A/N: Dedicated to Astoria – the most wonderful, awesomesauce, fantasmic friend on this site I have ever known who deserves a monster like this. =) And whom needs to learn that MollyLysander can be just as good as DominiqueLy. I hope I'll convince her. –crosses fingers-
Written for the Well this is s t r a n g e challenge by misswhiteblack on HPFC.
"Who would you be when you grow up?" Victoire asks wistfully, and she looks up at the sky, head in the clouds, lying on the grass with her long, blond hair spread around her like a halo, head in Teddy's lap. At sixteen, she's never been more beautiful. He plays absent-mindedly with a spare strand of her hair.
"I'm going to be a princess," seven-year old Lily says, her swing coming to a stop as she digs her legs into the ground, "or a fairy."
"How about a fairy princess?" Teddy suggests, smiling, and Lily nods emphatically.
Thirteen-year old Lucy sits up and brushes the dirt from her knees. She tosses the dark hair over her shoulders.
"I'd like to be a journalist," she says seriously. "Then I could get back at Rita Skeeter for all those horrible things she said about Aunt 'Mione all those years ago."
"And," she adds, more quietly, this time, "I do like to write."
"What would you want to be, Molly?" Lucy asks, yawning. She places her hands behind her back and leans against the tree trunk. Everyone looks at her, but she continues swinging. The eleven-year old's face is scrunched up in thought, thinking deeply about her response. The rusty chains on her swing creak as she kicks her legs.
"I don't know," she says, pursing her lips.
"A ballerina, like Vicky?" Teddy suggests, and she shakes her head no.
"You can't be a fairy princess," Lily quickly says, defending her choice of career, "or either one," she points out to Molly. Lucy laugh out of ridiculousness, and Lily glares in Lucy's direction, hands on hips. Even young, she inherits her mother's intimidating stare.
"I don't want to be a fairy princess," Molly pouts. "Fairy princesses don't exist."
"They do too," Lily says, and she bursts into tears. Molly leans down from her swing and digs a finger into a blade of grass, frowning. She pulls it out, and it dangles from her chubby fingertips by the roots, until she releases it from her grasp. It falls down onto the ground below. The words that come out of her mouth are wisely deep, yet truthful for her age.
"I just want to be myself."
She's eleven when she first witnesses the frozen lake in all its beauty. It's her first Christmas at Hogwarts and the whole crew decides to spend its holiday at school instead of returning home. Lucy drags Molly down to the snow banks of the lake and plops down on the snow, head in hands, cheeks flushed, and eyes extraordinarily bright. She's experiencing young love, but Molly doesn't quite understand the emotion yet.
"Why did you have to bring me here, Lucy?" Molly grumbles. "I was finishing up my letter to Mum and Dad," she adds. She was looking forward to seeing mum and her dad again at Christmas, but they were deciding to visit Uncle Charlie in Romania with the rest of the parents, which was why they were staying at Hogwarts.
"Oh, I couldn't leave you all alone, could you?" Lucy says brightly, "You would miss all the fun!"
Molly spits as a hair blows itself into her mouth, covered in snowflakes.
"If I get a cold," she tells Lucy darkly, "It's your entire fault." She crosses her arms and sticks out her tongue at her thirteen year old sister.
"Don't be silly, Molly," Lucy tells her, flipping her hair, "This is too good to miss. Lorcan and the others," she blushes slightly, "are playing hockey."
Molly pauses. "What, exactly, is hockey?"
"It's a Muggle sport played on ice."
"That's insane! What if they fall in?" Molly asks her, unable to restrain herself.
"They won't,' Lucy tells Molly impatiently. "Anyway, here they come."
Molly squints and sees the silhouettes in the distance. The first one lifts one of his hands in a wave, a long stick clutched firmly in his hands. He's followed by eight others, and they run down the hill.
"Lucy," the first one says brightly, "you came."
"Of course she came," Roxanne's drawling voice says from somewhere in the crowd of Weasleys behind him, while she blows a bubble. "She fancies you, idiot." Lorcan fakes aiming at her head playfully, with his fist.
"I do not," Lucy interjects hotly, her voice rising up an extra octave, sounding like a squeak. Louis raises an arched eyebrow, but continues to look at his reflection in the lake, combing back his gelled hair.
"Yes, you do," James adds helpfully, smiling, "I saw the present you were wrapping for –
Roxanne slaps a gloved hand over his mouth in the nick of time. "Zip it, lover boy."
Fred snickers behind her.
Lucy turns a dark shade of red, and Lorcan laughs airily, flattered.
"I call team captain," he says. "Lysander, are you being the other?"
"Yeah," a blond-haired, green-eyed boy steps forward, "sure."
The group of Weasleys split in two different groups. They lace up their skates quickly, and glide onto the ice. Victoire waves her wand in the air, and with a spark of light, they begin to play. Molly all but falls asleep, her eyes fluttering shut. It's much too fast for her to follow, and Lucy's squealing and dreamy sighs don't seem to help much either. It's only when Lucy shakes her shoulder hard, that she wakes up.
Molly yawns.
"Molly, wake up!" Lucy prods her excitedly. "It's the tiebreaker."
Lorcan zips around the ice on his skates, the puck tossed back and forth between his hockey stick. Louis weaves in front of him, blocking his path.
"Over here," Roxanne waves. "Pass it here!"
Lorcan passes it to Roxanne and the puck slids across the ice towards her, her stance poised, ready to receive it. She shoots forward towards the net, and James makes an attempt to intercept her, but Dom blocks him and smirks.
"Sorry, James," she says sweetly, and James frowns.
Roxanne stops in front of the net, and Lysander leans forward, crouching, green eyes, flashing and determined. She places her stick on top of the puck, then, holding it back, swings it forward with an immense amount of power.
"Slapshot," Fred grins, waving his hands in the air, and Lorcan grins, dropping his hockey stick to the ground. Roxanne's slapshots are unstoppable. Lysander frowns and shifts from side to side. Roxie's shot seems like it will miss, but it snags in the top right hand corner of the net.
Victoire blows the whistle around her neck. "Goal."
Lucy claps excitedly and runs over to congratulate the winning team. Lorcan smiles and hugs her, and Lucy blushes red again. Molly snorts and stands up from the snow bank, brushing the snowflakes off her knees. She walks over to Lysander, who takes off his helmet and shin pads, holding them in one pad as he runs a hand through his hair.
"You did great," she tells him.
