Written for QLFC: Season 9, Round 6

Team: Kenmare Kestrels

Position: Beater 2 (done by the Captain)

Prompt: Link 'Em Up - Harry/McGonagall

Summary: Harry originally wasn't going to go with the Dursley's to the ice rink for Dudley's birthday, but Mrs Figg became ill at the last minute, so he didn't have a choice. Not that he minded. He discovered something on the ice that changed his life forever. And he met someone who would help him chase his new dream. Really, I just wanted to write a Figure Skating Muggle!AU

Warnings: A bit o' bullying from Dudley and quite a bit of anxiety/not feeling good enough when it comes to a sport.

Word count (excluding AN): 2994


Magic

It wasn't magic, but it felt like it.

He was on figure skates because they didn't have any hockey skates left. Honestly, he didn't really mind. Sure, Dudley made fun of him a lot while he was putting them on, but they were still skates, and they were just as good as any of the other rental skates. And Harry didn't think he liked hockey much anyway. There was too much… violence.

Harry got hit by Dudley enough as it was.

So he double knotted his rental skates, then took a careful step onto the ice, gripping the wall that lined the edge of the rink. It felt strange, like he had forgotten how to walk, but there was something about it that made him want more.

Maybe it was the smell of the ice? Or the slightly cold sting on his cheeks?

It was a strange time to go ice skating, in the middle of June, but that's what Dudley had wanted to do for his birthday. So, of course, Harry's aunt and uncle found a rink that held public skates during the Summer, and invited a whole load of Dudley's friends. They hadn't planned on taking Harry at all. He was supposed to be with Mrs. Figg.

But she had called earlier that morning, so sick that she barely had a voice, and the Dursleys had no choice other than to bring Harry with them.

Harry was… beyond glad for it. The ice felt unlike anything he had ever experienced. Before long, he was pulling away from the wall and letting his arms stretch out to the sides as if he were flying. Because it felt like he was up in the air, feeling the wind rush around him, ruffling his hair and his shirt. It felt magical.

He didn't even realize he was smiling until his cheeks started to burn.

Harry could vaguely tell that Dudley was having a lot… worse of a time than he was. In the corners of his vision, he could see Dudley falling. Just in the range of his hearing, he could hear Dudley cursing in a way no eleven-year-old should. But Harry couldn't bring himself to care. Really, all that mattered to him was that he felt happy on the ice.

So unbelievably happy.

When Uncle Vernon called Harry off the ice, sounding annoyed, Harry felt his chest tighten. He didn't want to leave, but he also knew better than to disobey. So he went to his uncle, stepped off the ice, and reluctantly began undoing his double knots.

"My nephew doesn't need lessons," Harry heard his Aunt Petunia say, her voice just on the verge of being shrill.

"Come now, Mrs…" came a new voice, one that Harry didn't recognize. It was a woman's voice, sure and strong, but somehow soft too.

"Dursley. Mrs Dursley."

Harry turned to face his aunt and the strange woman just in time to see the strange woman force a small smile onto her lips. "Mrs. Dursley. Can't you see how happy he was? And if that was his first time, then he has incredible natural talent. With enough time and the right coaching, he could be great."

Aunt Petunia sniffed. "He doesn't need to be great."

That was the end of the conversation. The strange woman looked angry, but she didn't say anything else. Harry turned back to untying his laces, his mind reeling.

She thought he could be great.

He wanted to be great.

He wanted to get onto the ice again.

Dudley and his friends ended up going to a backroom for pizza and cake, but Harry didn't follow. Instead, he kept his eyes on the ice, watching as a figure skating session started. He imagined being one of the skaters out there, practicing and learning new things. Jumping. Spinning. Free.

He swallowed when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head to see who the hand belonged to. Surprise jolted through him as he met the strange woman's eyes.

Up close, he could see that she was a little older. Her expression, stern and tight around her mouth, softened at his gaze. Her greying hair was pulled up into a tight bun. She carried her shoulders gracefully. Harry could tell, just by looking at her, that she had been a skater. She had trained, just like all of the skaters out on the ice.

She thought he could be great.

"You want to be out there." It wasn't a question. Honestly, it felt more like a challenge.

Harry nodded.

He wanted that more than he could say.

...

Harry never questioned how the woman, who he now knew as Coach McGonagall, had convinced his Aunt and Uncle to let him start taking lessons from her. He really kept as quiet about his skating around his Aunt and Uncle as possible, terrified that they would take it away from him.

It was a little harder to keep quiet about it around Dudley, who made fun of him as often as he could for doing such a 'girly' sport. But really, that wasn't so different from Dudley's normal bullying, so Harry let it roll off of his shoulders.

