not hurt anyone?"

They lead her away, taking her toward the entrance that was admittedly still full of people. Her head rises naturally, reflexively, as she passes, face wiping of emotion from years of training.

"Professor Dumbledore will make sure that she is taken care of," the professor tells her, but she can't focus on that when she can see the looming figure, standing among her peers.

Her headmistress spots her immediate, arms opening wide as her lips pull into a sympathetic pout.

"Madame!" She launches herself at her, letting the large woman fold her into a tight embrace. "Oh, what am I to do, Madame?"

Madame Maxime pats her head gently. "You'll be taken care of. All will be fine."

Turning her head, she forces herself not to flinch away from the ginger hair that stuck out among the moving crowd, brown eyes focused entirely on her.

"She ought to see Madam Pomfrey," Professor McGonagall whispers, Iola wand in her hands.

"Yes, of course," Madame Maxime says, accent heavy.

And she lets them lead her along, lets them make decisions as she numbly follows, mind stuck in the courtyard square somewhere behind her.

She was used to being told what to do, used to following along obediently. It was the easy part, the normal part.

Iola simply wasn't looking forward to the articles that were to come from this.

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Sorry this is a long overdue chapter but I've just been really into ready merlin fanfic lately? Like merthur is bae and I want to right some Merlin five now because I'm honestly trash but wtvs

I had a little trouble with this chappie because of the fight with her mother... like the words... I had so many version running through my mind and I loved them all but I forget them when I went to write so I really hate myself for that

Unedited

2020-01-08