A/N: Okay, we're gonna go back in time a few years for this chapter, so you get to see a little more of Clara's perspective in her earlier years. A few familiar characters might also arise!


September 15th, 1895

"You are late, mademoiselle."

"Yes, Madame Vastra; I can see that very well." Clara remarked without a trace of doubt in her tone, earning a few snickers from the other ballerinas in the rehearsal room. Clara was always one for her notorious behavior. Madame Vastra's face twisted into a look of pure disgust as she hit her black wooden cane on the the floor, scaring her students to a deathly silence. Straightening their postures and carefully adjusting their feet, they placed themselves into their preparatory positions; the change was rather drastic. "As punishment for your tardiness young lady," Madame Vastra said with a menacing glare towards Clara. The young ballerina looked down at her shoes, worn and faded, waiting for the worst to come."You will be given a two franc fine."

Clara's took of triumph and confidence had long disappeared. "Two francs-?" she cried, stepping out of her position to protest. "Madame, you know I cannot afford that-!"

"Caring for your mother again I presume?" she queried, eying the girl warily.

She nodded diligently. "Yes Madame; you know how ill she's been."

Madame Vastra stopped for a moment, as if to consider this as a decent excuse for her tardiness. Clara looked wholeheartedly hopeless, simply praying that the old woman still had at least a sliver of sympathy in her to let her go. Madame Vastra was nothing other than an intimidating dance choreographer in a wrinkled taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. She was one whose temper should never be tested, one whose offers you could never say no to, one who's wardrobe only consisted of black even though nobody was dead.

"Then her illness has earned you a fine." she snapped, and her decision was final. She was intent on disciplining the girl, for her audacious attitude and notorious tongue wasn't going to tell her what to do. Clara's eyes narrowed in anger, as if she simply wanted to slap the woman, then softening dramatically with a raise of her eyebrows, she replied, "Alright madame, but this fine may just kill her."

Her fellow ballerinas accompanied her snarky remark with scandalous gasps and murmurs, Madame Vastra's face boiling with outrage and embarrassment as she announced, "Silence! Come now, we must rehearse. Christmas Eve will be here faster than you anticipate it to be, so we must prepare." She then clapped her hands twice. "Wings on, positions ready. We'll be reviewing the choreography for the opening number." A few tired groans came from the group of ballerinas as a teacher assistant began passing out the basket full of costume accessories.

"But Madame," one called out with a raised hand, a pout on her face as if she were trying her hardest not to whine. Clara couldn't quite place a name on her. "We've already done the opening number."

"Yes," Madame Vastra replied smoothly, a coiling smile on her lips. "But a certain little ballerina arrived to rehearsal late, I recall; and I simply cannot afford for any of you to miss out. You can thank her for that." Clara felt her face warm up, a blush tingling up her neck and ears; she didn't need to look around to notice that some of the girls around her were glaring in her direction. Pulling at the elastic of her fairy wings, she kept her head down. "Positions girls, now!" Madame announced, banging her cane on the floor in tempo to the music. The pianist started playing, and instinctively, the ballerinas tried to their last breath to please.

The Paris Opera Ballet was a second home to the talented, but many considered it a sanctuary from the slums of the city itself, especially in Clara's point of view. Her group consisted of desperate beginners who danced for their meals. All of them knew that dance was to be their first and foremost priority, but for many of them, that wasn't the case. Pointed-toe rats, they call us. Clara would remind herself on a daily basis, for she often questioned herself on what she was doing in the first place. The pay wasn't extraordinary, the stress was unbearable, and her feet hurt like hell. Why am I even here?

Clara was well aware of her hidden potential, but her behavior seemed to speak out for her more than her talent did. In addition to that, she had already been warned of her ragged toe shoes, Madame saying that if they weren't cleaned and mended by December, she wouldn't be permitted to perform until beginners received replacements in January. I could have bought them sooner if I hadn't received a two franc fine. Clara thought to herself while demonstrating the perfection of her chassés. Her family was already in enough debt to last two lifetimes, and her ballet fines weren't helping at all.