The first year, he practiced with Coach McGonagall after school four times a week for half an hour, then practiced by himself for another half an hour. Since they lived relatively close to the ice rink, he walked there, his bag with the skates that Coach McGonagall had bought him bouncing against his back.

The second year, he practiced with Coach McGonagall after school five times a week for an hour, then practiced by himself for two extra hours.

The third year, he started practicing with Coach McGonagall both before and after school five times a week for an hour each. He practiced on his own for three extra hours, and took two ballet classes that the rink offered on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He also started working at the rink for a couple of hours each day, saving up as much money so that maybe, just maybe, he could pay Coach McGonagall back one day.

The fourth year, he started competing. Coach McGonagall helped him pick out a costume, and she choreographed a program to playful music for him. He absolutely loved it, but he didn't place at any of the competitions that he went to.

The fifth year, he placed in a qualifying competition, just barely high enough to take him to Junior Nationals. Not that he did very well at Junior Nationals, but the experience was downright magical. Harry wanted nothing more than to feel it again.

The sixth year, he lived at the rink. Well, not really. He was still living in the smallest bedroom at his Aunt and Uncle's house, but he was never home. Every morning he got up at four am to get to the rink to practice until school, and then once school was over, he was back at the rink to practice until six pm. Then he worked at the rink until ten pm. Then he went home to sleep.

But, during that sixth year, he had a couple of unfortunate competitions that kept him from doing anything on a National, let alone International, level.

...

It wasn't until his seventh year of ice skating that things changed. Not only did he make it into the Senior Level Division, but he placed well enough at the qualifying competitions, he would be allowed to attend the Grand Prix competitions.

It was… big news, to say the least.

When Coach McGonagall told him this, she said it with a smile on her lips. Her eyes were warm and full of pride, and Harry felt positively giddy.

Then she ruffled his hair and said, "Get back to work, Potter. This season won't come easy."

She always called him Potter. Well, almost always. The few times he had been overwhelmed to the point of tears with skating or his family, she addressed him as Harry, pulling him into an awkward, but well-meaning hug.

She never called him by the last name Dursley. He wasn't a Dursley and never would be, though he longed to share a family name with someone. Longed to be family with someone.

But those were things he generally kept to himself.

Besides… he had the ice, and he had Coach McGonagall.

"It's so big," Harry breathed, clutching his skate back tighter to his chest. He was standing in an arena in Detroit, where Skate America would be taking place over the next few days. He technically wasn't allowed to step on the ice to practice until the next morning, but Coach McGonagall had decided to show it to him as soon as they had made it to the conjoined hotel.

It set off a flurry of nerves in his stomach, but he didn't tell his coach that. He just stood there in awe, bouncing slightly on his toes.

"You can do this, Potter," Coach McGonagall said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. Then, after another moment of silence, she cleared her throat. "Right. You need your rest so you can be in peak form this weekend."

And that was the end of it.

He placed fourth overall at Skate America. Then fourth again in Paris at the Trophée Lalique. Really, he did quite well for his first International competitions, in the Senior Division no less. He had made it into the Grand Prix Finals, his scores just barely high enough. But he wasn't satisfied.

He wanted a podium finish.

He wanted to be great.

He was desperate, and it was showing in practice. He crashed to the ice over and over again, after every single jump, and his hip hurt. This wasn't freedom. This was pain. This was anguish. He slammed down against the ice again, failing another triple Axel, and a frustrated cry left his lips.

And that's when he heard Coach McGonagall's voice cutting across the rink. "Potter. Come here."

She didn't exactly sound angry, but she didn't sound pleased either. With a wince, Harry pushed himself up off the ice and made his way over to where she sat on the bleachers, rubbing the steadily growing bruise on his right hip as he went.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked as he slid to a stop before her. Her arms were crossed over her chest. "You're going to get yourself hurt."

Harry let out a huff, wiping his arm across his forehead. Despite the cold of the ice, he was sweating. "I'm not meaning to. I just can't get any of it to… work." The frustration was building up, pressing at his throat as he lazily kicked at the bottom of the wall, his toepick chipping little bits of ice around the edge.

"You need to calm down," Coach McGonagall said plainly.

It upset him, though he wasn't exactly sure why. He knew he needed to calm down. "I can't!" he shouted instead of agreeing with her like he knew he should. "I'm not… good enough. I can't stop until I'm better. Until I'm great."

His vision was starting to cloud with anger, and he looked away. He didn't want to look at her and see that she didn't think he could be great. That was the one thing that had always driven him forward, through all of the early mornings and all of Dudley's attacks and all of… everything.

She believed in him when he was eleven. What about now? He was seventeen and had never placed on the podium. He kept flubbing his jumps and traveling way too much on his spins, and it was exhausting.

He had long since lost faith in himself. Stopped believing that he could be great.

He didn't want to see his coach lose faith in him too.

