Chapter Text
She stands alone.
Around her the stage expands, hungry, much too big and far too small.
All the world’s a stage—her world is the stage.
Every night she stands
Basked in light and roaring applause.
Then the curtains fall. The lights dim. The cheering fades.
And she remains.
What is a stage with no audience? To be full of life, only to be stripped bare when the hours are gone.
For all the gold and grandeur and velvety seats cannot keep the liveliness that is not theirs.
The curtains fall.
At the end of the day, she is but closer to her last curtain call.
They say a dancer dies twice and in the dark she sees it.
An open coffin waiting for her in the middle of the night.
Soon, it beckons.
Soon, it calls.
She takes a step forward, not knowing where the stage ends.
Applause shakes the stage under her feet but the thundering acclaim that fills the auditorium is muted by the pounding of her heart beating in her ears.
Breathe. She needs to breathe.
Her lungs constrict against her chest, every gasp an exhale. Fire scorches up her legs as black spots dance pirouettes in her vision. Her eyes sting with make-up saturated sweat but the corners of her lips stay in an unwavering smile.
As soon as she’s past the curtain and tucked into the wings of backstage, all pretenses of grace are dropped. She collapses against the wall, coughing and heaving. Shapeless figures and faces scurry past her. Their stiff tutus and scratchy sequins scrape against her leg. They jostle her as they pass, but she's in no condition to move. Some of the younger corps members collapse onto the ground in front of her. They’re quickly picked up and prodded away by busy hands.
“Good job ladies! That was some very good energy out there. Keep it up and keep it moving, alright? Change and get back into position. I want the energy to be even higher in act three, you hear me? Even higher.”
Their ballet master spots her crumpled form by the wall and walks over. “Mione! I liked what you did with the variation just now. Remember what we worked on in rehearsal today. Keep it light, keep it fast. Your feet should barely touch the ground. Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! Stay on top of that beat. Stay in control. And really embrace the exuberance, don't be afraid to embody that unadulterated excitement, got it? Great.”
Hermione can barely keep her eyes open let alone manage a nod as he brings his heavy hand down on her shoulders in a friendly pat. Her feet stumble for steady footing.
A water bottle is shoved into her hands. A stagehand towels her off and undoes the complicated straps of her costume. The corset releases her chest with a saturated pop and she gasps for her first taste of freedom.
A few dancers come in from the warm up studio looking fresh and ready to conquer the next act. Hermione watches as they stretch and warm up, envying their easy movements and easy postures while she fights the urge to faint and vomit.
Dancing never used to be this exhausting. She remembers a time when she wished the show would go on forever, a time when she could dance forever. Now, she can barely make it past act two without needing an IV drip.
Nimble fingers strip her out of her sweat drenched costume as another pair of hands maneuver her into a new dress. Someone is fixing her makeup, poking at her cheeks with a scratchy brush. Someone else is pinning up loose strands of her hair, spraying them back into place. The artificially fruity smell churns her stomach but she endures as best as she can. She is but a marionette being dolled up, a canvas to be admired.
“Two gulps,” someone says, pushing the water to her lips. Hermione complies. The bottle is snatched from her hands before she can swallow her second gulp and she is quickly ushered to her next position, stumbling over slow feet and warped gravity.
Ten minutes later, she finally catches her breath. Just in time too, to lose it all over again. She melts into the darkness of backstage, a pillar of stillness as the others rush around her in a last minute frenzy. She tunes them out and focuses on gathering herself. Exhausted, she draws energy from her surroundings—from the stage, the curtains, the audience, the other dancers, and the long hours of practice that have led her here. A bubble of resilience forms in her chest. She clutches onto it like a lifeline.
She needs to be happy, excited even. She needs to feel the rush of joy pumping through her veins. She searches for memories to tap into, both real and imagined. It takes her a while, but she’s been slipping on masks since she was seven years old, and has played at personas even earlier—perfect daughter, obedient child, straight A student.
By the time the lights rise with the curtains and she lifts to her toes in relevé, Hermione is no longer present. Every inch of her is transformed, unrecognizable. Perfected.
And for a brief, brief moment, she is weightless.
The rising arpeggios of the orchestra cue her in, high and fast. She plasters on a large smile—a Herculean feat made easy by a lie—and skips out. Her legs protest the exertion but she buries the pain beneath her skin and holds them within her bones. Here under the harsh spotlights of the stage there is nowhere to hide, yet everything about her is a fabrication. Below her, the orchestra crescendos, drowning everything out as she stares into the dark abyss before her.
She begins her final act.
She spins and leaps across the stage with fairy-light etherealness. She gives all she can into the performance, gives, gives, and gives. Even where there’s nothing left, she finds more to offer.
In return, they give her a standing ovation filled with eager bravo's and seven curtain calls. She curtsies into a low révérence, tucking her head to her knees, and remains there for as long as the applause endures, arms out to her side like wings—a humbled deity before an adoring audience.
In reality, she has no strength left to lift her head. She is not a goddess come to greet the mortal realm. She is a dying swan bowing its neck.
Rest cannot come soon enough.
Later that night, she lies in bed drained with exhaustion. Her cheeks twitch from smiling so wide and hard, traces of a mask long worn. Her ankle throbs with a heart beat of its own, pulsing with protest. The harsh glow of her phone screen is the only source of light in the entire apartment, illuminating the glass-like features of her face. Her eyes are blank as she taps against the screen, scrolling and scrolling. Words fly by in quick glimpses.
Praise after praise after praise.
She ignores most of them. Sweet words that used to fuel her joy and passion now carve away at an empty vessel. She catches a few segments. Phrases like, “peak of her career,” and “what is next?”
She puts her phone down and closes her eyes. She tries to come up with an answer.
Sleep comes late in the night.
“How does this feel?” Warm hands push her ankle down into pointe. “Any pain?
She shakes her head. “No.”
He pushes the ankle outwards. “What about now?”
“No.”
He switches position again and checks her expression for any signs of pain. There’s a slight strain in her ankle but it’s not enough to warrant any outward reaction. The instinctive ‘no’ slips past her lips before she can stop it.
She immediately presses her lips together.
This isn’t like when she was younger, when she could fib through an injury and pretend to be fine even though her ankle had swelled up to the size of a tennis ball. She can’t slap on some KT-tape or Tiger Balm and dance through the pain, flirting with the consequences to be dealt later. She’s not sixteen anymore. She’s a decade older. Her body’s not what it used to be.
The timing to retract her ‘no’ passes before she can change her mind.
