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.

He was distracting, positively influentially so, and it made her heart patter silly. She didn't try to quell the sensation, not when they weren't really doing anything yet anyway. She quite enjoyed the feeling.

"That looks much better," Bagman says, his smile incredibly offputting. "Doesn't it feel so?"

"It feels as if I am gloating. It is not a, err, kind thing to do. I am already very important as is. I do not want people to pay me attention that I do not deserve."

"Ah, but you deserve it. You are not only naturally talented, but you try so very hard."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "If I did not know better, then I would think that you are, how they say, butter me up."

He barks out one of his signature loud laughs. "You aren't the kind of girl that can be buttered up, Iola, I wouldn't even attempt to try it."

She hums, a sound of polite disinterest.

Her saving grace comes in the form of harry barreling over to them, his clothes in a rumpled disarray as he dashes across the thin wooden aisle at her side to stop before them with a pant, hands coming to rest against his knees as he draws deep breaths.

Hiding her smile, she gazes up at the boy with thinly veiled amusement as he huffs out his excuses.

They're quick to silence him, Professor Moody approaching the boy to ready him for the second task. Bagman takes it upon himself to get settled, beginning the opening announcements that are promptly interrupted by Professor Dumbledore.

The Second Task begins just as quickly with the champions disappearing into the dark water below at the boom of the cannon.

Iola gets the sense that this was going to be a long hour ahead of her with the chattering Weasley brother, Bagman and perhaps only Madame to speak with to pass the time.

"You shouldn't look so miserable, you know--" she nearly jumps at the whisper in her ear-- "It's only just started and people might get the wrong idea."

She swallows her grin, eyes not leaving the still surface of the lake. It had been twenty minutes since they've dove under, and she was itching with impatience to get this all over with. There was truly little to do other than wait for there return as they faced a ridiculously large clock that taunted them with each slow tick.

"What is this idea that they will get?" she asks softly, the wooden dock beneath them shifting as he inched his way closer to her.

"They'll think that the task is something easy with you looking so miserable."

The brief explanation that Madame Maxime had given her that morning flashes to the front of her mind. "Ah, is this a trick to make me tell you what it is?" she teases, finally glancing down to him.

George was wearing a cozy looking pair of mittens with a hate that matched. He was sporting a house sweater proudly, the matching scarf hanging loose around his shoulders.

"Me? I'd never."

Her responding grin is tiny. "Of course. Where is your shadow? Or is it that you are his shadow?"

"He's my shadow!' he blurts, stopping to realize what he just said, likely not taking care to notice how loud he was being as he brought his brother's incessant chatter to a stop. "We aren't anyone's shadows. We simply get on well."

"It is nice to have an instant friend from the moment you are born, yes?"

"Me and Freddie are gonna be best mates forever," he says, "that is, if you want me to tell people you're my best mate, I'd let them think that."

Iola giggles softly. "That is very nice of you, thank you."

"Why are you here, George?" His brother interrupts rather annoyingly.

His brows furrow, mouth twisiting inot an ugly frown as he turns away from her to face his brother. "Why don't you just shove off, Per--"

"He is here to see me," Iola says simply, words drawn out carelessly. "I enjoy his company very much."

"I see."

Iola is sure that no one beyond Aveline has taken such a tone with her before. It was bitter, condescending and incredibly rude. She itched, fingers twitching. Had he been anyone else, any other foul-mouthed man that dared speak down to her with only a few words, then she would never hesitate to put him in his place. Teach him that he should learn to see more of a person than the job they held when power and strength were the true things to run the world -- of course, money always helped and she had a stupid amount of it just sitting around to ruin his budding career if she wished, it would be easy, having seen the way her mother would flash a handful of galleons and--

She took a deep breath, calming herself. "Good. Then you will see that I will not be quick to send him away. I am, how you say, fond of George. I would not want to waste time could be spent with him."