He looks at her with something like amusement written over his face. Lysander opens his mouth to speak, but Louis interrupts him.
"We lost," he says, pointing out, "and that was a waste of my time. I should have went and gotten my haircut. I have a date with Amanda in an hour." He sniffs and stalks off, nose in the air. James frowns and waves his stick in the air, shouting after Louis.
"Sore loser!" James sticks his tongue out at Louis' retreating back.
"Just because you lose doesn't mean you've done a bad job," she tells him. It's something her mum would always tell Dad when he was upset with something.
He smiles. "Thanks, kiddo." Lysander ruffles her dark, curly red hair.
"You're only two years older than me," Molly tells him hotly, "and I'm not a kid. My name's Molly."
"I know." He grins regardless of the truth.
"Do you know how to skate?" He asks her, and she shakes her head.
"Well then," Lysander muses thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, "Do you want to learn?"
She ties the laces together tightly in a double knot with a grim determination.
"Are you sure you want to do this, Molly?" Lysander asks her uncertainly.
Molly nods, a few strands of hair escaping her messily done bun. "Yes, I do. It's what I want to be when I grow older."
"You want to be a figure skater when you grow older?" He asks her, crossing his legs.
"Two summers ago, we were sitting in a park, when Victoire and Teddy were watching over us," Molly tells him thoughtfully, swinging her legs back and forth on the bench, "and they asked us what we wanted to be when we grew older. Lucy said she wanted to be a journalist. Vic wanted to be a dancer – and she is, isn't she?" Molly asks herself out loud.
"What did you want to be?" Lysander asks her.
"I didn't know yet," she explains to him, "but now I do. I want to be a figure skater."
"You do skate pretty well," Lysander admits grudgingly, "but there's always a chance you won't be accepted. It isn't your fault," he points out, "most figure skaters start at a very young age, you know."
"There are no ifs," she snaps, "I will make it." Her eyes are passionately dark.
A lady in a suit comes out of the arena, the door propped open by her stiletto-heeled foot. She adjusts the headpiece around her ear and looks down at the clipboard, then at Molly.
"Molly Weasley?"
Molly stands up. "That's me," she nods.
"Go in once you're ready, alright?" The woman tells her, "He's waiting for you."
Molly shakes off her jacket, sliding it off her shoulders. She hands it to Lysander.
"Hold this for me, will you?" She asks him.
He pulls her close to him, and wraps his arms around her. "You'll do great, I know it."
Molly smiles brightly. "Aren't you supposed to wish me good luck, or to break a leg or something like that?"
"You don't need good luck, kiddo. I know you'll do just fine."
"Thanks."
She fluffs up the velvet skirt from behind her and stalks over to the door of the rink, pausing and looking behind her at him, as if remembering something she had previously forgotten. He looks up at her, smiling playfully, and she wrinkles her nose.
"I told you not to call me that."
"I know."
She stands up straight, rolling her shoulders back, and she places one foot after another onto the ice. After she closes the arena door, she takes a deep breath and doesn't look back.
There's no turning back once you've started.
She slides gracefully across the arena, arms spread out in a v shape, preparing for her triple axel, waltzing in a loop around the center of the ice.
Biting her lip, she leans forward and hops up into the air, twisting her leg around, turning once, twice, and trying to pull her around to a third time, but she can't. Molly lands on the ground, her blades skidding, releasing bits of ice around her.
She wipes the beads of sweat away from her forehead, frustrated, and clenches and unclenches her fist. She's about to start the section of the dance when her mentor tells her to stop through the microphone.
"Molly," he calls out to her, and she skates over to him.
"Yes, Scott?"
"I notice you're having some trouble with the triple axel," he tells her. She nods reluctantly, swallowing the lump in her throat.
"You're very talented, Molly. I let you join the team, even though you hadn't been trained since you were young. I know you can do it, alright?" He smiles encouragingly at her.
"How am I supposed to do it, though?" She says through gritted teeth. Her feet still sting with the weight of her improper impact back onto the ice. Not only the weight of her body, but with the weight of her failure as well. Lots of people can do a triple axel, no problem. It seems like she's the only one struggling with how to be able to do it properly.
"It's about commitment." Scott points out.
"Commitment?" Molly repeats his sentence like it's a foreign word and stands up, leaving her skate lace untied. The aglet dangles behind her skate blade, fraying, as she frowns.
"I am committed. I love skating. It's what I want to do when I grow up."
Scott shakes his head. "You have to spend more time skating. Three times a week isn't enough."
"I work hard, though," Molly retorts. "Every night that I get home, my feet are sore with calluses and blisters."
He looks at her thoughtfully. "Do you have any other priorities besides skating?"
Molly thinks for a while before replying. "I have my friends, my family. We're all really close. I have school. We have OW –
She catches herself and clears her throat, starting over. "They're giving us prep tests for our major exams next year," she tells him; barely remembering he's a muggle.
"If you want to be able to perform the triple axel at this year's Nationals, you're going to have to come every day to practice." He tells her, taking a sip of his steaming coffee.
Molly pauses, staring at him. "You'd take me to nationals?"
Scott nods his head. "But you have to honour your commitments. Otherwise I can't, because you won't be ready."
Molly swallows. Her palms are sweaty. She looks at Scott, and he smiles at her encouragingly. Molly leans down to catch the aglet stuck in her blade, pulling it out from its dilemma. It's a solution, the pathway to her success.
She keeps her eyes locked on her trainer and slowly, she nods her head. Once. Scott Moir is the best trainer in the world. He knows what's best for her if she wants to aim high in the future.
She's making it to Nationals if her life depends on it.
"Molly!" Lysander waves at her, and she turns from the bench across the lake, waving back. She unties the last shoelace from her skates and tosses them onto the bench beside her carelessly, shoving them over to make room for him.
He takes a seat, holding two stones in his hand.
Molly stares at him uncomprehendingly.
"Ly," she says, confused, "why are you carrying two stones in your hand?"
He grins and waves his wand over the stones, and suddenly, they transfigure into two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
"From the Three Broomsticks," Ly tells her, passing her a cup and smiling at her wide, eager eyes.
"Apparently Hannah came up with them recently, and Neville tipped me off about it." He waves his hand over the cup again, and it transfigures into a stone. He throws it up into the air and catches it right between his two palms, transfiguring it again to take a drink.
"How was practice?"
"I don't have practice with Scott today," Molly tells him, "he gave me a day off because I worked so hard."
"I meant on the lake."
