Chapter Text
They say étoiles are eternal, but they are named after the dying light.
They exist but for the moment. They exist forevermore.
“There is one more place I want you to see.”
Madame Maxime leads with long-legged strides accented by the sharp clacks of her designer heels. They breeze through wide atriums and grand forums dripping of golden excess. Their visages morph and spiral over the gilded surfaces. They become, for the moment, as much a part of the their surroundings as the dancing cherubs and hanging chandeliers. But the undeniable opulence has lost its previously loud allure, the splendor overwhelming to the point of detachedness, and Hermione’s lighthearted wonder dims into something wary.
Her attention drifts away from the performative splendor and latches instead onto something more tangible. She slows her pace, giving herself the freedom to observe. Even with only half a visible profile and a bare face, there is a force about Fleur, a confidence etched into the air around her by the curves of her cheeks and the point of her nose—features softened by the aversion of an intense gaze directed elsewhere.
Hermione doesn’t know what to make of this yet, of them and their partnership, but their arms swing into rhythm as they stride down the hall with the sound of a single set of footsteps between the two of them.
“Here we are.”
Madame Maxime stops in front of two wooden doors in the middle of the hallway. There is no plaque or protruding lettering, no distinguishing features. Only the windows on either side offer dark glimpses into what lies inside.
“This is…” Fleur sucks in a quiet breath. “Êtes-vous sérieuse?” She gives Madame Maxime a strong expecting look.
Madame Maxime nods. A wistful reverence melts over her expression as she approaches the doors. Her footsteps tread light beneath her, like a lover amongst tombstones. When she speaks, her voice caresses the air with a quiet longing.
“They say this is where Nureyev and Guillem perfected their legendary partnership, all those years ago.” She slides her palm to the dull brass of the handles and presses down. The resulting click reverberates through the air, loud as a gunshot. “It has been a while since this studio has been in use. The previous dance directors have all been a bit...conservative when it comes to preserving history, and greatness, and the like, but-”
She turns, her eyes alight, and something stirs within Hermione. Something like responsibility, and honor, and—
Madame Maxime pulls the door open and a gust of cold stale air exhales over them. Hermione shivers.
“I had them clean it this morning.”
The truth wafts into their noses, a piercing blend of old wood and rosin mixed with citrusy residues.
“It is yours now. Use it as you like.”
Despite the invitation, neither girl moves, held in place by a silence accumulated over centuries, finally disturbed.
Fleur breaks free first. She rushes into the darkness, flying past the entrance with eager steps, and heads straight for the center of the studio. Her heels turn, her eyebrows raise and her lips part—eager to take, to receive. The room bends to her intrusion, melding to her heels. She breathes in, chest expanding, eyes closing and the floor stirs to her wake up call. The space is hers to claim.
Meanwhile, Hermione introduces herself gentle. She waits for the lights to flicker on before crossing over, keeping to the edges of the room with the barre as her guide. She drags her hand over smoothened wood and sweeps her eyes over the studio, latching onto the intimacy of her surroundings with a slow-settling familiarity.
A wooden piano sits in the left corner, waiting to sing its melodies once more. To the right lies an outdated stereo system, unplugged and freshly wiped of dust. In the front of the room, a long thin crack runs through a mirror panel, its jagged path distorting her reflection as she walks across, cutting her from jaw to torso. Her finger itches to trace it.
Hermione can see herself spending hours upon hours here, just her, her reflection, and the music, hugged by these four walls, with no regard towards the passage of time outside.
She takes a step forward and sinks into a dip in the floor. She toes the indentation and imagines the stubborn silhouette of a ballerina practicing her fouettés until she wore her mark permanently into the floor, the wood withered away not by a force of nature, but by an act of human passion. A black scuff mars the ground a meter away, painted by an angry heel during a rough landing. Hermione slides her hand across the barre and finds a worn imprint the size of her palm—the favored spot of a tireless ballerina.
The feeling of a fond memory rushes over her, something akin to nostalgia. But she’s never been here before, not exactly. She thinks of all the ballerinas who came before her and all those who will come after, for all the barriers put together cannot confine the ardent love for the lyric art. Ballet will persist as it always has, unforgiving and perfectionless. And therefore, eternally.
Behind her, the floor creaks twice. She glances over–
–and does a double take.
Fleur spins on the tip of her toes mid pirouette attitude en dedans in the center of the studio, arms stretched outwards and fingertips suspended—a young lark caught in a spring breeze. She lands in fourth position, hair fluttering and feet so light the floor barely makes a sound, before bouncing from heel to relevé twice, bringing her knee up in passé.
The moves are simple, basic enough a child could do them, and yet Hermione cannot look away. She stares and stares, like she’s watching the unweaving of something profound, a half-formed thought caught in her chest, unraveling and reforming, captivated by the illusion of wind Fleur has created.
Fleur dances and Hermione, who has consumed ballet all of her life, is reduced to a member of her audience—a spectator, a witness.
Fleur descends out of chassé and lifts her head. Hermione follows her gaze, realizing a beat too late she’s been caught. Their eyes connect through the mirror.
“How is it?” Hermione’s voice catches in the back of her throat.
Blue eyes dance under the light. Fleur turns and their gazes collide from across the room.
“It will do.”
A dull clap sounds from the corner of the room.
“I’m glad you’re still warm,” Madame Maxime interrupts, “because your first assignment as partners starts now.”
Fleur tears her gaze away from Hermione. “We are learning choreo already?”
“Non,” Madame Maxime gestures for them to come closer. “The choreography has not been finalized yet and will not be for a while, but we cannot afford to think about choreography right now.” She gives them a stern look over the high bridge of her nose. “Three hours have been set aside for you every morning after class. You have six weeks until the season kicks in to work on your partnering. By then, I expect you to move like partners who have been together for five—ten—fifteen years.”
Hermione and Fleur share a glance.
