The chill that blew down from the snowy-peaked mountains that morning was near insufferable had it not been for the overbearing heat of the train ride back to Hogwarts.

Iola was early, exactly as she wanted so that it would be as little a spectacle as possible when she returned with little fanfare and a desire to sleep in a proper bed that she was at least partially comfortable in.

It wasn't as luxurious as the one she had at the condo, but that one had been cold in such a desolate place. At least the carriage was familiar to her. It provided Iola with a great deal of many well-rested nights that she simply wanted to do away with the deeply-seeded notion that sleeping past a certain hour was the appearance of ill-bred manners and broken dreams, and simply rest for as long as she felt that she needed.

Her luggage bumped and rattled along behind her on the uneven path that led up to where she could see the carriage that was ever unchanging from when they had first arrived, the promise of her bed only pushing her to go faster than she already was.

She could not remember a time that she had been so exhausted in her life and it was such an odd feeling to be faced with it now. She had slept well on the train, just as she had each night that she was away, but here she was dragging her feet more and more the closer that she drew to the carriage that promised warmth and sleep and quiet.

Truly, she wished to see Ponpy so that she might have someone that was willing to talk to her as much as she actually wanted. There had been so many needless, empty conversations, so much small talk that meant nothing, that she felt like she hadn't spoken to anyone in days.

But the possibility of speaking to an actual person drew a glare to her face that was likely to set anyone aflame if the so much as looked at her.

Flames that had been absorbed into her, flames whose heat had burnt so hot around her that she was likely never to be rid of that horrible sensation of burning.

Perhaps that was what was keeping her warm.

Or maybe her fondness for ice was only growing and she no longer focused on such an inconvenience as the cold.

It was dark within the carriage, rather, darker than the pale sunlight of the rising sun that made the outside glow. There was only the occasional candle that lit the way only enough for you to see where you were. Students were not meant to be out of bed, no one was, so it would be incredibly unnecessary for any more light than there was.

Iola found it odd, though, as she watched the tiny flame flicker and bend, curling inward, down, only to shoot back up. It was like she could see every speck of it, every inch that made up the dripping wax and burning wick.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up until later." His voice makes her skin itch, hands twitching at her side.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with you right now, Gerome. I just want to go to sleep."

"You have a hell of a way of just going to bed. You've been staring at that candle for five minutes. What's wrong?"

She blinks slowly. Five minutes? That didn't seem right, it didn't seem possible. Time didn't pass so quickly and she had only been looking for a moment.

"Nothing is wrong."

"You're a terrible liar, Iola. What happened?"

"Nothing happened, Gerome. I'm just tired."

"You've never let something so simple like this get to you before."

Her mind echoes with the command to turn, telling her to move and she does so mechanically, body stiff and jerking as she faces him. He was in his pyjamas still -- checkered bottoms and a loose-fitting crew neck shirt -- as he held his wand in a weak grip, a soft lumos lighting the tip.

"I haven't been sleeping well when away. It was not as comforting as the carriage."

Gerome's mouth moves slowly. words forming. It takes her a moment to hear them. "You're not comfortable being sleeping alone, right?" he says gently, whispered as if someone might be awake to hear them. There's no teasing in his voice.

"It none of your business," she finally says.

He comes toward her slowly, steps measured, even, and she can see each move as he follows through with it, can picture the pull and flex of muscle. It all comes through in slow shots, in dragged out motions.

It irked her that he was moving so slowly, that it was like he wasn't real, like he was made of clay and she was some strange puppet master that was meant to capture their every image unable to design and choose what they were meant to do.

"Iola? Are you okay?"

She jerks back at the touch, recoiling at how close he suddenly was. "What?"

Gerome is careful as he approaches her, gentle as he guides her around to a nearby seat by the window, drawing open the curtains with a sharp snap of the wrist. She winces at the brighter light.

His eyes harden at the better look he gets of her. "Can you look at me, Iola?"

She hums, meeting his gaze steadily as he prods gently at her chin, brushing his thumb over the srape that trailed up the left side of her jaw. "What happened?"

The words form in her mind, flashing out at her over and over. I lost i lost i lost i lost i lost ilostilostilostilostilost. She blinks. "I lost."

"No. You didn't. You could never lose. You're Iola-Colette. What happened?"

She swallows. "I... I'm top of my division. I won my bracket. I was placed into the world division."

"And then what happened?"

"You saw the papers," she snaps, turnign harshly in his grasp so she didn't have to look at him.

"I have not seen them yet. The post will only be out this morning."

"This morning?"

"You took the train. you would have seen the early distribution."

Iola nods her understanding. That makes sense. It did, becasuse she had only left last night after the healers cleared her for travel. She had gone to the condo and gotten her things. Then she came straight here.

"I placed eighth," She breathes the empty words.

"In the world?"

"Yes."

Gerome chuckles, patting her arm. She flinches at the burst of pain that shoots through her. "That's good! You're the eighth best dueller in the world at only seventeen, Iola! That's legendary!"

