The day was supposed to be hot, but as Molly stepped barefooted onto the grass that morning, she shivered, the gooseflesh rippling on her skin. Her breath ghosted the cold air and tickled her cheeks. Perhaps she should have worn more fitting attire than the scarlet sari she adorned.
Gold flashed in every corner of her eyes as the dupatta covering her auburn locks swayed. With every step brought more movement, and with every swish of her mehndi-covered hands brought her mind further away from the day. At the edge of the lawn lay the rose bushes she used to play with as a child, which she hopefully sauntered toward. Molly daren't crouch to touch the crystallised teardrops on the petals she knew were softer than her own skin; to do so was to risk dirtying the gold brocade on the fringe of her sari. She wasn't even supposed to be outside. Her wedding was set for the evening.
Tradition stated that she could not leave the house until her father came to take her away, yet here she was, in the garden, playing with the skylarks who sung songs of their freedom. Molly envied them, as it was she, not they, who had reason to sing such sorrowful songs.
Had she been aware of her surroundings, she would have noticed the figure that lay sleeping in the garden. Molly was too enthralled with feel of nature, and only sighted the familiar person when a snort was heard. Looking over to where he lay, she laughed slightly.
Such a sight it was to see. "What are you doing?" Molly questioned, almost saddened to see the child awaken.
Sweet little Lysander, with his dusted blue eyes, looked at her and smiled. "I didn't want my bride to be lonesome."
Sorrow filled Molly's heart. She had to remind herself that he was not the young child she remembered all those years ago. Lysander Scamander was a grown man, and the man she was chosen to marry.