“Since today is the first day, we will start off easy,” Madame Maxime says. “The wedding pas de deux from La belle au dormant. ”
Hermione furrows her eyebrows. If that is her idea of easy, Hermione would hate to find out what she considers difficult.
“But,” Fleur protests. Her head twitches in Hermione’s direction. “We are both women.”
Madame Maxime arches a brow. “That is the point, non?”
Fleur presses her lips together. She looks to Hermione, arching her left eyebrow imperceptibly.
“What about the lifts?” Hermione asks, jumping into the silence. “The fish dives? There’s no way we can…” She gestures between the two of them. Fleur’s arm is almost thinner than hers if that’s even possible. “No offense,” she adds quickly.
“None,” Fleur shrugs.
“Do not be so quick to dismiss what you can and cannot do,” Madame Maxime warns, her words cool against Hermione's skin. “Any changes to the choreography will be up for you to decide. Needless to say, I have high expectations. Do not lower them.”
Her gaze locks onto Hermione and Hermione feels as if she’s seeing Madame Maxime for the first time. Beneath the poise of a former ballerina lies a hunger, ravenous and gleaming with teeth. Few other professionals would dare challenge the classics with such bold and audacity, to mess with what has already been deemed perfect for centuries. It makes sense she and Dumbledore are good friends. Hermione wonders what has been said between them regarding her year-long transfer to Paris. What secrets have they spilled to each other, deeming her too fragile to hear?
Madame Maxime glances at her watch. “You have an hour before I check on your progress. Any questions?” She sweeps her gaze over their befuddled figures. “Non? Best get started then. We are on a tight schedule. Bonne chance.”
She strides out, brutal in her nonchalance. The doors swing shut behind her, cutting the studio off from the rest of the opera house with a heavy thud that vibrates in the back of Hermione’s skull.
For a moment, no one moves and Hermione can’t tell if the room is getting bigger or smaller. Then the floor creaks and her attention is forced towards Fleur who shifts next to her.
“What...did we just get ourselves into?”
Their eyes lock and the pure disbelief etched on both of their faces breaks the tension enough for dubious chuckles to slip through. A hundred questions race through Hermione’s mind—what have they gotten into?—but the sound of Fleur’s laughter intermingling with her own quiets their urgencies and for now, it is enough.
The smile on Fleur’s face sobers, pulls into something more polite and polished, made to distract from the way her eyes dissect Hermione apart.
“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Fleur Delacour. Enchantée."
“Hermione Granger. Pleasure.”
They toss their names out with an intended casualness. Hermione offers a hand, wondering how far they are willing to take this charade. Fleur meets her halfway and shakes once. Neither lets go.
It’s been a while since Hermione has made a new friend but she doesn’t remember it feeling quite like this, heart pinched in anticipation like she’s dangling over a wide abyss that is their future relationship, whatever form it ends up taking—close friends, bitter rivals, or mere colleagues.
For two people who supposedly have so much in common, words are few in between. The world has tried to force them together before in so many ways, pitting them against each other over and over in unfair comparisons—their names eventually growing bigger than their persons as if the stage isn’t big enough for the both of them. Yet, here they are.
“So…Hermione,” Fleur stretches out the syllables with a slow French accent like she’s testing out the feel of Hermione’s name on her tongue. “I assume you are familiar with the pas de deux Madame Maxime mentioned?”
Hermione parts her lips. Her tongue curls with sharpness before she realizes Fleur is joking. At least, that’s the interpretation she’s choosing to go with. Fleur’s expression gives little away and Hermione, for all her pride in being a good judge of character, cannot read her in the slightest.
“A bit,” Hermione says eventually. Long nights of trying to capture Aurora’s essence flash to mind. It’d seemed impossible then, to her fourteen year old self, and the furthest thing from impossible at nineteen when she danced with such arrogance. “You?”
“Oh, I danced it once or twice, here and there,” Fleur plays along.
Hermione gives her a knowing look. It’s only been two years since the ‘Vélane of Paris Opera Ballet’ last donned the role. She recalls scrolling through the opening night reviews whilst lying in bed, sore and exhausted from her own performance earlier that evening, and pausing on a gorgeous shot of Fleur wearing the signature pink tutu mid Rose variation with a wide smile on her face. She’d stared hard enough to sear the image into the back of her eyelids as she fell asleep.
“How do you want to decide roles?” Fleur asks, reaching up to brush away an invisible strand of hair. “Should we flip a coin?”
“Flip a coin?” Hermione repeats, her tone rising a notch. Flip a coin? Were Flitwick here, he would drop dead and roll in his grave, along with every other casting director out there. Flip a–
A grin breaks across Fleur’s face. “Bad idea?”
"Terrible, actually." Hermione stifles a laugh. "I can't believe I almost thought you were being serious."
Fleur chuckles. “How should we pick then?”
Hermione runs her gaze over Fleur’s form. The smile on Fleur's face sharpens into knowing smugness, one that belies how often she's used to being scrutinized. Hermione is not unaware that Fleur returns the act of looking.
“Shouldn’t you be the Prince?” Hermione asks.
Fleur tilts her head. It looks exceedingly innocent on someone who is known for her ability to seduce thousands of audience members at a time.
“Pourquoi?”
“Because—” Her feet move with a mind of their own and the next thing Hermione knows, she’s standing as close as she can to Fleur without overstepping boundaries, though personal space isn’t going to matter soon enough. She lifts her chin and draws a slow path up the features of Fleur’s face. When she reaches the eyes, her breath catches in the back of her throat.
It’s like seeing the stars for the first time. Hermione feels as if she's been pierced through whole, unable to look away from grey-blue nebulas twinkling under the warm light.
It is a shame the audience will never see them so up close.
Words spill past her lips in a whisper. “—you’re taller.”
Fleur’s gaze flickers away, drops to somewhere lower Hermione can’t pinpoint, before shooting back up.