"You're already great, Harry," Coach McGonagall said after a moment, tearing Harry out of his thoughts. The tone of her voice was even. Truthful. He snapped his eyes up to hers, her gaze sharp. "Medals don't make greatness. International Titles don't make greatness."

Harry swallowed, shifting slightly on his blades. She was still staring at him and it almost hurt.

"What time did you get here this morning?" she asked, an eyebrow quirking up.

That was easy. The same time as every morning. "Four thirty-five."

The corners of Coach McGonagall's lips flickered up into a slight smile. "And what time will you be leaving tonight?"

That was also easy. The same time as every night. "Ten. What does this have to do with anything?"

Coach McGonagall's smile dropped, though not out of anger. At least, she didn't look upset. And Harry had seen her upset on more occasions than he'd like to admit, especially since he had been the cause of her distress.

"Do you love skating?"

Another question that was easy to answer. "Of course I do," he said, and he meant it.

"You're dedicated, Harry," Coach McGonagall finally said, her voice soft. "I've never had a student as dedicated as you. Who loves the ice as much as you do. You started late, really. Most high-level skaters start between the ages of four and seven. You were eleven and completely new to sports, much less figure skating."

Harry shifted again on the ice, watching her carefully as she spoke.

"Yet here you are," she continued. "Seventeen and hungry for more. It's only been a few years, but you almost have all of your quads, you are in the Senior Division, and you are going to the Grand Prix Finals next week. If that isn't great, I don't know what is."

Harry was speechless. He swallowed thickly, then ran his fingers through his hair.

Fortunately, Coach McGonagall didn't expect him to say anything. "Now, stop worrying. No more jumps for the day. I don't want you getting injured. How about you mark through your Free Skate?" she suggested, reaching out to gently squeeze his arm.

Not knowing what else to do, he nodded a little numbly, then pushed off to go do as he was told.

He couldn't help the tiny smile that started to grow on his lips, though. Coach McGonagall, the strange woman who had been determined to help him get on the ice, still believed in him.

His Short Program at the Grand Prix Final in Munich, Germany, was a complete and total disaster. Well, maybe not complete and total, but it certainly felt like it. He had under-rotated his triple axel and quad loop, and had completely fallen out of his quad salchow. Plus he had stumbled on his step sequence.

The mistakes were enough to put him in sixth after everyone had done their Short Programs, and Harry hadn't exactly taken it well. It was about all he could do to get through his nightly stretches, and he had to force himself to eat.

This was his chance. Sure, Coach McGonagall had told him that medals and podiums weren't what made him great, but he still needed them. Plus, he wanted to make her proud. He couldn't blow it.

But he was starting to get too deep in his head. And his warm up for his Free Program only made it worse. He fell on all of his jumps, and caught his toepick hard enough to make him crash to the ice doing nothing but stroking. He had fallen doing something he had been able to do the very first day he had stepped onto the ice.

It was humiliating, to say the least.

"Scared, Potter?" a haughty voice said above him, and Harry looked up to see one of his competitors looking down at him with a sneer, his arms crossed. Draco Malfoy, a French skater, had placed first at the Trophée Lalique in Paris. He had clearly decided that he hated Harry, though Harry didn't mind.

He thought the idea of rivals was fun.

"You wish," Harry replied, forcing himself to grin as he pushed up off the ice. Then he skated past Malfoy and towards his coach, who was standing at the wall.

Coach McGonagall seemed strangely nervous. Harry could see it in her eyes. "You're going first," she told him, though he knew that already. "Are you warm enough?"

Harry made a face, then shrugged. "As warm as I'm getting."

His coach huffed, shaking her head. "Let's hope it's enough, then," she said, sounding annoyed. Harry thought he might have seen some of the tension leaving her expression, though.

Just as he was taking his jacket off, revealing his sleek costume, Coach McGonagall cleared her throat. "Look. I know you're anxious about your performance," she started, taking the jacket from his hands. "But I just want you to skate your program the way you want to skate it, Harry."

Harry turned his attention to her, frowning slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You love skating, right?" Coach McGonagall asked.

That question would always be easy. "Yeah. I do."

His coach smiled, and Harry swore he could see pride shining in her eyes. "Then go show them all just what that love means to you."

...

He did just that.

He skated for himself. And he skated for Coach McGonagall, the woman who had believed in him from the very beginning.

Really, it was the best program he had ever skated. Sure, he under-rotated one of his jumps, and didn't quite hold one of his spins long enough, but the feeling that filled his chest as he let himself be consumed with his skating… it was freeing.

It was what he had felt that very first time he had stepped on the ice.

And when he struck his final pose, the audience exploding with a roaring applause, he realized he didn't really care if he placed on the podium. The ice… Coach McGonagall… the freedom of skating… it was all he needed.

It was everything to him.

It was magic.