"Oh ho, so you memorized my schedule, have you?" She punches him in the side of the arm, and he quickly fumbles to catch the jostled cup.
"That could have spilled!" He exclaims at her, watching the chocolate slosh at the edges of the mug.
"It certainly does look quite scalding, doesn't it?" Molly asks him smugly. "Would've been quite a pity if you'd been burned."
"You're heartless, Molly." Lysander shakes his head.
"Are you going to the party this weekend?" He asks her, tilting his head.
"A party?" She replies, bewildered. "A party for whom?"
"For the Ravenclaws, of course; we've won the house cup this year." He beams brightly at her.
She blinks, thinking to herself. She hadn't even thought about the house cup in the past couple of years. It wasn't on her top list of priorities, so she shoved it to the side.
"Aren't you happy, Molly?" Lysander says.
"Of course I'm happy," Molly says slowly. "It just took me a while to recall, you know?"
Lysander frowns at her, seeing right through her act. "You didn't even know, did you?"
Molly drinks her hot chocolate.
"Did you?" Lysander asks her again, for the second time. Molly hesitates.
"You didn't." Lysander answers for her. "It would be nice if you could take some time away from skating, yeah? Spend it with us. With the family, we haven't seen your face in a while."
"No, I didn't," Molly snaps at him, placing the steaming mug down besides her on the bench with a loud bang, "because I have a commitment. I work hard, and I'm getting to nationals this year, whatever it takes. If you don't respect that, then I'm sorry."
"Why don't you take a break, Molls?" Lysander requests, and she immediately shakes her head.
"I can't."
"Is it 'I can't', or 'I won't'?"
Molly shifts. "Both."
"Just one night, come on, Molls. Come with me." Lysander begs her, placing her hand on top of his and squeezing it tightly. She ignores the little jump in her heart and looks away. His eyes seem to burn in the back of her head, so she turns around reluctantly to face him, hoping she won't regret her decision.
"One night," she repeats after him, "that's all?"
Lysander smiles, green eyes shining. "Just one night; so you're coming as my date, then?"
"Not so fast," Molly warns, "I want you at Regionals and at Nationals with me."
He agrees. "It's a deal, kiddo."
They hook pinkies and shake on it.
She frowns, forehead creasing, glaring at the last word of his sentence. He smiles innocently and lifts the mug to his lips once more.
"I thought I told you not to call me that." She says.
He grins crookedly, shaking his head.
"You did."
Her heart beats painfully loud as she stands beside the rest of the contestants, thrumming like a repetitive drum. Despite her inner worries, she holds her head high and rolls back her shoulders, waiting for the announcers to finish their commentary and start announcing the winners.
"Announcing the winners of the regional competition this year, moving on to Nationals, we have in third place – Nicole Atheling, with her performance of Dance of the Butterfly."
The brunette girl skates forward gracefully, accepting the applause, and she accepts the medal.
"In second place, we have – Molly Weasley, with her dance Swansong."
The crowd explodes, and heart bursting; she glides forward to the announcer, who places the medal around her neck. The medal is cool on her skin, as she curtsies, kneeling low to the ground.
She's made it to Nationals.
Molly looks over into the audience, too excited to hear who's won first place. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a blond haired, blue eyed girl in an icy silver dress, going up to the podium. But it doesn't matter, because she's made it, she's made it, and she's never felt happier.
He's standing up, clapping, and locking eyes with her. Suddenly, the feeling of adrenaline increases, and she can't help breaking out into a huge smile, even though it makes her look like a grinning idiot. His eyes are wide and smiling, and he mouths a sentence. She catches it in the tips of her fingertips, just barely.
I always knew you were a winner, kiddo.
Molly feels like she's on top of the world.
But those feelings don't last forever.
The auburn-haired beauty removes her wand from the beautifully carved ice sculpture, content with her work, and Molly moves forward to admire the details. The room is a theme of ice, filled with icicles and stalactites dripping down from the ceiling and snowflakes plastered to walls and mirrors.
Rose looks at her, surprised. "Molly, you showed up."
"Well," Molly shrugs, "I am a Ravenclaw, aren't I?"
That, she thinks, and the fact that I made a promise to Ly.
"Yes," Rose says, and she looks immensely uncomfortable. "But –
"But what, Rose?" Molly says, annoyed at her formalities. "Just spit it out already."
"Nothing," Rose tells Molly, shaking her head. A faint blush appears on her cheeks, and she turns away. "Enjoy the party," she calls over her shoulder, before turning away.
"What she means to say," says a drawl that comes into play, "is that she doesn't want you hear. You haven't even helped Ravenclaw earn any points this year."
Rose waves her hands quickly in denial. "I do want you here. Don't listen to what he says," she apologizes.
Molly lifts her head, looking away from the beauty of the ice raven. "Scorpius Malfoy," she says coolly, "last I recall, you didn't even qualify to be a Ravenclaw."
He stares back at her with the same amount of frostiness. His gray eyes are cold.
"Rose invited me as her date this evening," he tells her, "and I'm just as much of a Ravenclaw as you are."
"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult." Molly laughs haughtily.
"It's certainly not a compliment," Scorpius says, throwing the sentence right into her face. "You were too caught up with all that skating of yours to even give your house a thought."
"I have my priorities," Molly tells him in a frigid voice, "and just because you don't have any aim of your own in life except for partying around, getting drunk, and shagging bimbos," she prods him, "doesn't mean you shouldn't respect people who aren't the same."
Rose is looking at them both as they exchange words, passing the insults back and forth.
"Both of you stop it!" She says, and her hairdo becomes dishevelled as she shakes her head in frustration.
"Molly, you know that isn't fair of you," she says, "I thought we promised that we weren't going to judge Scorpius. We've been working on that…problem of his, and we're making progress." She bites her lip, standing in between the two of them.
Scorpius throws his head back and laughs, taking a swig of his bottle, as if to contradict Rose's words. Molly stares at him and Rose frowns, snatching the bottle from his grasp.
"Scorpius, please be nice to Molly," she says, "She has just as much a right to be here, if not more than you do."
He sneers, but ceases his banter and staggers away into the crowd.
"I don't know why you stick around with him," Molly says. She grabs a shish kebob from one of the floating, silver trays, "I'd have killed myself in ten seconds flat." She twirls the shish kebob in her finger and swallows the first piece whole.
"He needs someone to take care of him," Rose replies. "He's gone through a lot. I know it might be hard for you to imagine, but he needs someone beside him. It's a…commitment."