“Voilà,” Fleur says. Her throat bobs once. “You have your Prince.”
Their partnership begins like every other, with careful words, restrained hands, and polite glances. They’ve done this many times before, between their years in ballet school and the company, but there is always an awkwardness that comes with the discovering of a new partner.
"Do you mind if I—" Hermione hesitates.
A hum vibrates in the back of Fleur’s throat. “Feel free to touch me wherever you need to touch me.”
Hermione's fingers retract in the air. She clears her throat.
“Same, of course." Hermione takes a step closer, mindful of the distance that exists between them, and drags Fleur’s hand until it sits higher on her waist. The heat of Fleur’s palms seeps through the thin material of her shirt but she doesn’t dwell on it, nor the fact that Fleur’s breath is ghosting down the back of her neck.
“Are you ready to keep going, or do you need to ask the floor for permission too?”
There’s a slight quirk to Fleur’s lips and Hermione fights the urge to huff. If this were Ginny, she wouldn’t have hesitated to respond with a snarky remark and perhaps a slap on the shoulder for good measure. But it’s not Ginny, it’s Fleur. So she saves the gibe for next time, maybe, when they know each other a little better and are not two strangers pretending to be lovers.
She bends at the waist and nods to the floor. “May I?”
She looks up with a challenging glint to her eyes and confusion flashes across Fleur’s face before she breaks into a disbelieving chuckle. Her eyes are soft as they fall on Hermione. She shakes her head.
“You are ridiculous.”
It doesn’t seem like Fleur means to say it out loud, the words mumbled between her teeth, but Hermione hears it anyway. Fleur steps back and offers her hand. When she raises her gaze with a deliberate lift of her chin, there is no teasing glint, only sincerity and Hermione lets her own posture change in response, straightening her back and flattening her shoulders. She takes Fleur’s hand in her own and an eternity passes before their fingers settle, intertwined at last.
They walk towards their imagined audience.
It’s the first time they see themselves presented as partners and they pause to take in the effect. Hermione lifts her chin and traces the line down her neck across muscled shoulders and exposed collarbones, down to the curves of her arm which connects with Fleur’s. She follows the line back up Fleur’s slender arms, over the bend of her shoulders and up the slope of her neck, cut off by the sharp line of her jaw.
Fleur studies their reflections with a curious look. Hermione wonders what she sees.
She loosens her hold, grazing Fleur’s palm with the tips of her fingers in a drawn out farewell. They separate on the unspoken four count and address the imaginary audience before looking back at each other. Fleur kneels to the ground on one knee and throws her arms open in wait.
Hermione’s heart rises to her throat.
Taking a deep breath, she rushes forward, her feet fluttering like wings beneath her. Her body flings forward and she kicks her leg up behind her in penché, trusting and praying for Fleur to catch her. Fleur does, just barely. They rock forward and Hermione tightens her abs. Her mind screams at her to bail but she refuses to listen.
“I have you.” It’s whispered as strong arms reach up and ground Hermione by the waist. Hermione lands her hands against the crook of Fleur’s elbows, fingers pressing into tight muscles. They still, chin to chin, eyes finding each other. Hermione lets out a small sigh of relief.
“Not bad,” Fleur murmurs with quiet approval.
Hermione has to agree. She is still upright at least.
“Let’s keep going?”
“Ouais.”
Dancing with Fleur is surprisingly easy.
While ballet is never easy, there is no other way to describe how they glide against each other, as if they have partnered with each other before. Perhaps it’s the novelty of their entire situation, but dancing with Fleur feels like a breath of fresh air and Hermione does her best to savor it, to not breathe her in all at once.
They don’t talk except to give out small suggestions here and there, keeping a steady six count beneath their breaths—one two three, four five six—as they mark through the movements with silent cues. Beat by beat, measure by measure, they unveil themselves to each other.
“Can you come a little closer?” Hermione reaches out towards Fleur, wobbling en pointe.
“Like this?” Fleur takes a step closer. Hermione avoids the nearing blue and turns her cheek, finding their reflections instead. She fixates on the diminishing space in between their bodies.
“I think you can come in more.”
Fleur takes another step. “Better?” Her eyelashes flutter and her gaze dips lower. Hermione pulls her even closer. Fleur goes willingly.
“Better,” Hermione exhales.
Standing this close, casualness is but a thin illusion and bravery a constant question.
“Ready to move on?”
Hermione nods and they separate on one, stealing the last bit of air between them with quiet inhales. They carry what they can of each other as they part.
There is something intimate about dancing a pas de deux without anyone else around. Usually there are teachers, ballet masters, rehearsal directors, choreographers, notators, pianistes, other dancers—always an audience, always watching.
Here, it's just them.
They watch each other, two instead of hundreds, tracing their reflections with careful intent. Their gazes linger over the smallest of details, refusing to let any imperfections slip through their notice. No one tells Hermione to lean in closer on the arabesque so they are almost nose to nose, mouth to mouth like lovers do. No one tells Fleur to grip her hands tighter around Hermione’s waist in promenade, pulling her close by the hips like lovers would. They do so on their own. Every action is a reflection of their own choices, their own decisions. Every touch exchanged between them, theirs.
Fleur’s touch is soft, softer than her previous partners, with smaller hands and a different body shape. It brings out a different side of the pas de deux Hermione has never experienced before. She grabs Fleur’s hands and slides it lower into the dip of her waist, a gentle Here, not there.
It’s an interesting way to begin a friendship, Hermione thinks, as Fleur reaches her hand out, miming the words in classical port de bras lexicon: I, you, love.
Their eyes never quite meet. They exploit the mirror, using it as a scapegoat of professionalism as they devour each other’s reflection. In her peripherals, Hermione sees the beginnings of furtive glances and wanting hands and pretends not to. She’s never danced the wedding pas de deux like this before, full of uncertain bravery and shy love as opposed to exploding passion like light expanding, but it’s oddly fitting for their characters who have met only once before. The wedding pas de deux is the highlight of the third act, the beginning of a love story between Princess Aurora and Prince Desire, now the beginning of their friendship.