"Leave the boy alone," Bagman calls out dryly, shooting her a poorly concealed wink. "He's not doing any harm."

"Yeah, Weatherby, I'm not doing any harm," George mocks quietly.

Iola bites the inside of her cheek. "What is Weatherby?"

George beams at her, cold touched cheeks spreading wide with the tell-tale sign of him preparing to tell her some exaggerated story.

There's a shot of red sparks that have her shooting out of her seat before he could manage so much as a word, wand in hand as she steps past him to reach for the water.

The professors were moving just as quickly, Professor Dumbledore speaking to one of the merfolk.

There's a bit of quick spellwork that she catches easily and Iola is scaling the rest of the space to the water with long strides and a shove to the others as she drags Fleur into her arms, dress robe flying from around her shoulder to swathe her friend.

The healer, Madame Pomfrey was there to heal the scratch marks that littered her exposed skin, a tall, thin boy trailing behind with an armful of towels.

"What happened?' Iola breathed, rubbing her friend's arm in comfort.

"The grindylows--" Fleur's voice trembles-- "I could not beat them. They were too many," she whispers, "Iola, they have Gabrielle."

She pouts, turning to the other judges, the main judges, for something that she ought to say. There wasn't much that could be done until the time was up, of course, or then someone would have retrieved the girl right away. Though, she really wasn't certain if she was meant to tell the girl that was so terribly worried.

Madame Maxime saved her the task as she spirited Fleur to the other side with the two other Headmasters and the Weasley brother close behind. She suspects that she was probably meant to follow along as well, but found she held no interest.

Iola didn't need the story to know what she was to score Fleur, friend or not. It was simple in her mind, the fact that she could not complete her task, failing to retrieve her lost treasure and had needed to be rescued before the time was up.

She was to be fair and just and she knew that would be how Fleur wanted her to do things regardless.

She stands, core tight at the burst of cold air against the damp material of her dress. She fingered the tip of her wand, wondering if it was worth the effort to dry herself for the rest of the time that she was going to have to sit here, but decided against it.

Iola turned to George instead, hovering by the back of her seat uncertainly. She doesn't smile, not when so many people were paying attention, but she does try to relay her reassurance as well that she could with her eyes -- hoping that he understood that everyone was going to be fine even if he might not know that his brother and Hermione were actually down there.

Sighing, she returns to her seat knowing that there was a good chance that she was going to hear him complaining about it all later.

Well, as long as she was allowed to listen to him speak, then she wasn't going to mind.

Her pants came in soft huffs as she totes her broom under her arm whilst she hops up and down to adjust the tongue of her shoe. Her day was spent with hard flying and body strengthening in preparation for her return to Quidditch and elitist summer tournaments where Iola truly planned to redeem herself.

She wasn't quite sure what they were doing here, why they were allowed on the grounds when the event had been long since over. The second task had been the day before and she had not even competed as a champion.

A groan slipped passed her lips as she felt her eye twitch as they flocked towards her. Iola was accustomed to the way they were drawn to her, but she did not appreciate their terrible timing. She was a mess, skin shining with sweat and clothes something Aveline had once bought her for training. Sports skirt over tights, a training top with sweatbands on her upper arms, her wand strapped to her thigh, her competition heels dirtied and not fit for the flash of cameras that they tried to blind her with -- nor were they fit for flying, but with the regular training regime that she had completed before, it was always best to wear those ridiculous shoes.

It was embarrassing, how they gawked at her, chasing the trails of sweat that ran over her bared skin as Iola struggle to slip a jumper over her head as she held a bottle of water between her thighs and broom under her arm.

They collide with a bang of noise, chatter and excited calls coming at her from all sides, and Iola stretched an arm out before her to clear a way through, unable to look up at them as a blush burst across her cheeks.

"Miss Bouchard! Miss Bouchard!" There was a reporter, Iola scanned the crowd quickly, picking through the people that called her name to the polite one that vied for her attention.

A short girl, hair pulled into pigtails and a frantic gleam to her eyes.

