(a/n - barvonne is now my official hi de hi otp and their relationship just intrigues me so much so I am going to try and write it, sticking as much to canon as possible. I know I have so many fics that need updating but yeah... Sorry. Here's another I should start. Meh. I hope it is okay.)

Champions

Chapter 1

Bert Pratt leaped about the small back yard happily, careful to be quiet upon the stones. He was five years old, and Britain had been at war for as long as he could remember. All the other children his age played at war, with the boys marching up the street pretending to be soldiers hunting for the Germans and the girls rushing to them with leaves and bits of moss in order to pretend to patch them up when they fell. Bert, however, was totally alone. He didn't want to play war games, he wanted to dance and perform and be smart. He dreaded the day he would have to join school this year, and learn to be a young soldier, quite probably. Bert Pratt was not one for fighting.

Bert Pratt was an outsider from the first day he ever set foot inside the local school. A smallish boy, he had fluffy curls of a mousy colour and big chocolate eyes which made him look like a startled deer. His teacher was a young woman by the name of Miss Hurst and all the children loved her. On the first day she sat all the children in a circle and had them give their names, their parents' occupations and what they wanted to be when they grew up. For most it was the same repetitive spiel.

"Libby Morrison. My mummy is a nurse and my daddy is a soldier. I want to be a nurse."

"James Patricks. My mummy is a nurse and my daddy is a soldier. I want to be a soldier."

"Jessica Andrews. My mummy is a shopkeeper and my daddy is a soldier. I want to be a teacher."

"Samuel Radnor. My mummy is a factory worker and my daddy is a pilot. I want to be a soldier."

"Bert Pratt. My mummy is a nurse and my daddy is a bus inspector. I want to be a dancer."

"A dancer?!" "His dad ain't in the army!" "Tippy toes!" "Ballerina Bert!" "You're strange!"

The young boy Bert Pratt would have the same words echoing in his ears for weeks, until the armistice was signed and the war was no more. Then, he would still be subjected to regular abuse from the other children, though not as much about war. Just that he wanted to be a dancer.

As he grew up, Bert Pratt grew taller than most other boys of his age. He practiced dancing religiously everyday in his bedroom, neglecting writing stories and drawing pictures and reading books in favour of twirling his battered old teddy bear about his bedroom in a rickety two step that he was trying to commit to memory after seeing a brief glimpse of what it looked like at an end of war street party. Once he turned thirteen, Bert stayed at home much more than other children, choosing to read to his parents or make them meals instead of socialising with other children. He only ever left the house to go to school, and frequently came home covered in bruises and sores which he tried to hide from his parents so as not to cause them worry. The other children beat him up as soon as they saw him, calling him a mollyboy and a coward and a baby and telling him that god hated him, as god had no place for ballerina Bert. Their words stung just as much as their punches, kicks and slaps and Bert had a hard time refraining from crying to himself everyday. His only solace was practicing being a ballroom champion in his little bedroom.

Bert's parents had always been very encouraging of his dreams of becoming a performer, although they were distinctly worried by their son's lack of friends. They noticed the bruises which he struggled to hide and the fact that those around him in Nottingham did not appear to appreciate their son's lifelong ambitions. And so it was when, at sixteen years old, in 1930, Bert announced that he was moving to Sunderland in order to try and fulfil his dreams, his parents allowed him, with his promise that he would keep in touch. In the summer of 1930, Bert Pratt waved goodbye to the ghosts of his childhood in Nottingham.

Yvonne Stuart-Hargreaves was a pale skinned girl with flaming ginger curls which flowed down her back in a long river of flames. No other children in the surrounding area had such fabulous hair, in her opinion, and she firmly believed that it was her crowning feature. Born in 1914, her father was in a job with a reputable furniture company, and Yvonne decided that her father was so much better than those of other children, who were all butchers or farmers or policemen. Yvonne didn't necessarily not get on with other children, in fact, many of them all called upon her to play with them when they went on adventures or picnics or trips. But the truth was that Yvonne just felt much too superior for them. She was thirteen years old, and had, for the past few months, been undergoing all of the necessary changes that a girl must have in order to enter womanhood. It had started off as a confusing time, and Yvonne had listened to her mother and smiled as she was told how she was growing up and becoming mature. And Yvonne had beamed happily and gone once again to read or study or chat with some of the other children. But, of course, her feelings were all over the place. Yvonne began to desire something. She wasn't sure what, but she suddenly realised how Timothy Barnes had a nice jawline, or how Matthew Wallander had incredible eyes. And Yvonne smiled to herself as other girls didn't seem to be changing the way she was.

Every few months, Yvonne's father and mother would attend a party held by the company her father worked at. It was at thirteen years old that Yvonne was allowed to attend one of these gatherings for the first time, and it was here that Yvonne suddenly changed. She had been watching the dancefloor all night, slowly swaying along to the music and dancing along in her head. Yvonne could dance to some extent, as her father had placed her upon his feet from a young age and moved her round the living room of their family home. Dance was something Yvonne was passionate about, and she would have spent her entire life chasing a career in it if her father hadn't been such a strict man. He told her countless times how he didn't serve for the country when she was a small girl to get her a job dancing. Dancing was a hobby. Being a housewife or maid was a woman's job. Heck, why had they even just got the vote? Her mother echoed her father's wishes for her to have a normal career. At the party, Yvonne suddenly found herself being bought a drink by an attractive man of about eighteen. He was young and rather physically fit, with a slight moustache developing on his upper lip, with a charming smile to boot, Yvonne noted. She smiled and sipped it politely, before agreeing to his offer of a dance. He seemed perfectly lovely, although her head got foggier with every drink he presented her with. Eventually, he led her outside for some cool, refreshing air. It was then that he pushed her roughly against the wall and his hands began to travel. Yvonne felt shocked and confused, and squealed somewhat. Her father came outside to have a pipe soon after and saw the scene. The seemingly nice gentleman from earlier disappeared, leaving Yvonne collapsed on the ground in a crumpled heap, feeling used, violated and suspicious of everyone. Her father's harsh words about being a shameful hussy would sound throughout her head for weeks to come, as she cursed herself for drinking and getting led astray. From then on, Yvonne didn't trust a soul. And she kept up this personal barricade against other people by turning herself into a well-speaking, patronising person. Her father never allowed her to any parties ever again.

In 1931, aged seventeen, Yvonne Stuart-Hargreaves left home. She had had enough of her time in Southport. She was ready to make her own way in life.