“Okay, last one.” He pushes her ankle all the way back until it’s fully flexed. This time she feels it, the tight pull along her achilles tendon. She cannot ignore it, even as her face stays perfectly blank out of habit.
“Does it hurt?”
“A bit.” She takes a moment to think if she’s downplaying the pain again. She’s always had a hard time telling.
He shoots her a knowing look, well aware of her bad habits.
“Okay.” He relaxes his hold on her ankle and begins massaging the calf. “Keep doing what you’ve been doing and stay consistent with those exercises. Make sure to keep resting and icing it whenever you can. If it starts to bother you any more than this, I would recommend taking a break to let it fully heal.”
“A break?”
The suggestion jars her in the most uncomfortable way, like someone has jabbed their fingers straight into her chest, stealing a fistful of oxygen.
“Yeah, your contract lets you do that, you know?” he jokes. “It wouldn’t be for long. Probably just a month or two until we know it’s fully healed.”
A month. Or two.
Hermione wants to laugh. It nearly bubbles out of her in spite. Once, when she was sixteen, she sat out for two weeks over a sprained ankle. She still remembers how much she hated it, the waiting and watching while everyone else danced around her, how hopeless she’d felt.
“Maybe,” she says eventually. “I’ll think about it.”
He chuckles at her clear reluctance. She’s lying and he knows it, but not for the reason he thinks.
A voice haunts the inside of her head. It whispers, soft but insistent—things she doesn’t want to hear, things she knows aren’t true. But what if?
What if she takes a break and never returns? What if she likes not dancing a little too much? What if one month turns to two, then three, and then forever?
A part of her thinks she will be relieved to finally be done with ballet. She’s given all she can to the art and has taken what she could. There isn’t anything left.
The rest of her bleeds at such a thought. It is the part of her that would rather die than never dance again.
“Another day, another ten hours of rehearsal.” Ginny’s disgruntled entrance into the changing room is underscored by the loud slamming of her locker. She throws her bag to the ground and drops onto the bench next to Hermione, burying her face into her palms with a muffled groan.
Hermione gives a sympathetic half-hearted hum in greeting. Her fingers weave through her bushy curls, wrestling them into a proper bun—a feat that has not gotten any easier over the years—as Ginny sits there. The silence drags on long enough for Hermione to think Ginny’s possibly fallen asleep when the girl languidly pulls her face from her hands with a low protesting whine.
“I swear, if I’m not promoted to principal by next season, I’m leaving.”
Her impassioned declaration earns her a snort from Katie Bell who doesn’t even look up as she slips on a skirt.
“I’m serious this time,” Ginny declares, undeterred by the lack of faith. She peels off her hoodie and chucks it into her locker with a roughness that contrasts the usual gentle grace often associated with ballet dancers. “I mean, I’ve been a first soloist for what, seven years now?” She huffs in disbelief. “ Seven years. God. If Dumbledore doesn’t nominate me next season, I’m quitting and he’ll be sorry he ever let me go. ”
“Uh huh. And what would you even do when you quit?” Katie goads. “Join another company?”
“Maybe! Who knows?”
“You can always teach,” Angelina Johnson pipes in from a row over.
Ginny wrinkles her nose. “Maybe, when I’m like forty. But I kind of want to do something exciting when I’m still young.” She pauses. “I mean...I’ve always wanted to become a choreographer or something. Honestly, I'll do anything that pays better than being a ballet dancer.”
“That’s like everything,” Katie points out.
“You can do what that American ballerina did and go into acting,” Hannah Abott suggests as her hair tie snaps in her hand. She mutters a curse and rummages her bag for another one. “I heard she made quite a lot of money. Plus, you never know. You might end up acting with The Rock!”
“I remember that movie,” Luna Lovegood says through several hair pins wedged between her lips.
“He was surprisingly good in it,” Ginny comments.
“Well of course. He’s The Rock.”
“I’ve always wanted to have my own studio,” Angelina says. “I was thinking of teaching at the Royal Ballet School—if I can manage to get a position there—and then branching off and opening my own studio wherever.”
“I don’t know,” says Katie, pausing to bang her pointe shoes against the wooden bench. Three deafening sounds of bam bam bam! echo through the locker room. “I kind of want to go to uni, get my Master’s or something. I just don’t know if I want to dance my whole life, you know? At least this way, I have something more secure to fall back on.”
“What if you’re like forty years old when you retire?” Angelina asks skeptically.
“Old people can still go to school!”
“You guys remember Cho?” Hannah interjects. “I heard she quit the New York City Ballet and joined the Cirque du Soleil.”
“No way,” Ginny laughs, surprise coloring her tone. “Good for her.”
Katie nudges Hermione. “What about you? What would you do after ballet?”
Hermione fiddles with a pair of pointe shoes tucked between her knees. Had her hair been down, it would have fallen over her eyes like a curtain.
“After ballet?” she repeats with a drying throat. The words drop in her mouth, refusing to leave even as she feigns levity.
“Yeah, I don't know if it's just me, but I always imagined you as the smart, studious type. Like a doctor, or a scientist. Any secret aspirations you've been keeping from us?” There is nothing but curiosity in Katie's voice and yet...
Hermione ponders the question, sour as it sits in her chest. Nothing comes to mind. Unlike the others, she has no easy answer. Their lighthearted tones of conversation mock her inability to relate. She forces a shrug and remembers to use her eyes as she smiles.
“I'm not sure.”
She lowers her gaze but everyone is watching her, waiting for more. She shrugs again and chews on her lips in lieu of words to say.
“I don't know. I was rather good at the sciences in school. Maybe I'd get my masters like you.”
The lie slips out before she can think better of it and a question sinks inside Hermione’s chest. She refuses to acknowledge it.
Katie beams, jumping at the connection. Her mouth parts with an incoming question.
Hermione doesn’t let it come. “Who knows? I’ve never really thought about it, you know?”
Ginny snorts into her locker. “That’s because Hermione is going to dance until she’s like seventy two.”
Katie smiles, accepting the answer. “I can see that.”
Hermione could too, once upon a time.
Ginny glances at Hermione and is quick to look away but Hermione catches it anyways—the shadow of a look, a quiet flicker of envy that Ginny hides and buries on account of their deep camaraderie. And Hermione understands. She doesn’t blame Ginny.
But it certainly doesn’t help. The look reminds Hermione that she has something here that everyone else wants, something a lot of them would strive their whole lives for. She should be grateful, but she finds herself somewhat bitter instead.
You envy me for having something you want. I envy you for having something to want at all.
