There was a distinct sort of numbness that flooded her system from the moment that Iola stepped into the extravagant hall overfilled with parliament members and other notable supporters of the current Prime Minister that funded the French magical government. 

Iola, of course, was rather used to such a classy audience gathered in one place to meet for ridiculous small talk as a front for business as they would, without a doubt, be requesting further monetary support in their endeavours. Her family as far back as she could recall -- which was admittedly far off as Aveline had her study the family tree on her mother's side in great detail -- had always been linked within matters of the government. It was a terrible business, but fruitful if one wishes to conduct acts of evil under the radar. 

When she had gotten the invitation, her first instinct was to toss it into the carriage fireplace without an ounce of hesitation. Her friends would hear nothing on the matter, apparently, as they had gone to great lengths to convince her to speak with Madame Maxime so that she might get a pass. 

And as Madame Maxime was slotted to be in attendance with the addition of Fleur and Francois' family, she was given no choice but to accept. 

It was, of course, the personalization to her invitation that encourageed her to accept as well. They wanted her not only for her money, but for her position as a champion duelist and Quidditch Keeper whose team was to be in attendance as well. 

It was a little odd for her to be added to the French National team for such an event when she was only a substitue player for Bastien and full time for the Quiberon Quafflepunchers, but it was falttering that they would think to add her when she hasn't truly seen any of them since the summer -- either of her teams, for that matter, and Iola could only wonder what it must be like for Viktor as he was used to training with his team regularly. 

She had handed her coat, a riculous furr monstrosity that her Aveline had ordered made for her in a variety of different species and materials a year or two back, to a small house-elf that stood just within the entrance, and now as she slowly began to tour the large room, greeting people with practiced smiles and softly spoken words, she took in the detail that stood out around her.

The sparkling clear windows overlooked the court garden of Versailles, the fountain shown with soft lighting at the center of the court, the surface magically unbothered by the stream. 

She turned away, falling into mingling conversation with the skill of a well-bred pureblood in the mist of high company. 

It was surprisingly easy to become that girl again, that person that was aloof and empty inside. Who smiled reflexively and not because she meant to, that spoke politics and vacations that she had never actually taken since she was too busy with training -- and she spoke of training, let disgusting old men peer at her body as though she wasn't aware of their actions, let them spectulate her skills and critisize as though she wasn't there before them and able to tearthem apart where they stood without a thought. 

"They've had a good year, those Malfoy's. They graciously allowed the ministry to buy a couple of cases of their Superior Red this year," a stout wizard blubbered on, tasting his wine with a wiggle of his curled moutsahce. "A comendable thing indeed, to impress the French with their wine." 

"I suppose. I much prefer the Moretti flavouring. They have such large orchards in Italy and only sell the top, best of their products. Taste the bright peach and cheery wine and tell me that those Malfoy's can still hope to compair," Francois bubbly father exclaims, and truly, how she had ended up at his side was beyond her. 

"Speaking of the Moretti, I heard that your son was courting the young heiress," Mrs. Coutillard whispers conspriationally. 

Iola hums. "Yes, you've heard correctly. My dearest friends Sofie and Francois have been courting since the start of the school year. What an accomplished, poweful match they will surely make, don't you think? You must be very proud of your son, M. Duchesne, for securing the heart of such an accomplished young lady," she speaks clear and in defense of her friends to these snobby wizards. If only the Duchesne had been a bit more careful with their money. She sipped her Moretti wine purposefully, steam held delicately in deft fingers. "Let us not speak on those that aren't here. Tell me of your newest shipment from Japan, M. Coutillard. I have been informed by my staff that they are in search of some of their specialized teas." 

"Ah yes, I often forget that you are the proprietor of your own businesses." 

"Yes, one often does when my name is known for such flashy things, not to mention Mother's unfortunate disposition." 

"Where was it that your family made your fortune, again?" the stout man asks, brushing over Aveline with suspicious speed. Iola pins that detail for later. 

Her smile turns more honest, more feral with teeth as she turns her face to him. "Apart from being the descendant of two Noble Families?" Three, but they don't have to know that. "The branch of Travers that I descend specialized in magical texts and their translation. I now own a rather large portion of a publishing company as well as a majority of the orignal texts and documentation for spells and potions along with their historics. The Bouchard family deals with artifacts and the like in various forms. Then there is my Grandpere Bouchard who founded a potion company with all the information that my family takes in. They supply many wizarding hospitals and pharmacies with fresh, afforadble potions," she tells them, grinning as she sips at her wine. "I, however, do not find joy in running many of these things and have only had to deign myself to work with them now that i am the sole proprietor. Of course, that is not to mention the forethought that my great grandfather Aegon Travers had investing in what are now successful non-magic companies." 

"It's a wonder that you've grown to be humble, dear," the stout one's wife comments earning a snicker from Mrs. Coutillard. 

