Chapter Text
The late August sun filtered through the tall windows of Studio Three, casting long rectangles of golden light across the worn wooden floors. Hermione Granger stood at the barre, one hand resting lightly on the smooth wood, her other arm curved in an elegant port de bras. Her worn pink pointe shoes were laced carefully up her ankles, the ribbons tied in perfect bows that Lyudmila had taught her to make invisible against her skin.
"Higher," came the familiar, accented voice from across the studio. "Your développé is lazy today, Germiona. What would Irina Vladimirovna say if she saw this?"
Hermione bit back a smile and lifted her extended leg another few degrees, feeling the familiar burn in her supporting hip. After six weeks at Vaganova, being back in London felt both comforting and strange. The Imperial Russian style had been drilled into her body even more thoroughly than usual this summer—Madame Irina had been particularly exacting about the placement of her shoulders, the exact angle of her chin.
"Better," Lyudmila said, her sharp blue eyes missing nothing as she observed from her chair. At eighty years old, she no longer demonstrated the combinations herself, but she could spot a sickled foot or dropped elbow from across the room without fail. "Now close to fifth, and again. This time with intention, not just mechanics. You are not a puppet."
Hermione drew her leg down through passé, the movement controlled and precise, toes pointed until the last possible moment before settling into fifth position. She could see herself in the mirror—dark curls twisted into a severe bun, her simple black leotard and pink tights the same she'd been wearing since she was seven. She looked like any other ballet student, which was rather the point. Here, she wasn't the brightest witch of her age or the Muggleborn know-it-all. Here, she was simply a dancer.
The summer intensive at Vaganova had been extraordinary. She'd trained six hours a day, six days a week, surrounded by the most talented young dancers in Russia. For those six weeks, magic hadn't existed. There had been only the barre, the center work, the endless corrections in rapid Russian that she'd learned to understand and obey. Her body had been pushed further than ever before, and she'd loved every aching, exhausted moment.
She began the développé sequence again, this time letting her mind quiet as her body took over. Lyudmila had been her teacher since she was three years old, since before accidental magic had sent her mother searching desperately for activities that might help little Hermione burn off her inexplicable energy. Ballet had saved her in more ways than one—it had given her control, discipline, and a space where her mind's constant churning could finally settle into the rhythm of her body.
"Yes," Lyudmila said, and Hermione could hear the approval in her voice. "This is what Irina taught you. This is why you are my best student."
Hermione couldn't help the flush of pleasure at the praise. Lyudmila was notoriously sparing with compliments.
She was moving into the next combination—a series of rond de jambes that required absolute stability in her supporting leg—when she heard voices in the corridor outside. Lyudmila heard them too; her eyes flicked toward the door, and something that might have been annoyance crossed her weathered face.
"Katya was supposed to keep them in Studio One," the old woman muttered, though whether she was speaking to Hermione or to herself was unclear.
The door opened, and Lyudmila's daughter, Katerina, stepped inside. She was in her fifties, with her mother's sharp features softened slightly by time and a warmer disposition. Behind her came a small crowd of people, and Hermione's hand tightened on the barre.
"Mama, forgive the interruption," Katerina said in Russian. "But our new students and their families wished to observe one of your private lessons. I told them you were working with your most advanced student."
Lyudmila's expression remained impassive, but she gave a slight nod. "Very well. But silence, please. We are working."
Hermione kept her eyes on the mirror, continuing the rond de jambes as though nothing had changed, but her heart was racing now. She could see the group in the reflection—several adults in expensive-looking clothes, and five teenagers around her own age. She didn't let herself look too closely. Instead, she focused on extending through her knee, rotating from the hip, maintaining her turnout.
"This," Katerina said, switching to English, "is Hermione Granger. She's been training with Mama since she was three years old. She spent this summer at the Vaganova Academy in St. Petersburg."
There was an interested murmur from the watching group, but Hermione didn't let it break her concentration. She finished the combination, came back to first position, and waited for Lyudmila's next instruction.
"Center," Lyudmila said. "Adagio, the one we worked yesterday."
Hermione moved to the center of the studio, very aware now of the eyes on her. She could see them more clearly in the mirror now—a tall woman with white-blonde hair swept up in an elegant chignon, a man with dark skin and an expensive suit, another woman with severely styled black hair. And the teenagers: a girl with a sharp, pretty face and dark hair cut in a sleek bob, a tall boy with warm brown skin and knowing eyes, another girl with pale blonde hair and an air of cool elegance, a boy with sandy hair and high cheekbones, and—
Her stomach dropped.