She couldn't help but smile as Nina kept having to readjust her headband, for it threw her off as what was supposed to be her antennae kept falling in her face. Madame Vastra seemed to notice it too. "Mademoiselle Ross," she called out, Nina stopping entirely in her tracks, which caused Elena to bump into the poor girl. Madame silenced the piano man. "Ross, is there a problem? Have you forgotten the choreography?"

"N-No, ma'am," Nina sputtered out nervously, yanking the headband off of her head. "It was my headband-"

"Is that what you intend to do the night of the performance?" Madame spat. "Flaunt off your feet, as if your vanity were more important?"

The girl seemed to whither away, her eyes fixed onto the ground. "No, ma'am."

Madame Vastra released a sigh of exasperation, shaking her head not only at Nina, but at the group as a whole. She could see the pained expressions upon their faces, for she truly believed that they were trying their best. It's just that their best wasn't good enough. Tightening her grip on the wooden cane she held, Madame Vastra took a deep breath and yelled out, "From the beginning!"

"Madame-!" Clara huffed furiously, wanting to rip her hair out. Nina Ross was her best friend, compatible in every way, from the saucy attitude to the childhood dreams; she couldn't see her cringe under the power of their dance instructor.

"I want no word from you, Oswald. I want no word from any of you." she scowled, and Clara recognized her tone. It was similar to the calm before a storm.


It was sprinkling that evening.

She had managed to push herself through the heavy wooden door, her father's coat hanging loose upon her shoulders, its sleeves sliding far past her fingertips. Clara liked to take it with her to ballet, for his smell and sense of warmth seemed to convince her that maybe there truly was some hope in the world of chaos in which she lived in. It blocked her away from all of the tension that had built up inside of her from that day.

Boots clunking heavily down onto the sidewalk, Clara pulled the coat tighter around her tiny figure as the wind slapped against her face as if it were angry with her. She didn't know what she had done to upset it in the first place.

Suddenly, she realized that the coat wasn't the only thing that gave her warmth. There was a soft sound, faint yet fighting mightily against the howling winds. It was the music of a violin. Her head peeked up like a puppy's, eyes quietly observing the area to find the source of that beautiful music. Feet working at a quicker pace now, Clara turned the next corner, hoping to find something to satisfy her growing curiosity. And sure enough, she did.

Right in front of a restaurant window, one that was certainly too luxurious for Clara's money and taste, there was a boy. A teenager. Enough scruff on his face to be called a young man. He was rather distinctive when she compared him to the others quietly listening as he played his violin. For one, he was dressed just like her. Clothes people would find in the trash or at second hand thrift stores. Immediately Clara felt attracted, as if there was a sudden need to absorb everything there was to know about him.

She could have labeled him as handsome in the beginning. But as her eyes adjusted onto him, she decided not to. Maybe somewhere in between. There were so many aspects of him that Clara just wanted to ask, Why? Why did his brown locks of hair suspend the way it did? Why did his eyes seem to gleam even when it was cloudy? Why was his chin so provocative? She pondered over him for a moment, trying to comprehend this obscure arrangement of facial features with the overall handsome charm he held as he played.

Yet her attention from him broke like a twig as the door of the restaurant swung open to reveal a man in a rather funny looking hat, Clara supposed it was the head chef. He looked cross, his eyebrows knit together to form a straight line. "You there! No soliciting on my restaurant property!" The violin screeched to a stop, the boy's face losing color at his words as he swiveled around to face the broad and menacing man. "You see these customers? They no want to hear some dirty street rat." he bellowed in a thick accent; Clara so frightened she didn't even wish to correct the errors in his English. "I give you two minutes, if you're not gone by then, I come back with knife." And with those final words and a sneer, he slammed the door shut. Poor door. Clara thought to herself. She was sure it would shatter.

A blush as red as blood crept up the boy's ears and neck, the same look Clara had at rehearsals. The much more elegant passerby tried not to notice, fanning themselves nonchalantly and trying to continue their small talk despite the uncomfortable atmosphere they had now been placed in. Running a grimy hand through his oily locks of brown hair, the boy picked up his flat cap empty of tips and nervously adjusted it onto his head, carefully placing his instrument back into its dusty velvet case. Clara wanted to punch that man of a chef, but more so, wanted to know if the boy was okay.