The locker slams again as Ginny finishes changing. She raises her arms above her head and stretches, sighing in relief as her back gives away with a pop. She eyes Hermione.
“You ready? I wanna go in a bit earlier to stretch out my hips.”
“Yeah,” Hermione mumbles. She dreads the effort of a day's worth of rehearsal, but gets up anyways and follows Ginny to the studio, all while marveling at Ginny's change in demeanor.
Ginny has always been like that, all bright, intense and spurred on by fits of passion. Quick to spark and quick to cool. Every year, Ginny threatens to quit, and every year, she’s drawn back in by the seductive promise of next time—convinces herself that one more year isn’t a long time, that good things come to those who are patient, that ballet of all things takes time, even a lifetime.
Hermione has since learned to ignore her false cries of wolf. Ginny’s not quitting anytime soon. It’s obvious in the way she pushes herself through morning class, in the obstinate lift of her chin as her legs flutter beneath her, eyebrows drawn in intense focus.
While Ginny drifts closer and closer to finding her center, Hermione floats farther away. They go through their tendus, pliés, and grand jetés, and all the while, Hermione is unable to shake off this lingering feeling inside her chest. The conversation from earlier echoes in the back of her mind. She tries to ignore the subsequent thoughts and feelings that bubble forth, tries to smother them out before they can take root and spread.
She’s not sure she fights a winning battle.
At the end of the day after everyone else has gone home, Hermione walks her aching body to an empty hallway she's rarely visited in her ten years with the company. She stands, facing a wall of brochures.
She cannot believe what she is doing. She wishes the disbelief coursing through her is strong enough to stop her.
Instead, she scans the assortment, uncharacteristically skittish, unsure of what she’s looking for. She hasn’t thought this through. She’s not even sure why she’s here, pretends she doesn’t see the words ‘Career Development’ looming over her like a taunt as her feet stay unmoving against the floor.
The brochures are all pretty similar. They melt into the wall creating an amalgamation of bright eyes and flashy smiles that prickle her skin. ‘Look at us! See? We’re happy. You can be too,’ they scream at her, as if none of these ex-ballet dancers have ever plastered on a smile and lied to an audience of thousands before.
She skips over the teaching roles and skims the ones under the ‘Future Scholars and Education’ section. She thinks of the lie she told Katie this morning and surrenders herself to the inkling that maybe it wasn’t just a knee-jerk reaction to a question she wasn’t ready to answer. After all, if she can't trust her own body, can she even call herself a ballerina? She lifts her hand and hesitates.
Just take it. You’re already here. What do you have to lose now?
Her arm drops. Regret rushes through her, hot in her chest. She hasn't even done anything and yet a threshold has been crossed. She turns and hurries away, eyes darting between the empty hallways, terrified that someone will see her and see through her. She fights to keep her head from lowering in shame, from giving away any signs of what almost transpired, what she almost allowed to transpire, even though no one is around to see her performance. She strides out of the Royal Opera House, erasing the memory of ever stepping foot into that hallway.
She returns the next week after another mind-numbing rehearsal.
The brochures have not changed. Hands gripping the straps of her bag like a lifeline, she reads the colorful blurbs on the front covers until she can quote them word for word. She leaves with sweaty palms and cramping fingers.
Three days later, she comes back again. She plucks the courage to pick one up and flip through it. She barely digests anything, the words flying past her eyes in a blur, before she stuffs it back into the container. She jerks her hand away and leaves like she’s been spurned.
She comes back another week later, well after everyone has gone home. She grabs three brochures without looking and stuffs them into the bottom of her bag before hurrying away.
The weight of what she’s done settles in with every step and her heart sinks in a sea of slow poison. The distance does not help, no matter how much she tries to get away.
Something in her has changed, is changing, and she’s finally caved.
She just doesn’t know if she’s given in to fear or to bravery.
The brochures stay crumpled at the bottom of her bag for three weeks, untouched.
She doesn’t throw them away. Nor does she look at them again. She hides them underneath a growing pile of workout clothes and worn out pointe shoes, and carries them with her everywhere she goes, a constant physical reminder.
Each day she wakes up lacking the courage to look at them and thinks, tomorrow, instead.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
“Come in.”
She pokes her head through the open door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Ah, Hermione, come, sit, sit.”
The Director’s office is remarkably large but sparse. Blinding white in decor, it reveals little of importance, hiding everything away behind sleek surfaces and minimalist designs. Hermione settles into the chair in front of the Director’s desk and languidly raises her gaze into old wizened blues shielded by half moon spectacles.
“Lemon drop?”
Hermione declines with a half shake of her head and a reserved smile. “No thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Dumbledore grins and pops the sour sweet into his mouth. He twirls it around in his mouth once, savoring the flavor, before settling his gaze on her. “Would you like to guess why I’ve called you in?”
Hermione musters a shrug as she rotates her right ankle in small circles. It cracks twice. "Not really, actually."
“A request came for you,” Dumbledore says. “Someone wants you to guest for them this next season.”
Her ankle stills. “I thought I made it clear that I wouldn’t be accepting any more guest performances.”
“Yes, yes,” Dumbledore says. “But this one is a bit different from the rest. I think you should at least hear them out.”
She briefly wonders which company reached out this time. American Ballet Theater? New York City Ballet? Bolshoi? Mariinsky? La Scala? She laughs silently to herself. Paris?
It’s not like it matters anyways. She recalls a time when she would have pounced at such opportunities, constantly on the move, searching and chasing after something. She’s never found it, she doesn’t think, and the need to run after it has faded now.
“Who sent the request?”
“Olympe Maxime.”
Her eyes flicker up from her hands as her lips part on their own.
“Paris?”
It comes out as a question but there is no doubt in her mind. One cannot dedicate a life to ballet and not know who Madame Olympe Maxime is. Her recent appointment as the Director of Dance at Paris Opera Ballet is the biggest news to hit the ballet world since the sacking of their previous dance director. Not to mention the indirect impact Madame Maxime has had on Hermione's own personal decision to become a professional ballet dancer.
But it is not because of her reputation that the name surprises Hermione. It is the invitation itself. In the past few decades, Paris Opera Ballet has been very strict with their guest artist policies—strict in the sense that they never had any.
“Paris,” Dumbledore confirms. “Olympe, as you know, is an old friend of mine. She personally reached out both formally and informally to express her interest in having you guest for them next season.”
Hermione is a master at controlling her expressions, has made a whole career on it, but Dumbledore is older, wiser, and despite what his spectacles might imply, has eyes sharper than a cat’s. They are well attuned to picking apart the smallest of details and have ruined and bolstered many careers throughout the decades.