"That is not winning," she chokes, sound bursting from her as she trembles, hand tugging uselessly on her jacket. She was so hot, it was excruciating. "I didn't win in the end. No one will speak of eighth place."

"They will, they will, Iola, relax. Calm down," he stresses, catching her hand easily as he helps ease the jacket from her shoulders. "Calm down. Breathe. You're fine. You didn't lose."

"I lost to someone!" She sounds hysterical, her voice loud and squeaky as she figths to control herself. "It had all gone dark for just a moment, a second, and then he had my wand. Gerome, he had my wand and then he had smiled. He smiled and helped me up. He told me that I was a fierce opponent."

His movements are gentle as he pulls free her arm, turning it hishands as he examines the exposed skin. There were so many bruises, dark and blue and striking. So many cut and scrapes.

She had skid across the floor, had gone flying back tumbling and spinning. She had turned so she landed on her left side, the arm hitting with a crunch as she fell. It was the first and only time that she had gotten so hurt at the tournament. He had been the only one to give her trouble.

"You are a fierce opponent. You are frightening and powerful. You demand respect. You are fierce, Iola."

"No one will respect me after this."

"You are the best dueller of our age, one of the best ever seen. You are keeper for QQ. You play on the French National team. You are the eighth-best dueller in the world. You are respected and envied everywhere."

He pulls her arm straight, moving his wand over to examine it. She sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth, squinting at the motion.

"They gave you a sling, no? You will not heal properly without it."

"I threw it away."

"Liar," Gerome says, resting her arm back at her side to reach for her luggage. She doesn't move to stop him as he riffles through her belonging. He sets aside a medal and a trophy that she had to force in to make it fit properly along with the cloth sling. "Where else were you hurt?"

"There nothing else. Just bruises."

He eyes her as if he didn't fully believe her, but lets it go so that he could help her put the sling back on. "You need to rest your arm if you want it back to full strength."

"What does it matter?" she whispers, rolling her neck as she settles into it.

"You'll need it healed for when you want to play quidditch or duel again," he tells her, looking over her visible skin as she sits desolately.

"There's no point, Gerome. I've lost already. I can't remember a time when I was not first. When I was not the best. It is all that defines me. What am I supposed to do now?"

He drops down before her so that he was level with her eyes. "That isn't the end. We might not get along so well, but I know you, Iola. You are still the best. You are still the envy of all."

"No, you don't understand. I am nothing if I am not first. It is all that I am, all that I have ever been. I have nothing else to my personality. Just duelling and quidditch. That is all that I have," she rambles, tugging at her too tight clothes.

She wanted them off, wanted to burn them to nothing and ash. Sleeveless dress-shirt tucked into high waisted straight-leg pants that were nearly see-through. It was an outfit Aveline had picked out so long ago, that she had set aside as she remarked her approval and what such occasions to were it.

"I am a shadow of a person. A body that only knows how to do two things and she can't even do those things right--" Iola sniffles, horror punching through her at the action-- "I am nothing. What am I supposed to do?"

Gerome frowns, expression stormy. "You get up and move on. You train to be better. You become better. The girl I hate would never admit defeat."

Laughing wetly, she hurriedly wipes at her eyes, forcing away her tears. Slowly, like settling into her own skin once more, she begins to pull together the scattered pieces, drawing herself to as she was. It was like trying to glue together a shattered mirror, the shards were sharp, piercing, as she gathered herself in the palsm of her hands.

There was no that would be gentle with her, not even Iola as she forced them into place, placing them harshly together as the blood turned to tears.

She leaned forward, dropping her forehead to Gerome's shoulder as she shook. It was only for a moment, a minute of vulnerability before she collects herself with a deep breath.

Gerome's smile is small as she pulls away.

"Hand me my medal, please," Iola asks, fingering away her tears.

He's quick to place it around her neck.

"Will you come for breakfast with me?"

"I thought you were tired," he teases.

"Watch it."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Whatever. Give me time to get ready. You should wake Sofie and Fleur, they weren't pleased when you left without saying anything."

"I had nothing to say."

"They did. They always do."

Iola's lips twitch into a small smirk. "Of course. They have many opinions that they believe always need to be shared. I'll unpack before I go to see them. Don't rush yourself."

"How kind of you," he mutters.

"You need all the time in the world to make yourself presentable, Gerome."

He scoffs. "Cow."

Snickering, she waves her wand over the suitcase. Clothes fold and return to where they belong, tucking themselves away and she nods at how swiflty it was done.

"Oh, and Gerome?"

"Oui?"

Iola meets his gaze, wand held loosely in hand. "Not a word of this to anyone."

He grins. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Taking a deep breath, then another, Iola squares her shoulder the best she's able with a hurt arm and resolves herself to moving forward.

This was the easy part. The fight was over. The battle won. She just needed to face the crowd, just needed to take her bow before the world -- because she is the eighth-best competitive dueller in the world. She is a starring keeper. She is a champion.

She is Iola-Colette Bouchard and she was not going to stop now like a coward.

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unedited

2020-05-29