"So that's what you want to do in life," Molly asks her, leaning back on the desserts table, "to take care of a boy who can't find his own way."
Rose gives a tentative smile. "It sounds awfully cliché when you put it like that," Rose tells Molly, "but that's not exactly it. I just want to be there when he needs me."
She sounds a hell lot wiser than Molly did two years ago.
Molly tightens the strings on her hood. Stepping onto the ice, she glides around the lake. Molly bends her right knee, and leaps up, rotating full circle twice. She whips her leg around to gain momentum, but she crashes back down, a millisecond after she completes the second spin.
Her ankle groans in protest, and she grits her teeth.
"Again," she tells herself, and she starts up, gaining speed. She spins once, twice, and crashes, again. Molly stumbles over her foot and collapses on the ice, knees burning from friction. She pulls herself up and brushes the ice off her tights.
Molly slides along the edge of the lake, pushing herself forward. She bends down, leaning her weight on one knee, then takes off, jumping into the air. Molly pulls herself around, twice, two and a half rotations, finally, three times, landing wobbly, right on her heel. It bends forward and she falls to the ground.
"Ow," Molly curses. She drags herself to the melting snow bank, and takes a seat there, pulling her skate off. She peels off her footless tights and inspects the foot, waving her wand over it. It seems fine. Molly pulls off the other skates and slips on her shoes, throwing the skates over her shoulder. She heads back to the castle.
She's nowhere near perfect.
But she's making progress.
She's sitting on a couch in the Ravenclaw common room, flipping through the choices of songs that Scott suggested for Nationals. They're all quite simple, very fluid and soft and gentle and she frowns, because that isn't what she's looking for. She takes one earplug out of her ear, and it dangles by her neck as she half-listens, half stares at the intricate pattern on the wall.
She hears a voice and doorknob turning, and Lysander walks in. Molly peers over her shoulder and looks at the doorway, at the retreating blond, at the delicate, but genuine laugh. She catches a flash of pink and green and a scent of eau de perfume.
"Hey, Molls," Lysander says, in greeting, swinging his leg over the side of the couch. "What's up?"
"Not much," she admits. "Scott gave me a list of songs to choose from for the dance I'm preparing at Nationals."
"Any luck?" Lysander asks her, and she shakes her head no. "They're not quite my style," she sighs. "I think he expects me to be Odette from Swan Lake, or something."
"Well, your dance at Regionals was called Swansong." Ly points out.
"I'm a skater, not a ballerina," Molly emphasizes. "Scott should know that, of all people."
"Pass," Ly says, and she tosses the muggle iPod at him. He scrolls through the menu with ease, creases in his forehead as he listens to each song and scans to the next, looking for the right sound of music. Eventually, he surfaces, takes out the ear plugs, and wraps them around the iPod, putting it on the table beside them. It seems like he agrees with her.
"So, was that Dominique?" Molly wonders, questioning him. He nods briefly, apparently not wanting to elaborate.
"Yeah," he replies back, "it was."
"Did you get back from Hogsmeade, or something?" Molly asks him.
"Why do you want to know?" He looks at her, annoyed. "It's really none of your business."
"Well," she says, taken aback, surprised by his attitude, "sorry for asking," she says, in the most sarcastic tone she can possibly manage. She turns away from him and crosses her legs, scrolling pointlessly through the list of classical songs by Bach and Mozart and Debussy and hating them with a fiery passion.
After a few moments of silence, he lets out hollowly, "Malfoy broke up with her."
"Malfoy?" Molly pauses, clicking pause on the iPod. "As in, Scorpius Malfoy?"
"Is there another Malfoy you know?" He asks, irritated. "Apparently he broke up with her to be with Rose."
"Not so much of a surprise to me," she says to him, "Rose's been playing nurse for the past couple of years to him. It's only natural he'd turn to her."
"He broke Dom's heart, Molly," Ly says in a low voice. "Rose may be happy now, but Dom is extremely upset. She's really, really upset. She loved Scorpius."
"Dom, the heartbreaker rocker-chic; the one who's one-eighth veela, the girl who every boy in the school has a mad crush on?" Molly asks him sceptically, disbelieving.
"There's a lot of Dom, another side that we don't see," Lysander explains, rubbing his forehead, "a lot of the things she does is to get people's attention towards her, because she doesn't receive enough back home. It's hard living up to Victoire, and she finds solace anyway she can, no matter how extreme the way. I've gotten to know her, in the time we've been together."
"Do you…fancy her?" Molly asks him, slowly.
"A lot of people fancy Dom," Lysander replies to her dryly, not quite giving her a straight answer. "It's absolutely normal. She's pretty, she's witty, she's smart, and there's a deep, realistic side to her a lot of people don't see."
"Oh," Molly says, feeling disappointed for some reason she can't quite understand, "I suppose I just never noticed it, then."
"You're always going to be someone to me, Molly," Lysander tells her, "it's just that – you've been so committed to your skating that I haven't been able to see you a lot. So I spent a lot of time with Dominique. She's been really nice to me, like an older sister, even."
"I thought you were one of the people who supported my decision," she tells him, and she desperately misses how he used to call her kiddo (she's far too old now) and cheer her on at practices and the way he congratulated her at Regionals.
"I do," he says slowly, "but it's hard to have a life of my own when my whole world revolves around yours. They told me I had to get out of it, live a little, take a break, and move on."
Unspoken, the word family lingers in the air uncomfortably. She pushes it away.
"Well, I'm sorry," Molly says spitefully, "I didn't ask you to stick around, or to watch me and let your own life slip by. That's what I've been learning my whole life, ever since I started skating in the first place. Your life is what you make it. If you choose to make it nothing, then that's all you'll ever be."
She emphasizes the last sentence.
"I'm not asking you to give up your dream, Molly," Lysander laughs hollowly, as if touched by her raw honesty, "I'm asking you to spend some time in reality. Live a little. Have some fun. The lake isn't going to remain frozen forever, you know. I have dreams too, aspirations of my own that I want to achieve. It's not only you who has a big hope for their future."
She briefly considers whether his little sentence about the lake is supposed to be meant in a literal or metaphorical sense.
"This is my reality," she whispers furiously. "And I have a commit –
"You have a commitment," Lysander repeats tiredly, running a hand through his hair. "I know. It's the same line you use every time. It's getting a little old, don't you think?"