They pick up on her slight pique in interest.
“This is her first year as the Director of Dance and after the fiasco with their last director,”—Dumbledore punctuates his point with a wry lift of his lips—“there is a lot of pressure on her to pick up the pieces, so to speak, to show the world that their ever beloved Paris Opera Ballet hasn’t fallen into shambles. Especially considering, this next season is particularly important since it is their 350th anniversary.”
A feat that no other ballet institution in the world can boast of.
“Knowing Olympe as well as I do, she’s definitely planning something—something spectacular. And while we would hate to lose you for a season, I think it would be a shame for you not to consider this offer. It could be a good opportunity for you to expand your horizons as a dancer.”
He looks at her with a hint of almost somber knowing that Hermione has to press her fingers into her thigh to distract herself from delving into meanings that aren’t there.
“She was very adamant about having you,” Dumbledore says slowly. “I know you’ve stopped accepting invitations to perform, which is why I’ve already rejected the others but I promised Olympe I would at least ask—”
“I’ll do it.”
The words rush out of her. She’s not sure where the impulsiveness comes from, not sure what forces grip her heart and push the words out. Perhaps it’s the growing heaviness in her chest that she can no longer ignore. Perhaps it’s the crumpled brochures at the bottom of her bag that stand as a daily reminder towards a future she doesn’t want to think about. Or perhaps it’s the look that Dumbledore keeps giving her, like he hears it too—the haunting melody of the last stanza in her swan song.
All she knows is that the way she feels immediately afterwards—a little nervous, anxious, and somewhere deep down inside, a little excited—compels her to keep her lips shut and not succumb to the urge to take the words back. She sits in the consequences of her impulsiveness, buzzing with feelings that have escaped her for a long time.
A part of her wonders how could she have ever missed this? She hates this feeling.
(She does. But she loves it too.)
Dumbledore does not say anything for a long moment. He sits there, staring, waiting, almost as if he can see the inner conflict broiling inside of her and is giving her a chance to back out now before it’s too late. Hermione persists. Her decision might’ve been a sudden one, plucked from seemingly nowhere, but the more time that passes, the more stubbornly she enforces it. Her nature is not usually one of vacillation and she refuses to make a habit of it now.
Dumbledore pushes his spectacles up his nose. “Very well. I will let her know you’ve accepted her offer.” He sounds pleased, and surprised, but mostly pleased.
He glances down at the pile of papers on his desk and shuffles them around. “We can work out the details of your contract later. Olympe will be absolutely thrilled to hear you accepted.” He looks up at her, and though his smile is whimsical, his eyes hold a deep earnestness. “Congratulations, Hermione. I do think this will be good for you.”
“Thank you.” Hermione sucks in a breath. “I hope so too." The admission feel more honest than anything else has in a while. "Is that all then?” There’s an urge to bolt from the office. Her body is thrumming with excess energy from the adrenaline high. For once, she’s grateful for the long rehearsals that await her.
Dumbledore nods, busy scribbling something down. “Yes. You may head on back.”
Hermione stands to leave.
“By the way,” Dumbledore calls after her. “Should you happen to see Filius at any point in time today, would you let him know that I’m looking for him and that he should come see me at his earliest convenience?”
Hermione stops and turns around, her mind quickly connecting the dots. “I can let him know,” she says. “But if I may, Director?”
Dumbledore looks up. “What is it, child?”
Hermione draws from the boldness of her previous decision and lets it bolster her on. “I assume you’re going to talk to him about the casting for the opening production next season?"
Dumbledore nods cautiously. “With you gone, we’ll need someone else to take up the lead role. Probably someone new. It would be a good opportunity.” He pauses. “Why do you ask?”
“May I recommend Ginny? I think she would make a gorgeous Giselle.”
Dumbledore stares at her. This is the second time now she’s managed to surprise him today and Hermione wonders when she ever stopped surprising him.
“Very well. I will be sure to take Miss Weasley into consideration.”
Hermione nods. A smile pushes at the corner of her lips.
She leaves his office eager to return to rehearsal and just a little breathless.
The season ends a month later with the usual fanfare and the Royal Ballet throws her a farewell party that doubles as their cast party. They get her a chocolate cake, a three layered fudge topped monstrosity that they dunk her face in with friendly glee.
Though Hermione feels nothing in the month leading up to her departure, a small part of her is now reluctant to leave. She tells herself that this is not a permanent departure, that they will dance together again next year when she inevitably returns, but as the night goes on, each hug and whispered farewell feels more like a goodbye forever and less of a see you later.
Ginny hugs her the tightest. “Maybe by the time you come back, I’ll be a principal too and we can solo together on stage.”
Hermione squeezes her back. “I look forward to it,” she whispers.
She arrives in Paris only two weeks later and maneuvers through the busy streets with confident familiarity, her two suitcases rolling behind her, stuffed with practice leotards and custom-made pointe shoes.
It’s noisy, cluttered, and dirty. But there’s sunshine, real sunlight that peeks through the clouds overhead and it’s inexplicably warmthful.
Her new home city is pretty in the late summer, the Palais Garnier even more so with its polychromatic white marble, gilded bronze, and pale green dome awash in the soft golden colors of the dawning sun. As grand as the London Royal Opera house is, its modern glassy elegance pales in comparison to this marbled nineteenth century French dynasty palace. It looms over the Avenue de l’Opéra unapologetic of its excessive opulence: untouchable, unchangeable, and perfectly preserved—a shrine to the high arts; its permanence, daunting.
“Here we are,” she whispers to no one but herself, staring up at the massive monument. Something looming presses against her chest and the act of breathing is lost on her. “The city of lights, love….and ballet.”
A gentle breeze blows past, carrying the first leaves of a waxing autumn. Hermione takes a second to gather herself. She faces the opera house and takes in a deep breath, shaking off the heaviness in the air. Here she stands in the cradle of classical ballet, the city that shaped and witnessed the dance form’s first steps into the world’s eye, the city that gave classical ballet its wings and taught it to fly, the city where classical ballet first touched the hearts of a larger audience not limited to kings and noblemen. Everything that ballet is, was, and will become, can be traced back here to the roots, to the beginning.
She takes her first step and in the distant horizon, daybreak expands.
The first person who greets her inside is none other than the Directrice de la Danse Olympe Maxime herself. Even from a distance, Madame Maxime’s aura is piercing, a larger than life presence barely encapsulated by her tall mortal frame. She strides down the chandelier lit halls in a fitted red power suit, hair styled to a classy shoulder length bob, and high heels that clack sharply against the marble floor, leaving echoes of her authority everywhere she goes.