"Oui?" Iola asks, stopping in her rushed walk to let them crowed around her as she speaks to the girl.

"That boy that sat with you during the second task, the ginger, who is he? What is he to you?" The pigtail girl asks, a red hue bursting over her cheeks.

Iola mulled over her thoughts, forming her words into a careful string as she considered what she wished to say. "He is. . . very kind and very sweet. What we are does not matter because he makes me happy. Thank you."

She nods, pushing her way through the shouts with practiced expertise as she made her escape - the sound of her name and random questions sharp against her hearing and Iola did her best to drown it all out.

And then they stopped, clearing quickly and Iola could see Viktor parting them with a skill special to him alone. She smiled thankfully, accepting the arm he offered, and let him lead her the rest of the way up the path and to the castle that promised warmth and safety.

"Merci," she breathed, a gasp of a laugh following her as she glanced back to see the group frozen in place as they stared up after them.

Cheekily, Iola gave them a mischievous grin and a tiny wave as the grand door closed behind them.

Viktor huffed, amused with her as he shook his head and continued down the hall. "Do not motivate them."

Laughing, Iola trails closely behind with a small grin. "I am not encourage them. She was polite, I answered the question."

He made a noncommittal noise as he continued down the hall, not paying her that much attention as she made the occasional remark about one thing or another.

Iola let her friend lead her where he wished, the man not tired from the competition yesterday in the slightest as he moved with a well-displayed grace that shattered any beliefs that he might be tired.

It seemed as though Viktor was never tired, or at least, that he never allowed himself to be seen in such a state.

She was raised to be much the same. It was a pity that the ridiculous vultures had caught her in a moment of weakness.

"You encourage with answer. I do not speak at all."

"I know you do not speak to them at all," she says. "That is because you do not like to speak to people as it is."

"It is not a problem as you say it."

"No, I am not making it sound like it is a problem. I enjoy my time alone and the silence very much, you know. We are very alike in this sense."

Viktor's mouth quirks into a small grin. "Very alike, yes, I will say this next I am get in trouble."

"Voyons donc! I do not get in trouble ever!"

"You will the more you are with George. Herm – own – ninny say he is trouble."

Iola snickers, not having the mental strength to even try to deny something like that. "Hermione, I am told, also is found to get in trouble from time to time. She is friends with Harry, is she not?"

He nods, face grave, not giving anything away, and she smoothes away her pout before she could appear childish. "They are good people, yes?" she says, skillfully shifting the conversation. "The people at Hogwarts are not what I expect, but it is nice, no?"

"Da, they are very different. Is a little strange."

"Well, I like it. I will be sad to leave."

They grow quiet and Iola is suddenly struck with how soon it was they were actually going to be leaving. Time passed quickly at this school and it seemed like only in a few short months she would be returning to Beauxbaton to only return to an empty home in Paris.

A shiver passes through her just at the thought. Iola understood now more than ever the difference between being alone and lonely and she feared terribly what would happen to her once she was left to her own devices.

"I miss Bulgaria," Viktor tells her.

She startles, guilt welling in her chest. She hadn't much thought of France since she's been here. It was a separate thing from where shew as now, set apart as someone different in her thoughts.

In France, she had always been Aveline's daughter, in most of Europe, she was just Aveline's daughter -- even here, she didn't have much of an idea of who she really was yet, but it was starting to make more and more sense to her.

But going back, returning, she worried that she was going to be stuck as who her mother made her.

Iola didn't want to be what her mother made her, but she truly didn't have much else to go on, much else to be.

She swallowed thickly. "I miss France, too. It will be nice to go back."

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hello! sorry it's taken me so long to update. I was busy doing stuff with my family and then I had writers block, sooo, yeah...

anyway,,, what's up? how's it going?

Edit 2021-03-05: Iola totally would have been Viktors treasure had she not been asked to be a judge and have been so well-known

unedited

2020-07-08