The minutes slip by in measures of six counts, and Hermione sinks into the inherent intimacy of the companionate silence, of two people seeking to become one. For the first time in months, she cannot get enough of how she looks when she dances. Even when the moves are old to her body, she feels as if she’s on the precipice of invention, on the verge of leaping.
An hour later, the heralding click-clack of Madame Maxime’s impending entrance advances from down the hall. The door bursts open and she walks in with—one, two, three, four—ringing steps. A second pair of footsteps accompanies hers, duller with a thicker heel. It walks to the corner where the piano cover opens with a thud. Music sheets shuffle over wood. A stool scrapes along the floor, jerking to a stop at the front of the room. The cacophonies clash against the tender Tchaikovsky score playing through the speakers, but Hermione’s attention is on Fleur.
And how can it be anywhere else, with the way Fleur is looking at her? They say half of the pas de deux is in the dance; the other half is in the eyes. Hermione has always found that to be true and now knows it to be truer still when it comes to Fleur.
The music fades and they detach themselves from each other, letting the cool air rush between their bodies. They’re no longer alone but Fleur prolongs the illusion.
“Did that feel okay?” she asks in a hushed voice.
“It was better,” Hermione says. “For the second promenade—”
“Softer elbows,” Fleur finishes.
“Yeah. And we were a little late on the-”
“Da-da-dada,” Fleur intones, knowing which part Hermione is referring to. “I will lift on the and. That way you have more time.”
Hermione nods. “I think that’s mostly it. Do you have anything else to add?”
“When we start from this corner with the–” Fleur flutters her hands in demonstration, “make sure to have your body facing this way so we can go directly into the step. We came in late last time.”
“Yeah, I noticed that too. Anything else?”
“Non.”
They turn to Madame Maxime, who is amused to have her presence finally acknowledged. “Are we ready?”
“Oui,” Fleur answers the same time Hermione says, “I suppose.”
“Let’s see it then,” Madame Maxine folds her hands over crossed legs and her entire posture changes in a blink of an eye. She takes on the strict mantle she’s known for, and even Hermione, for all her experience, feels a shadow of nervousness creep in. “From the top, sil vous plait, Yusuf. Merci.”
Hermione wipes her hands against her tights and reaches out, finding gentle fingers waiting. She squeezes once in anticipation as the wanting notes of the piano pull them into motion.
They begin their first pas de deux.
Breathe.
Fleur leads her across the floor with firm hands on her waist. They prance over ground with wind in their hair and wings to their feet.
Easy. Light as a feather.
Hermione pliés in fifth and pushes off her toes. The support comes in late. Fleur’s hands chase after her hips as they slip down her legs. They dig into her bones in her descent. Her toes bang into the bright wood floors, a breath too early. Hermione forces up the corners of her lips to cover the minor slip up. There is no time to stop and readjust. The music forces them forward with its unrelenting rhythm. They prep for their next lift and this time Fleur’s hands are where they need to be. Hermione inhales—
Two claps pierce through the studio. The piano jerks to a stop, a discordant F# ringing in its wooden skeleton, and the ballerinas stumble apart. Hermione drops her heels to the ground as the facade of a young princess is stripped away from her person.
“It is good,” Madame Maxime says after a beat of silence.
Neither Fleur nor Hermione is fooled.
“It is good,” Madame Maxime repeats, “but we are not here for good, are we?” She taps a finger against her crossed knees. Hermione counts the movement. Once. Twice. Thrice. “I know it is your first time partnering–”
First time meeting.
“But you are too lenient with each other. It is…", she gestures for words, "boring to watch. A pas de deux is supposed to be a conversation but you two are so focused on listening that nothing is being said. No one is talking. I did not come to watch silence.” She pins them with a withering stare. “There should be some push and pull. Some give and take. You need to challenge each other. To be stubborn. Every good pas de deux has risks, has tension. Are you understanding what I am saying?”
Hermione and Fleur can only nod. Memories of the last hour shatter in the back of their minds, rearranging under the unforgiving clarity of hindsight.
“Too much leniency in a pas de deux is like apathy. You do not respect your partner enough to dance, to really dance. You look like you are performing two solos instead of a duet, which is un embarras because—” Madame Maxime gestures at them in lieu of words and they lower their gazes. “You are wasting each other’s time. You are wasting my time.” She rises to her feet. “Two more hours. When I come back, I will see something different, oui? Allons-y, Yusuf.”
Madame Maxime leaves the same way a storm blows over, with devastation in her wake. Despite her retirement from the stage over a decade ago, her ability to astound is potent as ever. Even when her person has long gone from the room, her presence lingers in her echoing footsteps and the stunned silence of her audience.
Hermione and Fleur stand two meters apart, an ocean’s distance between them as the seconds tick by in agonizing perpetuity. Hermione flexes her ankle against the floor, the pain a focus point for the thoughts clouding her mind. Fleur pivots on her heel and walks to her bag. A zipper rips through the silence, followed by the sound of aggressive swallows.
“Was that a test just now?” Hermione eyes the crack in the mirror. She reaches down, tracing over her torso where the crack overlays her reflection. “That felt like a test.”
Fleur tosses her bottle into her bag and swipes a thumb over her upper lip. “If it was, I am pretty sure we failed.”
Hermione leans harder into her toes, feeling the pull of her achilles’ tendon. “I haven’t failed a test since…ever,” she mumbles.
Her remark earns her an amused scoff. “That, I am not surprised by.”
Hermione frowns up at Fleur’s reflection. “Madame Maxime is right though. We are holding back.”
“Oh, d’accord,” Fleur agrees, flicking a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “Your Aurora is way better than that.”
Hermione furrows her eyebrows. She turns to face Fleur. “And how would you know?”
There is an edge to her voice.