She turns her gaze to her slow and purposeful. "I apologize, but I do not seem to know your name, ma'am," she bites out the words, and how wonderful a weapon they are as they woman's mouth goes slack and her cheeks flair red in embarassment -- because of course she might have been invited, but that didn't mean a thing if no one knew who you were, least of all one of the last children of one of the oldest wizarding families in all of France. 

"Mademoiselle Bouchard! What a pleasure it is to see you." 

Her mouth twitched, threatening a sigh to pass her lips. "Pardon me, Monsieurs, Madames" she spoke soflty, turning away from them, fingers delicately held to the passing off her wine glass to one of the passing house-elves and taking another off their tray. 

Ponpy trials close behind, his grip locked on a little handful of sheer blue fabric that was covered in pretty embroidered constillations and gems of stars. 

"Cybèle, Alain. It is good to see you," she greets, leanign forward to press a kiss to each of their cheeks. 

"Iola, you have been worrying us needlessly with your inability to use poper correspondance. You really have to get yourself an owl and actually write us letters, girl, honestly," Alain comments, the older man draggin her back to press a kiss to the top of her head. She grumbles to herself at the familiarity of the action. "Hildegard has been interested in contacting you for various strategies  but hasn't been sure of the right times. You have had quite the year, haven't you?" 

"Mallard can send me an owl when ever she wishes, she knows this, as do you. So long as your owls do not run fly off before I respond, then it hardly matters if I have an owl myself." 

"You are truly too stubborn to even get an animal, aren't you," Cybèle laughs. "It's admirable, I suppose, since you're never home to look after them." 

She doesn't give a responce, looking over the other woman's shoulder to Bastien that was making his way toward them in the crowd. She pulls away, disinterested and with an impassive expression. 

Bastien has always been very forward with his efforts to date her. Never enough to be unprofessional and never enough to make her uncomfortable, but enough for it to be slightly annoying, inconvenient. 

The keeper was like a puppy, she supposed, over excited and disgustingly sweet. She swallowed down the rest of her wine and reached for a Moretti grape and plum mixture that was wonderfully sweet yet tarte on her tongue. 

"Iola-Colette! How happy I am to see you," Bastien chirped, skipping aorudn their teammates to land himself at her side. Ponpy scuttles to her other side, clinging to her leg like a small child would. 

"Bastien, hello." 

His smile is wide, beaming. "Will you give me the pleasure of a dance, Iola-Colette? They're playing our song." 

"We don't have a song, Bastien." 

"Oh, but we do, you know. We danced to this when you had a complete shut out that time I had that horrible concussion and couldn't dare play." 

"We danced because it was exciting and you dragged me onto the dance floor to celebrate." 

Bastien pouts. "But it was so much fun. Even your witch of a mother smiled at the scene." 

She freezes, hand idly twitching to her thigh where her wand rested. Aveline never smiled, rather, she hardly ever smiled, but that was hardly the point. The point was that she could remember dancing, that was true, but she couldn't remember what came afterward. 

It was a blur, not the blank spots in her memory that she was used to, but something very close, she was sure. She didn't want to consider what it was her mother had done to her that time -- or any time, she supposed, but that wasn't an option, no, the only option was to just shove it down, shove it back and simply move on. There was nothing to be done about any of it now. 

"I don't really believe that's it's a good idea," she says, holding her drink up as though it was a shield. 

He pouts, shifting so that he stood closer to her side. Iola tilts her head back to look up at him lazily. 

"You're so cold to me, Iola." 

"A shame," she mutters, rolling her eyes in his face. 

Cybèle laughs. "Just get over it, Bastien. She turned you down. Again. Take a hint, my friend." 

"Iola already has herself a man, you know," Alain teases, smile sharp. 

She slowly pulls the lip of her glass up to her mouth once more and sips slowly, waiting for them to open their mouths anew. 

Bastien stiffens. "You what?" he whispers, voice sounding terribly sad. She can't find it in herself to really care, however. 

"Haven't you seen the news? I think it might have spread all over Europe at this point. Iola is dating someone from Hogwarts. A redheaded boy if I remember correctly," Cybèle continues on.  

Bastien gapes at her in all of his blond glory. "Redhead? You're dating a ginger, of all people." 

Finishing the dregs of her drink, she hands her glass to Ponpy, the little elf taking it happily and darts off with something to do -- likely pleased to get away from the needless tension. "I am free to date whomever I wish, am I not?" she drawls in a voice that reminds her eerily of her mothers. "George is quite the remarkable man, I will admit. A beater for his Hogwarts team, in fact. He takes me on the most original outings. I have never been bored in his presence." 

The end, she finds, is unapologetically aimed at Bastien. His green eyes widen before they narrow in anger as he leans forward into her space with little care for self-preservation it seems. Cybèle and Alain protest quietly, warning their teammate back so as not to causing a scene -- because they all know Iola is not above causing a scene and spinning it so that it's all pinned on the boy. 