"It's the truth," she hisses. She stands up and grabs the iPod from the coffee table, stomping up the stairs to her dorm. She slams the dorm door behind her. She can hear Lysander get up and leave the common room, undoubtedly to go find Dominique.
She's left wondering what the distinction between dreams and reality is; if they can be both, because skating is her dream; but it's also her reality, her life.
Molly plugs the iPod in her ears, double clicking the scrolling bar, and the screen jumps down to the very last song on Scott's list. She squints deeply at it. She must have missed it on the list, because it wasn't one she had spotted before. The song starts out raging, a passionate crescendo of notes and accents, moving into a softer-sounding, diminished gentle lullaby of violin, then back to the powerful tune. She replays it over and over again, oddly touched by the melody and lies down on her dorm bed. She stares up at the ceiling of painted, illuminated stars.
Molly thinks of Ly.
Palladio by Escala.
This is the one.
She knows it.
She's heading down to lake again, walking down the slope with determination. She stops when she realizes she's not alone and backs up behind a tree. The scene is faintly familiar, and she frowns, using the trunk of the tree as her protection. As the temperature of the weather increases slowly bit by bit, the snow starts to melt, but the lake is still firmly frozen.
She sees the family. They're playing hockey again. Everyone's there: James and Louis, facing each other off, Lily against Roxy, Lorcan in goalie, Fred against Scorpius. Rose is on the side, cheering them on. Something in her heart aches, remembering the time they spent together. Hurting because she knows she wasn't invited because she isn't really considered a part of the family.
But there are two people missing. Molly scans the lake and catches a flash of green and pink streaks in blond hair.
Dominique.
She slips forward, her feet coming out from underneath her, landing on her back. She winces in pain and rubs the back of her neck. Molly fights the urge to laugh at her novelty. Amazingly, she still manages to look graceful and fluid while doing it.
"Smooth, Dom, smooth," Molly mutters, under her breath.
Then Lysander comes into view. She stiffens, smirk dropping, but continues to watch. He grins and helps her up, gripping her mittened hand firmly. He puts his arm around her shoulder and leads her slowly, taking her step by step, around the lake, patiently when she stumbles. Dom's a little wobbly, but she looks awfully happy in Lysander's arms. He's quite the gentleman, isn't he? They look perfect together.
A flashback comes to her, infiltrating her memory, back when she was eleven; him, leading her out onto the lake, teaching her how to skate. She can't help but feel a little bit possessive of Ly, and her stomach sinks.
"Well, Moll," she laughs quietly to herself, "he was never yours, was he?"
She doesn't belong here. Releasing her grip on the mossy trunk of the willow tree, she stands up and trudges away, back into the castle. She misses Lysander's questioning glance at her retreating back, and advances to the seventh floor of the castle, coming to a stop in front of a blank wall with a portrait of dancing trolls next to it.
"I need a place where I can skate," she tells the wall. It stays blank.
"Come on," she pounds at the wall, "I need a place where I can skate."
Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, frustrated. She's angry at Ly, for abandoning her, for leaving her to go to Dominique; angry at herself for letting him go that easily, angry at the distant, indifferent family she has. It's not supposed to be like this in the movies. She's supposed to have a family who supports her and a love interest who thinks she's the world.
"I need to skate," Molly whispers. She slides down against the wall, putting her head in her hands, hiding her tears.
I need a place where no one can find me. I need an escape.
Silent swirls of black appear on the wall, forming a door. It creaks, bolts slamming into place. Molly looks up from her knees, tears already drying on her cheeks.
The next few months pass in a blur. Molly spends all her time skating, in the Room of Requirement. She prepares her Nationals dance with Scott.
"Are you sure you want to pick this song?" He had asked her, doubting her choice. "It's a very difficult song."
"If you didn't think I was capable of it," Molly had replied back, "then why did you put it on the list of songs for me to choose from?"
"I didn't say you weren't capable of achieving it," Scott says to her, "I'm just saying that it'd take a lot of work and you have to be able to express emotions clearly, if you're choosing this particular song."
"I've got commitment already," Molly laughs bitterly. She's given up so much, and yet, he still tells her that she needs more and more time to work on it. She spends mornings, afternoons, evenings, practicing until her joints are stiff and sore. What more could he want?
"Molly," Scott says, almost breaking into a laugh, "you've got enough commitment. Asking you for even more – that's almost unreasonable." No kidding. She internally rolls her eyes.
"What I need from you if we're going to follow through is emotion."
"Emotion," Molly repeats, not quite understanding. She leans forward, looking down at the sheets of paper in front of her, with the choreography scrawled quickly in Scott's neat handwriting all over it.
"You must have had an inspiration when you picked the song, right?" Scott asks, sliding the piece of paper in front of him, making a few notes and corrections, quickly. He jots them down with a pen.
"Well." Molly pauses, hesitating, because she wants to take the time to think about it.
"Yeah, I suppose."
"What's your inspiration, then?" Scott asks, tapping the tip of the pen against the clipboard. He waits for her answer, but she crosses her arms, closing off, shutting her mouth. She's not quite ready to share her particular 'dedicatee' with him. Molly sees Dominique and Lysander in her head again and frowns deeply.
"If you don't want to tell me," Scott raises his eyebrows at her, "then that's alright, but I need you to be able to access it when you perform."
Molly smiles ever so slightly. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
Scott ends up making her go to dance lessons, and reluctantly, she agrees.
He says it'll help her with her gracefulness and the fluidity of her movement in the dance. Molly can't quite understand exactly why she needs to go to ballet lessons if she's a skater, but Scott says that skaters are dancers, in a way, and they're both very similar – more than she can imagine.
She suspiciously enters through the large, mahogany double doors, letting them swing shut behind her. The receptionist looks up from her paperwork and smiles at Molly.
"Can I help you, dear?"
She hands the receptionist a piece of paper, a letter written by Scott in explanation for the short, unplanned arrival. Her eyes scan the paper and she puts it down on the desk.
"Studio five is on three doors on your left," the receptionist says politely, and Molly nods her thanks, tightening the bag strap and swinging it over her shoulder. She opens up her bag and pulls out a hair tie, quickly tying her hair into a bun before walking into the room. The rest of the dancers are already at the barre, warming up, and doing stretches. Molly drops the bag down, and walks over to join them.
The teacher walks in shortly after, and when she turns to face them, Molly recoils with shock, recognizing the familiar face.
It's Victoire.
Victoire looks just as taken aback as Molly does, her face conflicted, but she quickly regains her composure and instructs the class on warm ups and proper stretching. Molly keeps her eyes averted from Victoire's face and looks straight ahead.