“I have seen it.”
And a resolution to hers.
Fleur’s stare is unraveling even from across the studio. Hermione refuses to linger on the implications of her words and files them away for later. She takes a step forward, raising an eyebrow and raising a challenge.
“You think your Desireé can keep up then? With my Aurora?”
Fleur mirrors the step. “Oui.”
Hermione squares her jaw but is unable to stop the lifting of her lips. “Fine. But you don’t get to hold out on me either.”
“I was not planning to,” Fleur agrees. After all, neither of them are the type to fail a second time.
As it turns out, dancing with Fleur is not easy. In fact, Hermione doesn’t think she’s had a more difficult time partnering with someone else, ever.
The quiet tension from their first hour evaporates into thin air and the calm counts of six are replaced with a stream of non-stop corrections. They wield Madame Maxime’s words like a knife, peeling away their outer layers of control, politeness and discretion, and give in to the artistic demands of their passion. Wherein they might’ve once moved in compromise, they now clash against each other, constant yielding turned constant struggle for dominance. They both suffer for it.
“Ow! Fleur, that’s my foot.”
“Oui, and what was it doing there?”
There is a stubbornness to Fleur, mixed with an arrogance Hermione doesn’t know how to handle. They are disastrously well matched.
“That,” Hermione gasps as they stumble apart, “was not how you did that two iterations ago.”
“It was not perfect two iterations ago,” Fleur huffs back, her accent growing more pronounced the more time passes by.
Hermione slips in a sigh, disguised between her labored breaths. Her lips taste of salt and her shirt, now damp, clings to her body, a darker shade of maroon than before. She wipes away trails of sweat with wet knuckles.
“We are not breathing together.”
“Non, we are not.” Fleur pushes off her knees with a grunt. She walks over to the mirrors and swipes a hand across the glass, clearing away the mist. Her reflection comes into blurred view. Color sits high on her cheeks and wisps of hair stick to her face in wet silvery tendrils. Despite her exhaustion, her eyes persist under the low fluorescence, an inextinguishable flame. She looks every bit a ballerina, but it is a sight the audience will never see.
Hermione however is used to looking. She catches the tremble in Fleur’s arms.
“Do you want to take a quick break?”
Fleur waves her suggestion away and throws a glance at the clock hanging over the door. “Non.” She towels off the sweat on her face. “We keep going. We do not have time. Do you want to run it with music or no music?”
Hermione purses her lips. Despite Fleur’s words, she walks over to the barre and grabs her water bottle. “No music. I want to go through the section before the end again.”
“Bon.” Fleur takes her position and waits for Hermione to do the same.
Hermione doesn’t move. She takes a slow deliberate drink from her tumbler, careful to maintain eye contact over the bottle. One gulp, then two. She watches as the seconds tick by on the clock over Fleur’s head.
Fleur drops her arms to her side. “You are wasting time.”
Hermione tilts her head. “I’m thirsty.”
She waits for Fleur to challenge her again, but Fleur only stands there glowering so she takes one more sip before placing the bottle back onto the barre and walks to her position in front of Fleur. Fleur gives a quiet huff into her ear before taking her by the wrists and leading them into the next section.
If she notices Hermione insisting on only practicing the sections without lifts for the rest of rehearsal, she doesn’t mention it.
« They got worse, » Leta grimaces.
« Worse? » Olympe leans in, tracing Fleur and Hermione’s movements through the studio window with daggerly incision. « Au contraire, this is improvement, Leta. Way more interesting than the tentative crap they showed me this morning. »
« I suppose, » Leta trails. « Fleur is struggling with the role adjustment. »
« Fleur has always been a rude dancer, » Olympe grins wryly. « She’s like me in that sense. And from what I’ve seen so far, Hermione is much of the same, if not worse. »
« Prima ballerinas, » Leta says without lack of fondness, « Each generation somehow more stubborn than the last. »
« You were worse than both of them. »
« I was not! »
« There it is, that stubbornness, » Olympe grins. « But this is a good experience for both of them. Neither of them has had a partner that could challenge them for the spotlight before. They’re so used to being the center of attention, it’s going to take a while for them to learn how to share it. Fleur, that girl, » Olympe shakes her head. « She has melded so many partners to her iron will that it didn’t matter who I partnered her with. Hermione at the very least is not going to let her do the same. »
« Well, » Leta says, « let’s hope they don’t break each other’s noses before they find that balance. »
They watch as Hermione’s elbow strays a bit too close to Fleur’s face mid-pirouette, both of them miscalculating the distance between them. It strikes Fleur right in the nose.
« Did I jinx that? » Leta asks. « I didn't mean to. »
Olympe bites back a sympathetic smile. « Come on. It’s about time for them to finish up anyways. »
They enter the studio to find Fleur crouched on the ground with both palms pressed against her face and Hermione hovering beside her on her knees.
“You, have a very pointy elbow,” Fleur complains through her hands.
Hermione sucks in a worried breath. It’s not the first time she’s decked a partner across the face and probably won’t be the last but at least in Draco Malfoy’s case, it was on purpose.
“I’m so, so sorry. Let me see it?”
Fleur turns her head, carefully pulling her hands away.
“It doesn’t look broken.” Hermione tucks away a strand of hair in the way. Her fingers graze against the tip of Fleur’s ear and she stills, realizing how close she’s gotten. Her instinct is to pull back, to lean away and restore distance between them. Instead, she doubles down and leans closer, determination thrumming underneath her skin. She cradles Fleur’s chin, her touch feather light against the sticky skin and the warm exhales of Fleur’s breath brush over her fingers like a heartbeat.
Hermione has seen firsthand how strong Fleur is, how her muscles ripple and flex when she walks, how her legs push off the floor with surprising ease, but with her face cupped within her hands, the only word that comes to mind is 'fragile'.
“Is it bleeding?” Blue eyes flicker up through lidded gaze before darting away.