Memories of watching Madame Maxime star as Kitri in a production of Don Quichotte twenty years ago rush to mind, reviving hints of that starstruck idolization Hermione had when she was still just a child who couldn’t do a proper turnout.
It is surreal to have her childhood confront her in adulthood like this. Despite turning twenty six this year, Hermione feels sixteen again, when she first joined the Royal Ballet as an official dancer.
“Mademoiselle Granger!” Madame Maxime breaks into a wide smile, opening her arms. She is as radiant as the gold that surrounds them. “Welcome to the Paris Opera. It is lovely to have you here. We are very excited.”
“I’m excited to be here, Directrice Maxime,” Hermione lowers herself into a simple révérence.
“Oh there’s no need for that,” Madame Maxime admonishes lightly. “We are a family now.” She pulls Hermione up from her curtsy and bends down to press their cheeks together twice in greeting. When she pulls away, traces of her perfume linger on Hermione’s person, a thick expensive smelling scent that curls inside of her nose and settles on her tongue.
“How are you feeling, dear?” Madame Maxime asks, running her hands from Hermione’s shoulder down to her wrists. “Ready to dance?”
“Always.” Hermione smiles tightly around the word.
The corners of Madame Maxime’s eyes crinkle as her smile widens, her expression brightening to soften the way her eyes sharpen with focus.
Hermione’s fingers curl at her sides.
“Good. Let me show you to the changing rooms,” Madame Maxime says. “The others should already be warming up for morning class. We’ll meet them there.”
When Hermione comes out wearing tights and a fitted top, Madame Maxime wastes no time in raking her eyes up and down her body.
“Trés bon." Madame Maxime nods in subtle approval. "Now you look ready for morning class. Is there anything else you want to take care of before we head over? We have a few more minutes to spare.”
Hermione shakes her head and tightens her hold on her water bottle. “No, I'm all set.”
“Parfait. Follow me.”
Madame Maxime leads her through a series of complicated turns and stairs within the Opera House. Hermione is almost certain she will get lost more than once in the future. As they turn a corner, the soft melody of a gentle piano drifts between the walls and Hermione knows they’re close.
“This is where you’ll have morning class every day,” Madame Maxime explains as she pushes the studio doors open, giving Hermione her first peek behind the curtains at Paris Opera Ballet. A chorus of Bonjour Directrice greets Madame Maxime upon entrance. She waves her hand and the dancers return to their morning stretches before their attention is inevitably drawn in by the newcomer.
Hermione walks in with shoulders back and easy saunter, confident but not attention-seeking. It is yet another scrutinization she's grown accustomed to.
As she enters, she’s hit by the unique sensation that one can only get from stepping into a dance studio for the first time. The distinct smell of perspiration mixed with perfume and hairspray, of pointe shoe glue and the strong medicinal sting of Tiger Balm. It welcomes her like an old friend, both familiar and yet not.
Unlike any of the other studios Hermione has been in, this one is circular. The floor is wooden instead of marley and there is no roof, only a dome that curves and disappears into the darkness hundreds of meters overhead. Harsh lights shine down from the sides, chasing away any shadows that might lurk in the crevices. Mirrors surround the room, reflecting every angle to the naked eye, open and exposed.
If the stage is known to be unforgiving, there is even less of a chance of hiding here.
Hermione focuses on these small but glaring differences instead of dwelling on the eyes that trace her entrance. She chances a glance across the room and catches several familiar faces amongst the dancers spread out on the floor in various stretching positions—few she’s ever met in person.
One ballerina in particular captures her attention. Her back is turned towards Hermione, legs spread in an over split—an easy one, judging by her relaxed posture—arms flexed to the side, pulling a Theraband against her pointed feet. Hermione doesn’t need to look at the moon-kissed hair twisted inside a neat bun to confirm her suspicions of the dancer’s identity. She would recognize that profile anywhere. It’s the same one that’s plastered outside the Opera House on a giant banner with her name penned in pretty cursive underneath.
The woman is none other than Paris Opera Ballet’s currently most sought after étoile, Fleur Delacour.
Fleur shifts her split to the other side and Hermione watches as the muscles in her legs ripple with movement, her long neck stretched to one side, exposing defined collar bones and a sharp jawline.
“Hermione,” Madame Maxime calls out. “I want you to meet Madame Leta Lestrange and Monsieur Igor Karkaroff, our maîtres de ballet.”
Hermione whips her head around and and drops into a small curtsy, recalling Madame Maxime’s words from earlier a tad too late.
“Bonjour Madame Lestrange, Monsieur Karkaroff.”
“Bonjour. Bienvenue à Paris, Hermione.” Madame Lestrange pulls her in, pressing their cheeks together. Her smoky eyes dip in a way that Hermione can only describe as séduisant. The slight curl of her lips carry a certain allure of secrecy, reminding Hermione of Madame Lestrange’s immense popularity as an étoile before she retired. “We have been looking forward to your arrival.”
“I hope you are prepared to sweat,” Monsieur Karkaroff adds gruffly. He nods at her with a sternness that gives away his Russian training, eyebrows furrowed like disappointment is ever imminent, and thin lips set into a perpetual frown.
Hermione tilts her head at him, unfazed. She’s faced tougher teachers in her past. “Of course.”
Madame Maxime turns her attention to the right. “Over there by the piano is one of our music directors, Monsieur Yusuf Kama. Bonjour, Yusuf.”
Upon hearing his name, the dark skinned pianist beams a charming grin at them. “Bonjour Directrice!” he says before nodding at Hermione, his fingers never pausing over the piano keys. “Bonjour Mademoiselle. I look forward to playing for you.”
Hermione drops into another révérence—it's too late to stop now—and greets the pianiste.
“And of course,” Madame Maxime takes her by the shoulders and turns her towards the rest of the studio, sweeping her arms forward in dramatic revelation. “The current generation of étoiles and premier danseurs here at Ballet de Paris.”
There is pride in Madame Maxime’s voice and it is well earned. Every dancer present has been hand-selected by a Directrice de la Danse through the decades out of a company of a hundred sixty people, the cream of the crop.
Madame Maxime steps forward and claps her hands together. The sound resonates sharply in Hermione’s left ear.
« Attention please. »
One by one, the dancers look up from their morning stretches, latching onto Hermione’s presence like sharks to blood.