The rest of the class is nothing short of awkward. Victoire walks over and corrects her posture, pointing out her incorrect body alignment.
"You can't spin properly if you don't have proper body alignment," Victoire says softly. "The balance would be incorrect, and you'd fall. You have to stand up straight and put your weight on your toes, not on your heels."
"Thanks Vick – Victoire."
"Don't mention it." Victoire says quietly, and she moves on.
"Molly," Victoire calls her name at the end of the class, "wait. I want to talk to you."
Victoire stands on the tip of her toes and peers over the crowd, searching desperately for her cousin. But Molly has already disappeared.
"Molly, you did great today," Scott exclaims, and she smiles, appreciating the compliments. Nationals is getting closer with each day that passes, and because Victoire's advice helped her accomplish her triple axels (a fact she won't ever admit to anybody) she's getting the hang of the routine, surpassing most of the difficult crisscrossing, connecting techniques that link the disjointed jumps and spins together.
"Thanks, Scott," Molly says back to him, and she undoes her skates, tossing them carelessly into the bag. She flexes her toes, testing their soreness, and slips them back into her comfy, soft boots.
"I have something to show you," Scott tells her, and he holds up a finger, telling her to wait one moment. She nods, and once they exit the arena, he disappears into a storage room. She sits down on the bench and places her skating bag next to her, waiting for Scott to come out.
He doesn't return alone. In his hand, he carries a large, bag. He unzips it, revealing her costume attire for her dance. It's all lovely shades of blue, from dark, shiny sequins and crystals at the halter top to a soft, flowing, aquamarine colour for her skirt. She's left speechless.
"Scott," she says, after a moment of stunned silence, "this is beautiful."
Scott smiles modestly, glad that she likes it. "I had an old friend make this for me," he tells her.
"It's wonderful. What are we going to call it?"
"The dance, or the costume, Molly?" Scott asks her.
"Both," Molly confirms, nodding her head.
"Icebreaker."
"Dominique's leaving."
"What?" Molly can't hide her surprise, and she gapes, open-mouthed at Lysander as he grimly conveys the news.
"I said, Dominique's leaving." He repeats himself, hollowly.
"I know that," Molly asks him impatiently. "But I want to know why."
"She's heading off to Beauxbatons." Lysander tells her. Molly widens her eyes. She'd never imagine Dom heading off to Beauxbatons. It just wasn't her.
"But…but why?" Molly asks again, and Ly snaps.
"I don't know, okay? Maybe it was just too much for her, being neglected by her parents like that because she had a sister she could never live up to. Maybe she got sick of me, maybe she couldn't live with herself because Rose and Scorpius were so happy with each other." He sighs.
"There are so many possible reasons why she could have left, but I never figured out which one it was."
"She didn't tell you?" Molly asks him incredulously.
"You don't pry at something someone doesn't want to tell you," Lysander says, "if it's something Dominique feels that she doesn't need to tell me, then I'm not going to bug her repeatedly just to find out."
"I thought you two were a couple."
"We were never a couple." Lysander tells her bitterly, looking past her into the fireplace, "I was like a younger brother to her; nothing more, nothing less, expendable, I suppose, now that she's a country away, bound never to come back."
"I'm sorry, Ly," Molly says, not quite knowing what to say. She fidgets on the blue and bronze couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs.
"You can't be sorry over something you have no experience of," Lysander says to her emotionlessly, green eyes dark. "When you left all the time for skating – I lost my best friend, I had no one to be with. You left me alone."
"You know that's not true," Molly says defensively, "I was with you all the time at school!"
"Dominique," he continues, going on, with hooded eyes, "she was the best friend I ever had, once you were gone. And now she's gone, and you're gone, and I've lost the both of you."
"What are you talking about?" Molly asks him confusedly, torn between conflicted emotions. She feels bewildered at his philosophical sense of speech, and she looks at him, worried. "I'm still here."
Lysander stares at her a couple of moments, and then, he shakes his head slightly.
"No, Molly," he replies, "you're not."
"You aren't coming to my party," Lucy repeats, as if somehow the message hasn't reached her, and she repeats it again, in disbelief. "You aren't coming to my party."
"I'm sorry, Lucy," Molly says, "But –
"No, wait," Lucy interrupts, holding up a hand. "Let me guess. You're not coming to celebrate my birthday because you have a commitment and you have skating practice, and it's important to you because you want to achieve something in life."
Molly frowns. "It's not a practice. It's Nationals; the day of my competition."
"It's the same thing!" Lucy complains, throwing her hands up in the air. "You're always too busy to spend time with us anymore. You don't think about how we feel, you only care about your own needs and skating. Don't you think I miss you? Don't you think Mum and Dad miss you? Don't you think Ly misses you? Lorcan tells me he's miserable, nowadays."
"This is different," Molly says. "You wouldn't understand –
"You're right," Lucy says angrily, "I DON'T understand. Maybe you could help me to, yeah? Help me to understand exactly why one single sport is worth letting all your friends, your family, maybe your future boyfriend –
Molly gapes.
"Yes, he loves you, are you too daft to see that?" Lucy looks at her. "You've left everything you have," she continues on, breathing heavily, "broken everybody's hearts, just because you think it's the most important thing in the world, abandoning all of us, leaving us behind."
"It's skating," Molly says tightly, "it's something that does matter to me. And, Merlin, Lucy, it's what I want to do with my life. Remember when we were kids, and Teddy and Vic asked us what we wanted to be when we grew older? You said you wanted to be a journalist, remember?"
Lucy hesitates, and nods. "Yeah," she says a little bit softer than before, "I did. I still do, actually."
"Your journalism is my skating. See, if you'd been a little more dedicated to your work, then you might have become editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet or Teen Witch Weekly, Luce," Molly says, "it's all about taking dedication to make your dreams become reality. Winning Nationals is something that'd matter so much to me. It'd show me that all the hard work I've done in the past few years channels to something. It'd be the top of the world."
Lucy clenches her fist and shakes her head. "Is it really worth celebrating on the top," she whispers furiously, shaking, "when you don't have anyone to celebrate it with?"
"What?" Molly asks her.
"Is it worth it," Lucy asks, continuing on, "If you don't happen to win, the night of Nationals?"
"Luce," Molly tells her, "it's just too big of an opportunity to waste. I can't let it go."
Lucy swallows. Her dark hair is a storm around her fuming face. "Don't call me that," she snaps.