Draco Malfoy stood near the back of the group, his platinum hair unmistakable even in the warm studio light. Next to him was Pansy Parkinson, and Hermione now recognized the others: Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass, and Theodore Nott. The Slytherin contingent, here in her studio. In her space.
For a moment, she forgot the combination entirely. Her mind went blank with shock, and she simply stood there, arms in second position, staring at the mirror.
"Germiona," Lyudmila said, a warning note in her voice. "Begin."
Hermione dragged her attention back to her body, to the music playing in her head since there was no pianist for this lesson. The adagio began with a slow, controlled arabesque penchée, and she lifted her leg behind her, bending forward from the hip as her working leg rose higher and higher. It required every ounce of strength and balance she'd developed over fourteen years of training, and she poured all her confusion and shock into holding the position perfectly.
She couldn't think about why they were here. She couldn't wonder what this meant. There was only the hold, the balance, the slow rise back to vertical before transitioning into a series of turns.
In the mirror, she saw Draco Malfoy's eyes widen slightly. Pansy Parkinson's hand had flown to her mouth. Even Blaise Zabini, usually so composed, looked impressed.
Good, some petty part of her thought. Let them see what a Muggleborn can do.
She moved through the combination with fierce precision—arabesque to passé, développé à la seconde, promenade in attitude, each movement flowing into the next with the liquid grace that Lyudmila demanded. Her supporting leg burned, her arms ached from holding the port de bras, but she didn't let any of it show on her face. Ballet had taught her to smile through pain, to make the impossible look effortless.
When she finished, lowering from relevé back to flat feet and bringing her arms down to bras bas, there was a moment of silence.
Then Lyudmila spoke. "Again," she said. "And this time, remember your épaulement. You are still thinking like a child, square to the mirror. I want to see the artistry Irina showed you."
Hermione nodded and took her starting position again. This time, she let herself angle her shoulders and head, adding the subtle nuances that transformed technique into artistry. She forgot about the Slytherins watching. She forgot about school starting in a few weeks, about the strange summer where Sirius Black had been cleared and Peter Pettigrew exposed, about all the complications of her magical life.
There was only the dance.
She didn't know how long she worked. Lyudmila was relentless once she had an audience, pushing Hermione through variation after variation, correction after correction. Fouettés. Grande jeté combinations. The solo from La Bayadère that Hermione had been perfecting all summer. Each time she finished something, Lyudmila would give a curt nod and say "Again," and Hermione would do it again, better.
Finally, when Hermione's legs were trembling and her leotard was soaked with sweat, Lyudmila raised one elegant hand.
"Enough," the old woman said. "Révérence."
Hermione moved to the center of the studio and performed her reverence—the formal bow that ended every ballet class. She curtseyed deeply, arms moving through the graceful pattern she'd learned so long ago, and held Lyudmila's gaze as she rose.
"Good," Lyudmila said, and there was unmistakable pride in her voice now. "You have not lost what Irina taught you. This is well."
Hermione smiled, breathing hard, and moved to grab her water bottle from the corner.
"As you can see," Katerina said to the watching group, her voice warm with obvious pride in her mother's student, "Lyudmila's students train at the highest level. She worked for many years with the Kirov Ballet before opening this studio, and she maintains those standards here."
"That was..." the woman with white-blonde hair began, and Hermione recognized her voice now—Narcissa Malfoy. "That was quite extraordinary."
"How long has she trained en pointe?" asked the elegant woman with dark hair—presumably Mrs. Greengrass.
"Since she was eleven," Katerina replied. "And she's been doing pre-pointe conditioning since she was eight. Mama is very careful about these things."
Hermione stood by the barre, drinking her water and trying to decide if she should leave or stay. She was technically done with her lesson, but the group was still here, and she wasn't sure of the protocol.
"Does she compete?" This was from Pansy's mother, a woman Hermione had never seen before but who had the same sharp features as her daughter.
"Not in competitions, no," Katerina said. "But she performs with the company—the youth company Mama runs in addition to the school. This year she'll be dancing Giselle."