« I’m sure she needs no introduction—her dancing speaks for itself—but it is my honor to introduce Hermione Granger from the London Royal Ballet. As you all know, she will be joining us this season as our guest star. Please welcome her kindly into our family. »
Applause breaks out throughout the studio. They smile up at her with wide grinning faces, warm, open and welcoming. Someone in the back shouts out a “Bienvenue!” as excited whistles fly through the air.
Hermione accepts their welcomes with as much grace as she can muster. She steps forward and brings her arms out, dipping into a small révérence. As she raises her head, she catches Fleur Delacour watching her with a tilted chin and a look of mild interest.
Hermione stares back.
Fleur Delacour has the type of face that is extraordinarily well sculpted for catching the light—not a stage effect like Hermione always thought—with features that hold a hint of cold Parisian impertinence. She’s pretty in the way a glacier is intimidating, with eyes that cut and a natural glow that clings to the edges of her silhouette.
It takes more effort to tear her gaze away than Hermione would like to admit.
“Warm up, stretch, do whatever you need to do,” Madame Maxime tells her. “Class will begin soon. If you have any questions, feel free to ask any of us for help. Albus told me your French was decent?”
« It is not perfect, but I should be able to keep up with class. »
« Of that I have no doubt. I’ll be over here if you need anything. »
Hermione finds an empty spot on the right side of the room. She places her bag down and settles onto the ground, automatically moving to stretch out her legs. The dancers around her greet her with a kind smile and shoot her a quick welcoming word or two. One of them even gushes about her most recent performance of Bolero, finishing her ramble with how she’d hoped to see Hermione dance in person one day. Hermione accepts the comment like a double-edged sword, with a bashful smile and a self-inflicted bitterness.
She takes a deep breath and lowers herself forward, pressing forehead to knees in a hamstring stretch. Her ears pick up on the silence that falls over the studio. It’s uneasy and restless. Normally, there would be a bit more chatter before class starts, but this morning, everyone’s a little more focused than usual and the reason escapes no one.
Hermione forgets them. She focuses on herself, on warming up the necessary muscles and stretching what needs to be stretched. She’s been in this industry long enough to know not to psyche herself out. She knows they’ll all be watching her later, comparing and measuring her up to an invisible standard.
She finds herself...excited for it actually, an old competitive spirit stirring awake inside of her at the challenge presented. Even though there is no stage, this is still a performance. Only this time, her audience is more attuned to the nuances of her craft, of the technique that is required behind every movement. They would know what to look for and Hermione knows she can deliver. She wants to deliver.
Monsieur Karkaroff steps into center. « Take your positions by the barre. »
Without giving it much thought, Hermione stands and heads towards the center front-most barre. She’s halfway there when she notices someone else approaching from the other side of the room. Neither of them stop. They meet in the middle, facing each other on opposite sides of the barre.
Fleur dips her chin in the slightest of acknowledgements, eyes not gentle, but not unkind either. Hermione nods back. They don’t speak a word—they don’t need to, they’re dancers. Their bodies speak for themselves. They raise their left hands onto the barre and spin to their right, settling into position facing opposite directions.
Though neither is aware, their moment of synchronization does not escape the scrutiny of Madame Maxime, nor the rest of the room who’d witnessed their gravitation towards each other.
« We begin with pliés, » Monsieur Karkaroff says. « Demi, demi, grand. First, second, fifth with the usual port de bras. Then stretch forward and back. Same thing, other side. Yusuf, if you’d please. »
The piano starts and Hermione takes the first four counts to breathe, to simply exist. Her mind is alive, noticing every little detail that is different and foreign. She forces herself to forget them—the studio, the teachers, the pianist, the dancers, the country. Instead she adjusts the focus to what she knows, on what is familiar and reassuring—the way her body feels when it moves, the way her chest expands when she inhales, and the way the melody lifts from the piano.
When the time comes, she lifts her arms and bends her knees, taking her time with the counts, stretching the beats to their fullest, letting the music dictate her movements.
« And switch. Same thing, other side. Five, six, seven, eight. »
Hermione twirls in towards the bar to face the other side. There’s a brief moment, barely existent really, where she meets Fleur’s gaze as they both transition.
« Plié, plié, fifth. Plié, plié, forward, backward, and turn. »
Their eyes catch each other again on the twirl.
Hermione tries not to think too much of it. She pretends she cannot read Fleur's movements through the barre beneath their grips; pretends she cannot pinpoint whenever Fleur shifts her weight from her left to her right, when she pushes down in need of support, or lightens up when she’s found her balance.
Hermione catches her self-reflection in the mirrors. She allows herself a single glance. Then the music starts anew and Hermione wipes her mind empty, refocusing on herself.
It comes...easier than expected, this practiced entry into a purposeful tunnel-vision, and before she knows it, something simply connects. Like a spark in the dark, a lightness returns. It flutters from chest to toe. An old flame rekindles, flowing through her legs with a renewed sense of vigor and strength. She fills with a peace, a sense of zen she hasn’t known in a long time.
Maybe it’s because of the new environment and the awareness that everyone is watching her closely—the pull to look inwards instead of out; maybe it’s because of her pride as an English ballerina and the first person to guest at Paris Opera Ballet in decades; maybe it’s because her childhood idol is standing but a few meters away, dissecting her technique down to its essentials; or maybe it’s even because of Fleur Delacour who is standing right behind her, no doubt dancing perfectly to every beat, and whose gaze she meets every time they twirl towards the barre—but whatever the reason is, as Hermione moves to the lilt of the music, she slowly starts to feel again.
She feels her feet press into the ground, and feels the ground press back. She feels the transfer of weight as she shifts from standing to a demi plié. She feels the curl of her fingers, the tension in her sides from squeezing her body up in perfect posture. She feels the barre shake beneath her hands from the weight of the other dancers. She feels even the air around her as she transitions between the movements.
She doesn’t think, she doesn’t stress, she only is.
A calmness overtakes her. It is a familiar feeling, but an old one. She’s forgotten this, she realizes, how meditative ballet could be. She’s glad to remember again. Right here and right now, nothing else matters, nothing else exists. There is only her body, the barre, and the music. So she lifts her chin tall and proud and dances.
Sometime between the tendus and the dégagés, her vision blurs with unshed tears.
« Everyone is extra spirited today, » Leta comments with a hint of light humor as Igor calls out the exercises. « I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more passionate warm up class. »
Olympe wears a wry smile. « I can’t possibly imagine why. »
Leta hides a laugh. « The way she dances is very interesting. A mix of the Russian and English styles, but very technical, very clean. »
« She spent a year guesting at the Bolshoi three years ago. And the Royal Ballet Academy teaches at least one year of the Russian style in their curriculum. »
« They should teach the French style. It's clearly superior. »
They chuckle under their breath.