"Hey!" she called out to him once she noticed him walking away, realizing that her choice of greeting may have been too outright. The boy obviously looked a little shy, for the embarrassment had been caught in his throat. "I-I'm sorry to sound so intruding, but...you're really good." Clara gushed out, pointing back to where he stood before the restaurant window. "And if that pinhead of a man can't hear that, then..." Clara scoffed. "...he's deaf."

He looked surprised, as if he weren't expecting her to be so kind in the most blatant way. Casting glances between her and the restaurant door, he cracked a small, lopsided smile. "...a pinhead?"

She merely shrugged her shoulders. "Wouldn't want to use foul language around someone I just met." He looked nicer up close. His eyebrows were thin, she almost had to squint to see them.

A smile appeared upon his face for about a second, the look faded in the next, as if it were never there. He then nodded his head once in understanding. "Well, I'm glad this old thing was put to good use. Even if only one person noticed." he replied with a forced grin upon his face, holding up his violin case in slight defeat. And with that, he turned away from Clara and made his way down the sidewalk. Clara was rather taken aback, for she wasn't exactly finished talking yet.

"What's your name?" she blurted out, breaking into an awkward skip-run towards him.

"Why would you need to know my name?" the boy replied, seeing as if this conversation was of no use.

"Because what if I see you again?"

"Paris is a big city, perfect for getting lost in; trust me, we won't be meeting again."

"Not unless I want to see you again."

"And if I don't want to see you again, mademoiselle?"

"Why don't you want to talk to me-?"

"Because a pretty girl such as yourself..." he whirled around, almost knocking her to the ground. He hadn't realized she was standing so close; he could feel her soft breath on his chest. "...doesn't want to talk to a dirty street rat like me." he finished off, backing up the sidewalk a few paces. Clara was suddenly taken aback by his words, for she didn't see him as a street rat, nor did she see herself as very pretty.

"Well, this may come off as shocking to you," Clara offered dryly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But I'm a rat too."

The boy scoffed. "In what way?"

"A pointed-toe rat." she said, as if it were a title to be proud of. The boy didn't seem convinced, of all things he looked confused. She only sighed, for their conversation hadn't started the way she had intended it to be. "Let me start over. I'm Clara. Clara Oswald, beginner ballerina at Paris Opera." she introduced, sticking out her hand for him to shake. After much hesitance and a few sideways glances, he finally took it, shaking it firmly. "John Smith. Musician at...well, nowhere really." he admitted, holding onto her for longer than she had anticipated.

Laughing nervously, Clara pulled back her hand and stuffed it into her pocket, fiddling with the loose threads while looking down at her boots. John Smith. It was a common name for a common man, yet she'd never met one before, especially one such as he. "I'd give you a franc or two for your troubles, but you see, I have family back home to take care of and-"

"I understand. No worries." he interrupted, nodding his head grimly. "You really should be on your way though, weather doesn't look too forgiving." he said, and in unison, they both looked up at the sky, which had dimmed to a gloomy shade of grey. "...right." Clara said in a mere whisper, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen out of her bun behind her ear. "I should...I should get going."

"But thank you." he blurted out, realizing that he hadn't expressed his gratitude until then.

Clara only bit her lip, eyebrows drawing themselves together. "For what?"

"For giving me a bit of hope. As a violinist, that is. Hope that more people will see my music the way you did." he said, offering her a smile that she hadn't seen yet. One that reached his eyes. And for that, Clara smiled back. "I-uh...take this with you." he said, taking off his cap and placing it on her head. It was a bit large on her head; it covered her eyes. "Oh-!" she laughed shakily. "I couldn't possibly-"

"It's the least I can do." he said, wanting to repay her in any way that he could. Fingertips lifting the cap, Clara realized how close they were. His soft eyes and his teeth. Perfectly aligned. "H-How will I return it to you?" she asked weakly. He licked his lips. "We'll see each other again." he responded, looking down at her pretty face as she nodded. Her soft brown hair, her curious eyes.

Suddenly, as if she had woken up from a dream, Clara pulled away from his intangible grasp, turned on her heel, and ran away, hand holding onto the hat as far as she went. John backed up a bit as he watched her, not knowing what just happened, but knowing that he wanted it to happen again.