"Do you have to be such a bitch all the time?" he seethes. "Can't you be mindful of another person's feelings for once in your life?!" 

Iola blinks at him, jaw clenched as she forces her features into a disinterested line. "I am mindful of other people's feelings. People like George," she bites, taking a sick sort of pleasure in the way his cheeks burn red. "You are not entitled to my affections because you are nice to me, Janvier." 

Ponpy comes tottering to her side and she grips his hand in a moment, taking the new glass from his hand. She tries not to pout at the Superior Red that filled the glass. It wasn't as though she was going to drink another now when she was angry. That would spell for a horrible outcome. 

"If you'll excuse me, Cybèle, Alain. There are others that I need to speak to," she excuses, turning away. 

"Wait!" A hand grabs onto her wrist, jostling the wine in her glass as it tips and spills. She watches curiously as the red lands on his sleeve and parts of his chest. With a quick glance, she looks to her dress to see the blue colored a now dark purple. 

"Look what you've done now, Bastien!" She snaps louder than was necessary. "Let me go." 

Pulling her wrist free, she hides her content at the situation with a scowl as she storms from the hall, placing the empty wine glass on a table as she passes. 

The pair remain silent up to the moment that she retrieves her coat and apparate to the outside of her villa. The wards let her through and the door unlocks with a wave of her wand. 

"Did you have to spill your drink on him, Mademoiselle?" Ponpy asks softly, as though afraid she would turn her anger to if -- as if she could ever. 

"I did not, but I believe that he deserved it. I would not have if he had simply not touched me, but alas..." she trails off, beginning to strip the moment that she stepped foot into the dark home and the door is closed behind her. "Shall we spend the night or go straight to the train?" 

"Does Mademoiselle  wish Ponpy check the train schedules?" 

Iola pauses in her treck to her room. The home was a mess, that much was clear even with the lights off. "No, I think we ought to just floo to Hogsmead directly, don't you think?" 

"But the floo is down, Madamoiselle."

She eyes the empty fireplace. It wouldn't be difficult to get it hooked up for an hour in the morning, but she didn't exactly have an owl to message them with. Iola, however, would never admit that her ridiculous teammates were right. A patronus in the morning would have to do. She gets in a message with the bank to send them the money from her vault, as well. 

"We'll figure it out come morning, Ponpy. Come, let's clean up a bit around here. I can't believe the state that those Aurors left my home in." 

He nods, picking up her dress and disappearing it with a snap of his fingers. She hadn't a doubt that it would be clean and hung with care in her closet come morning. 

"Do Ponpy fetch Winky to help?"

She pauses at the stairs, a hand on the railing. "Leave her be. She's still technically working for Professor Dumbledore," she says, continuing up the stairs. "Allow me to grab some nightwear, Ponpy. I will be down to assist you in a moment." 

"No, Mademoiselle! That won't be necessary," he squeaks, but she disregards his protests as she steps around the mess and into her room. 

Which was also a mess, more so than anything else. She sneers, casting a disdainful eye around the room. They had absolutely no reason to search amongst her underwear. 

Scowling, she waves her wand with agitated flicks, cleaning her room with waves that righted everything that hadn't been broken -- which required additional work to repair everything and right it once more. 

As it were, she didn't even want to consider the state that the rest of her home was in. Aveline's room least of all. If her room looked as though a tornado passed through and she had nothing to do with it, then she could only imagine what her mother's room might look like. 

The sooner she closed the house down the better. She would stay in London come summer, as she had originally planned, she believed, and the villa would be closed until she decided to return. Perhaps summer breaks once she finished school would be nice. Vacations until she got bored with London and switched again. 

Regardless, Iola dressed in the first pair of pajamas that she got her hands on and went to work, starting with the ground and what Ponpy had not gotten to yet. She turned on lights and lit candles as she went, casting the home in a soft glow as she enchanted mops and brooms to clean as they took care of everything else. 

With a couple of hours of sleep, Iola woke in time to send out her messages and receive a reply back that she would have two hours before she was able to use the floo to head out. 

Nodding to herself, she finished any things that might require her attention first, starting with business as she did a quick morning training session as Ponpy read and replied to her letters in a quick, orderly fashion. 

The rest of her time was spent running errands and visiting the Paris magical center downtown whilst gently batting off fans that fought for her attention. 

"Mademoiselle," Ponpy whispers in a dejected tone from her side, shakily holding out a copy of the Daily Prophet that he had likely received from outside the nearest cafe. Not many people cared for English news around here. 

Taking it from him, she reads the article title on the first page. 

'The Madness of Barty Crouch: Crouch missing'

Iola skims the article as quickly as she could read. "This is not good news, Ponpy." 

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bit of a filler. bit of a character study. big time skip. Hope you enjoyed. 

unedited 

written: 2020-12-15

posted: 2020-12-15