"That night," Lucy points out to Molly, "when Nationals is over, you'll see just how bad it is, being all alone. And you won't have anyone by you – and that's when you'll realize just how bad it is."
Molly pauses. "It's not something I'm going to regret," Molly tells her. "Nationals are the world to me. It's what I've been waiting for."
"It is something you're going to regret," Lucy says harshly in response, "and I hope you think Nationals is worth it. Because you're losing everyone close to you, throwing it all away, and when you grow up, you'll grow old and die alone."
Dramatic much, Lucy?
"Look, Lucy," Molly says, starting to get irritated with her sister, "you're just upset because I'm not coming to your birthday party. If you don't have anything nice or meaningful to say, then get out of my room."
Lucy holds her stare for a second longer, her eyes bright with anger, cheeks flushed.
"Fine," she says haughtily, and she walks out, slamming the door so hard it rattles on its hinges.
Molly winces and fights hard to swallow the gathering lump that forms in her throat.
Lights flash like fireworks around her, blinding the inside of her eyes. She fights to keep her lids closed, the whispering murmur of the crowd enveloping her in a suffocating hold, a blanket of people.
This is the night.
She should be happy. It's all she's ever worked for, everything she's wanted.
Isn't it?
Her sister's face comes back to her, furious with Molly. She sees Lysander's disappointment, watching her, telling her she had lost herself. She sees Victoire, calling after her at the end of dance class, an unfathomable expression in her eyes; Rose's reluctance, Scorpius' harshness at the party.
She's alone.
The music starts, and she clears her head from all thoughts in her memories.
Concentrate.
She starts, crisscrossing her feet over each other, moving backwards around the corners of the rink, lifting her hands up, breaking into a quickly revolving camel spin. She leans forward, leg in the air.
"I'm asking you to spend some time in reality. Live a little. Have some fun. The lake is going to remain frozen forever, you know."
The Lake isn't going to remain frozen forever? What could he possibly mean? Molly stumbles over her skate. It's barely noticeable, but she stumbles when breaking out of the camel spin into her toe-loop jump.
Damn. She bites her lips and continues on, skating forward with a grim determination. She can see Scott frowning at her from the other side of the glass, wondering what could possibly be wrong. She's never messed up that part before.
Concentrate, Molly, she tells herself furiously, you can't afford to mess up.
"I have dreams too, aspirations of my own that I want to achieve. It's not only you who has a big hope for their future."
Get out of my head, she whispers, but she continues to think of him, his blond hair, his green eyes, his grinning smile. She breaks out of an axel and lands wobbly, causing the crowd to go silent. Molly continues on, ignoring how heated the lights feel on her face. She pivots backwards and glides in large steps, twisting on one foot, jumping on the ice.
The tune of the music rises in a raging crescendo. The cue for the triple axels, she frowns, skating in rotative circles around the center of the stage. She pulls herself up, heart beating intensely fast.
Come on, Molly.
"You don't need good luck, kiddo. I know you'll do just fine."
Pull yourself together.
She leans forward on her right knee and takes off, spinning once, twice, three times in the air, and coming down to land on the ice, unfurling her arms and legs. It's stable. The crowd explodes into applause, and she bends her knee again, preparing for the second one. She leaps up, spinning once, twice, but whipping around, she catches sight of deep green eyes, the color of emeralds.
Everything comes crashing down.
She lands, her blade skidding on the ice, falling onto the cold, hard, surface. She hears something crack, abnormal. It's not right. Her foot burns, twisted in an awkward position and as she touches it, a wave of pain rushes through her leg. She tries to get up, but she can't. Her foot is in pain, lying there limply.
Come on, Molly. Get up.
She doesn't meet his eyes.
She can't.
The music plays on as she sits there, silently.
The audience stays quiet. She looks up at him, and Scott, at the people in the audience.
"I can't," she whispers.
They move away from the edge of the infirmary, done bandaging up Molly's leg. The crutches lean on the side of the bench, revealing the blond haired, blue eyed girl behind them. She hovers over Molly, tapping her fingers on the edge of the bench, leaning against it.
"I'm Cecily," she says, with an unidentifiable accent, "and you are?"
"Molly," Molly replies dully, "Molly Weasley."
"Right," Cecily says, dismissing her with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand, "you won second at Regionals."
"You won first." They exchange a cool stare.
"My trainer wants to meet you," she tells Molly, peeling at her nails. "She's coming in five. She sent me in to tell you."
"Oh," Molly replies, not sure what to say or why exactly another trainer would want to speak to her when she's got Scott, "um, thanks?"
"You should be," Cecily nods. The speaker buzzes over the announcements and her head perks up, catching the signal. "That's my call," she tells Molly. "See you," she shrugs, delicately waving her hand over her shoulder, leaving the room. She turns down the hallway.
"Molly?" A woman asks. "Molly Weasley?"
Molly looks up and stops picking at her plastered foot. "Yeah, that's me."
"Hi," the woman says, scooting over next to Molly on the bench, "I'm Cecily's trainer. Tessa Virtue."
"Nice to meet you, Miss Virtue," Molly replies hollowly.
"I was reading the programme earlier," Tessa starts, "and I couldn't help but notice that Scott Moir is your trainer." Tessa pauses. "Am I correct?"
"Yes," Molly says shortly, "and he's a very good trainer, so I have no intentions of switching."
Tessa laughs, eyes twinkling. "I wasn't going to ask you to switch to me," she says, "I just wanted to tell you Scott and I were old friends; dancing partners, actually. We skated for Canadian pairs in the Olympics."
"You knew Scott?" Molly asks, surprised.
"Yes, I do, actually," Tessa responds. "I was watching you skate, and I thought that you seemed a little…preoccupied." She looks at Molly for some sort of confirmation, but receives none. Tessa goes on.
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Molly replies quickly, "nothing's wrong."
Tessa looks at her and pauses, brown eyes wide with concern.
"I know Scott better than most people," she tells Molly. "Scott seems very laidback, very easy going, to most of the people around him. But, he was actually always very competitive – very competitive, out of the two of us. He thought that commitment was the only way we were going to get a gold medal."
Molly nods. "He always did tell me that commitment was the key to success. Didn't you get a gold medal, after all?"
Tessa smiles. "Yes, we did. But it wasn't because of Scott and his conservative ideas. It was because of me."