Hermione felt heat rise to her cheeks. She hadn't known that casting had been decided yet. Giselle was her dream role.
"And she's how old?" Blaise's father asked.
"Fourteen," Katerina replied. "She'll be fifteen in September."
There was an exchange of glances among the adults that Hermione couldn't quite interpret. She bent to untie her pointe shoes, focusing on the familiar task of loosening the ribbons and easing her feet out of the satin. Her toes were taped beneath her tights, and she could feel the beginning of a blister on her left heel, but that was normal. That was part of the art.
"Mama," Katerina said, switching back to Russian, "shall we continue the tour?"
"Yes," Lyudmila replied in the same language. "But first, I wish to speak with these parents. Germiona, you are dismissed. Come on Thursday, same time."
Hermione nodded and gathered her things quickly. She pulled on her warm-up sweater and her dance skirt, shoved her pointe shoes into her bag, and started toward the door.
She had to pass the group to leave.
As she walked by, she kept her eyes straight ahead, but she could feel their gazes on her. She heard Pansy whisper something to Daphne, too quiet to make out. Saw Draco Malfoy's head turn to follow her movement.
Then she was out the door and in the corridor, her heart pounding again. She paused just outside, leaning against the wall, and that's when she heard Narcissa Malfoy's voice, clear and considering.
"Lyudmila, dear, you didn't mention that your star pupil was a witch."
Hermione froze.
"I was not aware," Lyudmila replied, her accent thicker than usual, and Hermione could hear the surprise in her voice. "She has never mentioned it, and I never asked. Her magic is her business. Her dancing is mine."
"She goes to Hogwarts," Draco's voice now, and Hermione could picture his expression—that mix of disdain and confusion. "She's in our year."
"Then you should feel very lucky," Lyudmila said, and there was steel in her voice now, "that she has agreed to share her knowledge of the art with you. She is the best student I have taught in forty years. You will learn much from watching her, if you are wise enough to pay attention."
There was a long pause, and then Narcissa spoke again, her tone thoughtful. "I think, Lyudmila, that we will pay very close attention indeed."
Hermione didn't wait to hear more. She hurried down the corridor to the changing room, her mind racing. The Slytherins. Here. Taking lessons. They knew about Lyudmila being a witch, which meant Lyudmila knew about them being wizards, which meant—
She sat down hard on the bench in the changing room and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was flushed from exertion, her hair escaping in wisps from her bun. She looked exactly like she always did after a lesson with Lyudmila.
But everything had just changed.
The Slytherins knew she was a dancer. They'd seen her dance. And from the sound of it, they'd be here regularly, training alongside her.
Hermione pulled off her warm-up clothes and began to change into her street clothes, her movements automatic. Her mind was already spinning ahead, trying to understand what this meant, what it would mean when school started, how this would change the carefully separated worlds she'd been living in.
She'd spent three years at Hogwarts being Hermione Granger, the clever Muggleborn, the bookish girl who always had her hand up, Harry Potter's best friend. None of her classmates knew about ballet, about the hours she spent at the barre, about Vaganova and Lyudmila and the fact that she was fluent in Russian. None of them knew that she'd been training since before she could remember, that she'd given up what might have been a professional dance career to attend Hogwarts.
And now Draco Malfoy knew. Pansy Parkinson knew. The Slytherins knew.
She pulled on her jeans and her favorite worn jumper, shoved her dance clothes into her bag, and sat for a moment longer, thinking.
Finally, she stood and shouldered her bag. There was nothing to be done about it now. She couldn't change what had just happened. All she could do was face it.
As she left the changing room and headed for the studio's exit, she passed Studio Three again. The door was closed now, but she could hear Lyudmila's voice inside, speaking in Russian too rapidly for the students to follow, demonstrating something.
Hermione stepped out into the warm London evening and started the walk home. In a few weeks, she'd be back at Hogwarts. Back to magic and classes and whatever crisis Harry would inevitably find himself in this year.
But first, she had two more weeks of summer. Two more weeks of dancing. And apparently, two more weeks before she'd have to figure out what it meant that the Slytherins had discovered her secret.
She'd deal with that when she had to.
For now, she let her mind settle back into the familiar patterns of the adagio she'd just performed, counting out the movements in Russian the way Irina had taught her. Raz, dva, tri, chetyre...
One thing at a time. Just like ballet had always taught her.