“No.” Hermione pushes down experimentally. Fleur jerks back, letting out a small hiss.
“Aïe!”
“Sorry, sorry.” Hermione coaxes her back. “Hopefully it doesn’t bruise either,” she murmurs. Her eyes stray from reddening skin and pull towards the curve of Fleur’s cheeks, squashed within her grasp, where her lips are pushed into a pout.
It’s kind of endearing.
“You laugh,” Fleur says. “You hit me and now you are laughing.” She yanks her chin out of Hermione’s grasp.
Hermione stifles her smile. “I’m not laughing at you, I promise.” A quiet chuckle escapes despite her best efforts and the pure indignance Fleur throws at her almost wrests the rest of the laugh out of her. She bites down on her lips and does her best to appear remorseful. “Does it still hurt?”
Fleur lets out a huff. “A little,” she grumbles.
“Can you stand?”
Fleur raises her hand and Hermione hoists her to her feet.
“How do you feel? Do you need to sit down or do you think you can do ten more minutes?” Hermione reaches over and picks off a clump of hair clinging to Fleur’s thighs. She stays nearby, wary of Fleur swaying on her feet. “We’re so close to figuring out this section.”
“‘So close’ might be an exaggeration, given what just happened,” Fleur sniffles, “But—merci—we can continue.”
« Actually, now might be a good time to stop, » Madame Lestrange steps in. « I believe both of you are due for another rehearsal in seven minutes. »
Fleur and Hermione whip their heads around towards the hanging clock.
“Ah,” Fleur says mildly.
“I could’ve sworn we had more time,” Hermione frowns.
“We will pick up here tomorrow. Good work today,” Madame Maxime says as she turns to leave. “Make sure to clean up after yourselves before you leave. No lingering.” She eyes them. “I do not want any late complaints from your ballet masters.”
“Wait, didn’t you want to watch us dance?” Hermione calls after them.
“What exactly do you have to show?” Madame Maxime arches an eyebrow over her shoulder. “Tomorrow. Do not be late.”
Hermione opens her mouth to retort but nothing comes out. She swivels towards Fleur for support only to receive a half-hearted shrug. Madame Maxime is a typical ballerina. Even without a stage, there is always a performance to be had.
“Come on,” Fleur says, “I will walk you to your next rehearsal.”
Four hours of rehearsal, two costume fittings, a fitness exam, and a company meeting later, Hermione ambles her way back into the dressing rooms, guided by an older corps member who found her wandering around the upper balconies like a lost American tourist. Her clothes chafe against her skin, stiff from the dried sweat, and her mind is waterlogged with the names and faces of her new colleagues, drenched with choreographies, staging directions and ambitious pas de deuxs. Her rehearsal with Fleur feels a lifetime ago. She wants nothing more than to sink into the comfort of her sofa, accompanied by a good book and a steaming cup of tea.
Hermione peels her clothes off with a grimace and drops them in a damp pile by her feet. She grabs a fresh shirt and buries her nose into the soft cotton, breathing in the lingering smell of detergent as she lets the day’s stresses roll off her shoulders. She goes through her usual routine of massaging her legs with a guasha and checking her feet for any blisters, happy to switch her mind off.
She finishes quicker than anticipated and when her hands still with nothing to do, she finds herself staring into the vanity mirror in front of her. The mirror stops mid-torso, framing her in a way that reminds her of the portraits in the dance foyer and the dull look of their ancient eyes flash back to mind. Hermione closes her eyes and leans her head into her palms, taking a moment to sit and breathe as the weight of the day settles over her in full.
The evening sun slants in through high windows, warming the back of her neck. Her shoulders droop in a long sigh as baby hairs flutter over her cheeks. If it weren’t for the chattered French in the background, Hermione could almost believe she were still in London back at the Royal Ballet. If she tried harder, she could go back further to Oxfordshire, to the tiny studio that always smelled of old carpet, or even further back to Maisons-Lafitte where it all began. From Paris to London to Moscow to Milan, she’s danced all over the world, a leaf caught in the breath of autumn.
“Bonjour.”
Hermione startles back. An automatic reply slips out as a pair of low-heeled boots enter her peripheral. Fleur peers down at her, donning black slacks and a white chiffon blouse that hangs over her lithe frame. A blue felt hat sits atop a crown of silvery hair and loose strands spill over rigid cheekbones, accentuating her bright eyes.
“Désolée. I did not mean to scare you.” Fleur takes a small step back. She leaves a floral trace in her absence, a mix of something sweet, something of blossoms, and pear, and grapefruit. Something intoxicating and free.
It suits her.
“Do you have time right now?” Fleur asks.
Hermione curls her fingers against the edge of the bench and draws her feet beneath her knees, glancing at her own outfit. “I do,” she says, dragging her eyes back up. “But I’ve already–”
“Not to dance,” Fleur hurries to say. “The girls and I wanted to invite you out to dinner tonight if you are free.” She nods over her shoulders towards the others. “It is sort of a tradition, every first and last official day of rehearsal. A welcome back dinner. Or in your case, a welcome dinner.” Fleur fiddles with the rim of her hat. “There is a restaurant ten minutes away that we go to. The food is good and the prices are fair—their wines are excellent, and they have some pretty decent vegetarian options if…that is your preference.”
“Oh uh,” Hermione glances at the time on her phone, then looks behind Fleur. The étoiles huddle by the door like meerkats in their long tan trench coats. They catch her looking over and wave with welcome eagerness. Hermione is about to smile back when Fleur leans against the lockers, cutting her sight off from the rest of them.
“You do not have to go if you do not want to,” Fleur says, lowering her voice. “First days back can be rough,” she admits, “for everyone.”
Fleur dips closer, her hair rippling under the light. It streams down in halves, carving her with rays of gold in the afterglow of the vanishing day. In the distance, a locker slams and a bag drops to the ground. Hermione registers neither. The longer she sits under the earnest shine of Fleur’s eyes, the less exhausted she grows. Roald Dahl and The BFG can wait another night. Besides, she’s done enough of tromping on tradition for one day. She shoves her phone into her back pocket and stands up.