« They look good together, » says Leta.
« Who? » Olympe asks, playing coy.
Leta nods towards the two ballerinas leading the first group in a center floor exercise. « People can’t help but look at them. » She glances at the dancers watching on the side, waiting for their turn. Almost every single one of them has their eyes on one or the other. « They have a force that just draws you in. »
« I wouldn’t have expected anything less. »
« That’s true, » Leta murmurs. She turns to Madame Maxime. « Why did you bring her here? »
Olympe remains stoic in her answer. « To dance, of course. Why else? »
« You old hag, you know what I mean. Are you not scared of them stepping on each other’s toes? »
Olympe smirks. « That’s what I’m counting on. »
After class, Hermione leans one hand on the wall and lifts her tumbler to her lips. The water is sweet as it slides down her throat. She drinks until her lungs scream, then swallows and gasps for air. Despite the lack of breath, she feels more alive than ever. For the first time in a long time, she feels properly quenched.
Several company members walk by, greeting her with more welcoming smiles. When she smiles back, it comes out easier than before.
She looks down at her feet and wiggles her toes inside the confinement of her pointe shoes, reveling in this lightness that she hasn’t felt in such a long time. She’s not ready to stop dancing, not while it feels like this. Her legs and feet ache to be thrown into rehearsals, to leap and fly.
Well acclimated to her body, she senses someone watching her and when she looks up, she is not surprised to see Fleur walking straight towards her with a focused, singular purpose in her steps. Hermione doesn’t shy away from Fleur’s gaze. She waits for her approach, wondering if willful, demanding, and egocentric—words that surface recurrently in the reports of Fleur’s career as one of the “most exciting dancers in the world”—ring true in their judgement of the woman or if they’re just one of the hundreds of masks that Fleur undoubtedly holds in her reserve.
Fleur stops in front of her and Hermione is surprised to find that Fleur is a little taller than her. She tilts her chin up ever so slightly to match her gaze.
The public is used to seeing them together like this, side by side. Whenever one is mentioned, the other is not far behind. Fans are constantly debating who is the better ballerina between them, comparing their artistry and techniques to no conclusion. Hermione has never actively sought out information about Fleur, but the woman has become a constant presence on the outskirts of her life and she suspects the same for Fleur. They could hardly be considered strangers and yet they are, the spearhead and the vanguard of modern ballet. The two of them have met a thousand times in a thousand headlines and a thousand more discussion posts, but here they meet for the first time in person.
“Bonjour.”
Fleur’s voice carries a low, husky charm that's instantly pleasing to the ears. Hermione wishes to hear more but whatever Fleur wants to say next is cut off by Madame Maxime who calls out to the two of them.
“Fleur, Hermione. Over here.”
Fleur closes her mouths and tilts her head, looking vaguely amused at being interrupted. She raises her eyebrow into a delicate arch, giving Hermione a look she can’t really decipher, before sauntering over. Hermione follows, mind pondering over the unspoken as her eyes trace the fluid movements of Fleur’s body.
“Grab your things and follow me," Madame Maxime orders.
Fleur shoots Hermione a questioning look that she mirrors back. Madame Maxime leads them, without any explanation, through the wide halls of the opera house, heels clacking away mercilessly against the marble.
The interior of the Palais Garnier is beautiful, Hermione only now realizes as she scrambles behind Madame Maxime’s long legs. How she failed to see any of it on the way in is a mystery. She must’ve lost more than just water weight in class this morning—emptied to have the capacity to hold again.
She takes in the white marbled hall that is crowned with gold filigree, lit from every angle with light that cascades over the paintings and sculptures, bringing them to life in a way that daylight could never manage on its own. Every centimeter is designed to draw the eyes, containing something new, something decadent and delightful—from the mirrored finish on the marble floor to the intricately sculpted pillars with figures that dance around the poles in a hypnotic swirl, up to the paintings on the roof that tell stories history has only repeated since in broken whispers, to the grand staircase that rises from the center of it all and reaches seemingly all the way to heaven.
Madame Maxime brings them to the renowned dance foyer backstage, an intricately designed golden hall with a mirrored wall where once upon a time French kings might’ve twirled their queens in solemn dances.
“Tell me,” says Madame Maxime. “What do you see?"
Hermione sweeps her gaze across the room. There is so much to be seen she doesn't even know where to begin. Paintings, chandeliers, sculptures, and details beyond her artistic scope. Luckily Fleur, being more acclimated with their surroundings, answers first.
“I see a mirror,” Fleur says simply. “I see myself, my reflection.”
“And above you?” Madame Maxime asks.
Hermione looks up and sees a series of paintings that line the center square of the ceiling.
“Portraits of famous ballerinas from the 18th and 19th centuries,” Fleur answers.
They stare down at Hermione with history-sated eyes, tight-lipped and rosy cheeked, bearing the weight of the past. There is so much those smiles tell and so much more they hide. Carmago, Salle, Noblet. All once the greatest ballerinas alive, now immortalized in paints and oils.
“Excellent.” Madame Maxime turns down the hall, leaving Fleur and Hermione to chase after her. She brings them the long way round on the other side of the opera house to a hallway made of white stone. Though it is absent of any trace of gold like the rest of the palace, it is not any less reverent. On either side of the stone arched hallway is a long line of statues, marbled features brought to a larger than life-like quality.
Once more, Madame Maxime asks, “What do you see?”
“The directors and composers of Paris Opera,” Fleur answers easily. There’s a hint of lost curiosity in her tone and Hermione can’t help but mirror it in her expression.
“And? What else?” Madame Maxime persists.
Silence hangs in the air as they both furrow their eyebrows in confusion. Unlike the dance foyer, there is no lavish golden decoration here. There is less to see, less to distract. The only thing of importance is the row of statues.
Madame Maxime leans down so she’s hovering just above Hermione’s shoulder.
“What do they all have in common?”
Hermione looks.
It takes a second. Only a split second for rose-tinted glasses to drop from her vision, exposing a glaring truth. The answer hits her like a punch in the gut. It’s so painfully obvious, it becomes the only thing Hermione can see.
“Well?” Madame Maxime prompts.
Her lips part. The words fall.
“They’re all men.”
Hermione scans the statues to make sure she hasn’t missed one, that maybe of one these long curly hairstyles is not a wig, because surely, there has to be at least one—but no.
There is not a single woman in the long line of male directors and composers.
Three hundred and fifty years.