"Scott never knew how to relax," Tessa continues on, "he was always working, always practicing. I told him that if we wanted to win at the Olympics, we had to enjoy ourselves. Not just to work hard, but to take some time off, have some fun. If you end up dancing all the time, you won't quite appreciate it, yeah?"
"I suppose," Molly says doubtfully.
"And I told him," Tessa goes on, "that if all you do is work; you won't appreciate the people around you. You'll lose them."
"You remind me of him. You spend a lot of time skating, don't you?"
"Yeah, I do." Molly replies.
"What about your family?" Tessa asks.
"My family?" Molly repeats, reluctantly.
"How close are you with them? Do you see them often?"
"It's my sister's birthday today." The sentence slips out of her mouth unwillingly.
"Ah," Tessa goes, "and you skipped her party for Nationals, didn't you?"
Molly nods soundlessly. She clenches and unclenches her fingers, looking down at her bandaged foot.
"You know," Tessa speaks up suddenly, "I bet she misses you."
Molly resists the urge to scoff. "I don't think so," she replies to Tessa. Her sister probably doesn't miss her. Definitely not after that heated argument a couple of weeks ago. They hadn't talked to each other since. Not then, not now.
"I know she does," Tessa says to Molly.
"How do you know?" Molly asks her uncertainly, doubtful of herself.
Tessa Virtue smiles, her deep brown eyes somewhat sad.
"I know," she says, "because I miss Scott."
She doesn't place.
Not that it's a surprise, of course, but still.
It disappoints her.
Scott comes and goes, and Molly can't help but feel a bit sad. She won't be skating with him for a while, not until her foot heals – which the chiropractor tells her won't be for another year or two. They exchange one final embrace, and Scott nods, leaving.
Refusing help from the assistants, Molly hops over to the change room with difficulty, stripping down out of her uniform and back into her regular clothes, tossing her skates and her costume back into her skating bag. With finality, she zips up the bag, looking at it with a sort of resigned inclination, knowing it'll be a while before she uses it again.
She leans over to pick up the crutches, when someone opens the door, propping it open.
"Thanks," she says, without looking up, throwing the bag over her shoulder, picking up her crutches and hopping rather pathetically one foot.
"Molly," the person stops her, "I'm sorry. About your foot, and that you didn't place."
"You can't be sorry over something you have no experience of," Molly tells him. His mouth twitches, remembering the same line he repeated to her a while ago. "And besides, Scamander, you have nothing to be sorry for."
She props herself up with the crutches, and they dig themselves uncomfortably under her arms.
"I've been an arse of a friend," she sighs, scratching her elbow. "Look where it got me."
Lysander smiles. "You have been a pretty bad friend."
Molly narrows her eyes, frowning. "I've said my apologies. Don't rub it in."
He grins, but embraces her in a hug. She wraps her arms around him tightly, burying her nose into his shoulder. He smells like home, like friendship, like family.
"I've missed you, Ly," Molly whispers. Her heart beats loudly, content.
"I've missed you too, kiddo," he says back.
And getting him back almost makes up for not winning Nationals.
A loud pop sound echoes through the room, and Molly stumbles in.
"Ly," she hisses to the empty air, "where are my crutches?"
Another loud popping sound echoes through the room and Lysander shows up, holding her crutches.
"Thank you," she says politely, and she holds on to Lysander's shoulder, limping into the crowded room of dancing people and sweaty bodies. They shift their way through the crowd, making progress towards the center of the room, where the birthday girl stands vivid in a stunning turquoise dress and silver crown, underneath a large banner and colourful streamers and decorations and balloons.
Molly stands there, holding her crutches tightly, waiting until Lorcan comes along and whispers something into Lucy's ear.
She turns around, and sees Molly. Her eyes widen considerably, and she covers her mouth, turning away.
"Happy birthday, Luce," Molly says.
"Molly, you came," Lucy whispers. She starts tearing up and wipes the corners of her eyes at the droplets that follow. Molly hugs Lucy tightly, not wanting to let go. Lucy steps back and smiles at her sister.
"Molly, thank you for the best birthday present ever." Lucy dabs at her eyes.
"I didn't give you a present, though," Molly says, thoroughly confused. She looks at Ly and he shrugs at her, wondering as much as she is.
"You did," Lucy tells her sister, "you showed up. And that was the best gift you could ever give me."
"Ly, where are you taking me?" Molly snaps at Lysander as he pulls her down a hill, blindfolded.
"You'll see in just a second, Molls," says Lysander's voice from beside her. She scowls and tries to cross her arms, but keeps her hands firmly on her crutches, hopping slowly step by step. They stop suddenly and she almost tumbles over him, but manages to catch herself before doing so.
"Where are we, Ly?" She calls out, and rubs her arms. It's chilly, and she wants to go back inside. He unties the blindfold.
"I wanted to show you something," he says to her, "and here it is."
She looks around and frowns, seeing the white snow banks, the frozen water, and the cold, leafless tree. She's been here enough times already in the past couple of years, and she's not sure why he would take her here, of all places.
"Put on your skates."
"What?" Molly asks in confusion. Then she remembers something. "And you expect me to do this by myself," she says, annoyed.
Lysander blinks. "Right," he says, and slipping an arm around her waist, he helps her slowly until she can sit on the bank. He hands her the skating bag, and she opens it with interest. She hasn't seen it for a while, and as she pulls out her skates, it reminds her of her dedication, her past life. Not anymore. She slips one on her left foot, tying the laces tightly, leaving the other bare because she can't fit her injured foot into the skate.
"Come on." Lysander extends his hands towards her, and she takes it. He pulls her up, and leads her towards the lake, pulling her onto the ice. He spins her around, waltzing her across the ice, leading her from side to side. She leans her head on his shoulder, content.
"This brings back so many memories," she sighs. "I miss skating."
"Oh, Molly," he says to her, "why couldn't you just be okay with being yourself, instead of making us go through all this?"
She buries her nose in his shoulder again, her thick hair blocking the smile that spreads across her face.
"I am," she murmurs, as he twists her back and forth, "maybe I am."
A/N: Seeing as I'm being marked on the title, I suppose I'd better explain its worth, lol. Not only is it for her dance and costume, it refers literally to the word 'icebreaker'. This is in reference to her, breaking the ice for her career of skating and her future that lies ahead and breaking the ice of her relationship with Lysander, and her family and friends. So it has both obvious and subtle meanings, I suppose. (:
Tessa and Scott are Canadian, yes, I realize that. But I loved them so much; I shipped them off to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. So, deal. ^^
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