“All the more reason to get some good food and relax then. I, for one, would love a glass of wine or two.”
Fleur kicks off the wall. “Are you sure? If you are tired and want to go home, I can make up an excuse and have them reschedule for another time.” She moves to block Hermione and they side-step in unison. Hermione looks up, surprised. For a moment, they’re back in the studio doing their best to gauge each other’s next moves. Then Fleur takes a step back, eyes blinking rapidly. “I mean, it is your welcome dinner after all. You should have a say in it.”
“Don’t be silly.” Hermione touches Fleur on the elbow, feeling the tendons jump beneath her grip. “Let’s go?” She gives a light squeeze and scoots past Fleur, nose to chin. She catches another whiff of Fleur’s perfume, stronger this time, and picks up hints of jasmine. Later, when she’s alone back home, she’ll find the smell on the edges of her sleeves and she’ll think of Fleur and their partnership and their tentative friendship. For now, her fingers dwell against the rough mesh of Fleur’s shirt, insistent and pulling. Fleur follows, letting Hermione lead this time.
They join the others and make their way out of the Opera House. The summer streets of Paris embrace them with an entourage of fragrances: baked bread, cigarette smoke, car exhaust, exotic cheeses, and the distinct smell of burnt rubber from the metros rising up through the ground every now and then. Grand bells reverberate over the cityline. Bicycles whiz by always a tad too close and conversations wax and wane in waves as people come and go.
The étoiles waste no time in descending into a flux of their own conversations. They weave in and out of topics ranging from baby pictures to casting decisions to summer guesting experiences, switching whenever it suits them, and chiming in from across the group, shouting over each other. It’s chaotic and frenzied but comforting in the way thunderstorms are relaxing and Hermione melts into the present, content on disappearing in the energy around her.
“‘Ermione, what did you get cast in?”
Seven heads swivel over to Hermione, including Fleur who’s been locked in a conversation with Stephané in front of her the entire time.
Hermione blinks and cranes her neck, searching for whoever spoke. “Uh, my first program is The Red Shoes in October, I believe.”
Fleur slows her gait, cutting into Hermione’s line of vision. “As Victoria?”
The question pierces through the chatter of congratulations thrown at Hermione from the others.
“Yeah, why?” It’s a new role for her, but not an unfamiliar one. The ending of the affiliated film had haunted her as a child, having seen bits of herself in Victoria, and in a morbid way, wanting to see her reflection in Victoria, even molding herself to Victoria’s image. “Don’t tell me you also—”
“Ouais,” Fleur exhales. An expression flashes across her face that Hermione fails to catch. “I am. First two weeks.”
“Second two weeks,” Hermione says, cheeks twitching.
Fleur nods. The smile she gives Hermione is tempered with resignation. Madame Maxime is no fool and neither are they.
Fleur sidles closer and bumps their elbows together. “Alors, I look forward to sharing a stage with you.”
“We won’t be dancing together though,” Hermione points out.
Fleur shrugs. “Will we not be?”
Hermione looks down. Their shadows spill across the pavement under the reddening skies—two elongated, twisting figures melding into one. Fleur is right. Even if they dance weeks apart for different audiences with different casts and different intentions, Hermione’s Victoria will forever be haunted by Fleur’s.
The audience will look to the stage and see one dancing under the spotlight and they will think of the other. Every move shadowed by the one that came before. After all, what is absence but the shadow of a presence?
Hermione wonders what parts of Victoria Fleur carries with her.
They arrive at the restaurant, a quaint little shop by the corner of Fayette and Provence. Fairy lights glitter across the ceiling and conversations hum low over the clinking of glasses and cutlery. Two bottles of wine are ordered and poured before Hermione has even found a seat.
“Come, sit next to me,” Fleur pulls out the chair beside her, saving Hermione from the trouble. She slides around Fleur's elbow and lowers into the seat.
« Now that everyone is settled, » Zizi raises her glass into the air. « A warm welcome to this year’s newest addition to the team. » She winks at Hermione, and despite being a decade older, her playful antics remind Hermione of Katie Bell. « Welcome to Paris Ballet, Hermione. Your first year of many to come, I’m sure. »
Hermione chuckles into her lap, rolling her ankles underneath the table. « Who knows? »
Zizi laughs back. « Well, our door is always open to you. Sante! »
« Sante! » the table echoes.
Zizi turns to the woman next to her and a shadow flickers over her smile. « And of course, cheers to our dear beloved Celeste. »
Celeste, the eldest of the étoiles, tugs on Zizi’s elbow for her to sit down. « Not tonight, Zizi. »
« Are you sure? »
« Yes. We’re here to celebrate Hermione. »
Zizi presses her lips together. « Fine. As you wish. » She downs the rest of her glass and sits down. The table grows quiet and Zizi refuses to meet Celeste's eyes but before Hermione can make any sense of the interaction, another étoile around the same age as her speaks up from across the table.
« ‘Ermione, you probably do not remember,” Clairemarie says, « but we have met before, eight, almost nine years ago, back in 2010. »
« Really? » Hermione would’ve been around sixteen at the time. Sixteen... So much happened at sixteen. « I’m sorry, I don’t… »
« Varna? » Clairemarie supplies.
A grin breaks across Hermione’s face. « You were there in 2010? » A smattering of memories and emotions flash to the forefront of her mind, most of them happy and fond, gold in the distance from the future. « I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you unfortunately. I'm so sorry. »
« Don't be. We didn’t meet, not officially at least. I was a senior and you were still in the junior division but I watched your variation. » Clairemarie gives her a knowing look, then addresses the others. « This girl here showed up on check-in day in crutches. »
« No! Crutches? Sounds like there’s a story there, » Zizi says, leaning in, her grin back to its full capacity.