Something heavy presses into her chest, something that tastes like tradition and history, accented with a certain bitterness that she and all the little girls around the world have learned to carry with them as they grow.
She thinks back to the other room, to the restrained smiles of the ballerinas, of what they’ve pushed themselves to achieve, of what they could never achieve. Is it no wonder then, that the ballerinas are painted on paper, lost amongst the golden heavens, while the men are carved into stone and sit in the hall like kings of old?
Classical ballet has always been about the ballerina rising above, either by herself or by a partner. It is about shedding mortal restraints and transcending to realms beyond. But even as they become goddess and beings of etherealness, they are not the gods of their worlds.
“As you know, next year marks the 350th anniversary of the Paris Opera Ballet,” says Madame Maxime, her voice low and chilling. “The Paris Opera and the Paris Opera Ballet have come a long way from where we started but...we have a long way to go.”
Hermione stares into the face of the stone composer in front of her and tries to stamp out the broiling heat in her throat.
“Classical ballet is all about the female form and pushing it to its limits,” Madame Maxime says. “Ballerinas are the stars of ballet. That is why only ballerinas are called étoiles. Ballet is woman in a sense. And yet it is controlled by men. Male directors, male choreographers, male sponsors.”
She steps backs and gestures to the hall. “Paris Opera Ballet is deeply rooted in history and tradition, perhaps more so than all the other institutions in the world. This edifice is dripping in it, every centimeter filled with it. We are standing at the very foundation of ballet, where these traditions were first formed to the world, so it only makes sense that we question them here too, non? Traditions beg to be challenged and molded, otherwise,” she quirks an eyebrow, “what good are they?”
She brings her hands into the pockets of her power suit and settles her steady gaze onto the two of them.
"It's our bodies, our sweat and our tears. About time we have a say in it, don't you think ladies?"
Hermione swallows thickly. Fleur shifts next to her.
“You’re probably wondering why I brought you here, why I’m telling you all this, why I dragged you here all the way from London.” Madame Maxime’s gaze on her is heavy with deliberate determination. “Every year, we try to feature new pieces in our show program. This year, we have five new projects in the works. I will be personally directing and co-choreographing one of them—a brand new production starring women, choreographed by women, directed by women, showcasing women.”
“That’s-” Hermione struggles to get the words out.
“Incroyable,” Fleur says breathlessly.
Madame Maxime smiles warily. “Don’t get too excited yet. The success of my production will rely heavily on its two female leads.”
She lets her sentence hang in the silence. Hermione turns to her left and sees the realization dawning on Fleur the same time it strikes through her.
“You want us to star in your new production?” Hermione asks. She feels more than sees the way Fleur perks up next to her.
“I would be honored,” Fleur says.
“That is the goal, oui.” Madame Maxime looks between the two of them. “The production will be a classical ballet. The main feature of it is, of course, a grande pas de deux.”
“A grande pas de deux,” Hermione repeats slowly. “A duet between…"
“The two of us,” Fleur finishes.
The glance at each other and time stretches, suspended in between them, held by their gravity. The weight of potential—of the meaning they could carry is not lost on either of them.
“C’est exact. How often do you see a pas de deux performed between two women?”
Fleur and Hermione don’t respond. They do not need to. The answer is almost never.
“I'm in,” Fleur says, turning away first. Hermione hears the conviction burning in her tone. "Whatever role you want me in, even if it is a small one. I want to be a part of...this,” Fleur says, properly riled up. “Why can two boys dance together but not two girls? It never made any sense to me.” She frowns, her face hardening into a look a stubborn determination. “I want to dance in your production.”
Madame Maxime nods, a brief smirk pulling at her lips, and turns towards Hermione. “And you? Would you be interested?”
Hermione sucks in a breath. There is only one answer she wants to give. She might not be as forthcoming about it as Fleur but her conviction is clear. It presses against chest, hot and choking.
“Yes. Absolutely.”
Madame Maxime smiles. She darts her gaze between the two of them, allowing herself to revel in the small victory for only a second before she flattens her expression, her features sharpening into something more business-like.
“The production won’t be showcased until the middle of February, which may seem like a lot of time, but we have a lot to do before we can get there.” She levels her gaze at them. “Every pas de deux requires complete trust, a deep connection made between the two dancers. In these next few months, you will be challenged technically, artistically, and interpersonally. You will face obstacles harder than anything you've faced thus far. It will not be easy, but if you are able to see it through the end, it will be the most rewarding experience in your entire careers. So I ask you, as your choreographer, as your director, are you willing to trust each other? To really dance with each other? As true partners?”
Fleur and Hermione turn towards each other, the gravity behind Madame Maxime’s statement catching them both off guard. Behind the veil of desire and commitment is a hint of uncertainty. They’ve only met each other not even a few hours ago and have barely exchanged two sentences. Hermione doesn’t know the first thing about Fleur.
Except that’s not entirely true.
She knows that Fleur is a phenomenal dancer with an artistic instinct that rivals her own and lines that never end. She knows that no one can achieve what Fleur’s achieved without an extreme level of competence and reliability. She knows that Madame Maxime has personally chosen the two of them out of everyone else. She knows that she wants to dance, and that dancing with Fleur would be dancing with the best.
It’s barely anything to stand on, a floor built on assumptions and potential, but Hermione is used to dancing only on her toes.
She can feel Fleur watching her, waiting for her answer. She already knows Fleur’s answer—it emanates from her person, a resounding yes.
Hermione takes in a deep breath. Unlike the time she sat in Dumbledore’s office, she does not rely on her impulsiveness. She lets her thoughts marinate, lets her feelings settle. She listens.
The answer comes to her slow, but steadier by the second.
Hermione cannot be sure what the future holds for her. She cannot know if she and Fleur will work well as partners. All she knows is that Madame Maxime’s words have struck a chord within her.
And where there is music, there is dance.
”I’m in,” Hermione says, resolution anchoring her. She turns towards Fleur and takes a leap of faith. “What do you say? Partners?”
Fleur studies her for a brief moment, blue eyes flashing brilliantly, before her lips curl into a slow smile. “Avec plaisir.”
Her answer sends a shiver of excitement down Hermione's spine. Together, they turn towards Madame Maxime.
“Congratulations,” Fleur says, straightening into a look of confidence. Hermione stands next to her, matching her in every way. “You’re looking at your two new leads.”
Madame Maxime melts into a slow deliberate smirk. “I suppose I am.”
And so, in a hallway full of dead men immortalized in stone as white as their skin, three ballerinas come to an understanding.