« It’s not much of a story, » Hermione deters. She’s met with seven pairs of expectant eyes. Realizing she has no way out, she takes a quick sip of her wine and wets her lips. « Uh, I was sixteen and I had just signed into the Royal Ballet. »
« Aw, you were a baby, » Celeste coos.
Hermione chuckles. « I was. We were doing Swan Lake and I was in the corps which is extremely tiring—as, I'm sure you all know. »
A chorus of agreements sound around the table.
« It was a Saturday. We had performances in the morning and the evening. And I had this great idea of participating in the Varna Competition at the same time. »
« No, » Zizi tuts.
« Hmm, » Laila laughs a little. « I did not expect you to be such a troublemaker. »
« Aren't we all, at that age? » Stephané says.
« I was sixteen, » Hermione defends with a small smile. « I was still training for the competition and I was supposed to fly out the next morning. »
« Why do I have a feeling I know where this is going? » Zizi smirks over her glass.
« I went into a studio with my partner after the morning show, and I still had on the swan feathers and the whole make up. But I was rehearsing and I ended up twisting my ankle— »
The entire table groans in sympathy.
« Sprained ankles are the worst, » Stephané says. « They never go away. I’ve sprained my left ankle about seventeen times by now. How bad was it? »
Hermione cups her hands in front of her. « It swelled up to the size of a small watermelon, probably around this big. I couldn’t walk. »
« Bah, of course, » Clairemarie says.
« So I told the director and he took me out of the evening’s performance and sent me home. I went back feeling awful. And I was debating whether or not to still go to Varna when I get this voice message from one of the ballet masters. »
« What did it say? » Clairemarie asks.
Hermione drops her voice into a flat monotone drawl. « Granger, you broke your foot practicing for something you were not allowed to. I forbid you to leave and compete. Should you fail to comply, your contract will be in danger of renegotiation. Do not—be—stupid. »
Zizi laughs, tapping Celeste's arm in excitement. « Ah, monsieur Snape. I took his class before, years ago when he guested as a ballet master. I’ve never met anyone with such a flat voice before. I swore I would've fallen asleep in his class if I wasn't so nervous. You sound just like him. »
« What did you do though? » Stephané asks. « That is a pretty serious allegation to make. »
Hermione shrugs. « I mean, it wasn’t really a choice. I went, of course I still went. I showed up on crutches, and drew the number 162 so I had two days in between to rest. I performed on the third day with a somewhat healed ankle— »
« And got first, you bitch! » Clairemarie exclaims. « I could not believe my eyes! »
Hermione laughs into her lap. « I came back and was reprimanded harshly but of course, they let me go easily because I had won. I was suspended for two weeks but that was mostly for my sprained ankle. »
« I’m glad it ended okay, » Zizi says, smiling warmly at Hermione before turning to Leila. « It reminds me of the time we… »
The conversation shifts away and Hermione leans back into her chair, still sifting through the influx of sentimentality curling within her. She’s barely caught her breath when she sees Fleur looking at her. She straightens back up.
“Impressed?”
Fleur taps the bottom of her wine glass, studying Hermione with a curious gleam. “It was brave of you."
For some reason, Hermione struggles to find a reply to that. The statement sits between the cages of her chest, trapped with nowhere else for Hermione to put it.
“Then again, I knew you were anything but docile from the way you dance.”
Blue eyes watch her with an indiscernible intent and Hermione has no reply for this either. She hums and looks down at her fingers. She wants to be honest and say no. No, there hadn't been any courage involved in her decision making. Recklessness maybe, but not courage. It had been simpler than that. Much simpler.
She had wanted to dance. Everything else mattered little.
By the time they’re done comparing their experiences over emptied dinner plates and glass bottles, the night air has grown crisp against their wine-warmed skin. Hermione bids everyone farewell with cheek kisses and side hugs and steps into the streets. Now that she’s alone again, exhaustion creeps back in, a familiar ache. She shoves her AirPods in and opens Google Maps to navigate her way back home when she hears someone run up to her. A hand slips into the nook of her elbow in a glancing brush and she almost jerks away before her body registers the familiarity of the touch and her heart settles.
“Where do you live?” Fleur slows her gait as she nears. “Maybe we can head back together?”
Hermione pulls out one of her AirPods. “My apartment is near Saint Martin College.”
Fleur falters. “That is far.”
“It’s only an hour by metro.” Hermione glances down at her phone screen and sees the one hour and twelve minutes estimated time for commuting. She clicks her phone off and moves the screen away but it’s too late. Fleur has already seen it.
“Did the company not have any housing that was closer?” Fleur frowns.
“It’s fine,” Hermione says, dropping her phone into her bag. “Besides, I like the commute. It gives me time to think. To listen to music.” There is a certain peacefulness to it she craves, a moment of stillness as she sits like a rock against the flow of traffic; a stark contrast compared to the rest of her day when she’s demanded to be in near constant motion.
“Still,” Fleur presses. “I cannot imagine it is all that convenient or comfortable. Especially once the season starts. You will be stuck at the opera house all day in between performances. You will not be able to relax, or rest, or-”
Hermione ducks her chin, muffling a quiet chuckle. She recalls the tension between her and Fleur from this morning, the feeling of hanging over an abyss—and while she hasn’t found the ground yet, she finds it’s not a terrible descent down. She stops and turns towards Fleur, smothering the fluttering feelings growing in her chest. She looks up with a slow blink and a small amused smile. A new fondness blooms inside her chest.
“Goodnight, Fleur.”
Fleur stills. Her lips are parted mid-rant and her eyebrows furrowed with annoyance on Hermione’s behalf, but she deflates, letting the words die in her throat. Her indignant anger melts away and turns into something softer as her lips close and her throat bobs. She nods once.
“Bonne soirée, Hermione.”
Hermione heads home. Fleur watches her leave.