Pas De Deux (A Drarry FanFiction)

Chapter One

Harry had worked worse shows.

He couldn't think of any right now, but he was sure he had.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses, trying to sink lower into his seat in the auditorium in the hopes he wouldn't be noticed. As the stage manager, however, people always had problems for him.

Right now, his number one problem went by the name of Draco Malfoy.

Harry wasn't the only one suffering at the hands of their prima ballerina. Currently, Malfoy was standing on the stage managing to have arguments with the director, choreographer, lighting board operator and the makeup artist all at once. It would have been mildly impressive if Harry wasn't sure their star would turn his wrath Harry's way any second.

"How do you expect us to open next week?" Malfoy cried. "This is a shambles! If my father were here..." He grumbled off into inaudible threats, most of which seemed to centre around how his father, a big name in British cinema, would shut them the hell down if he knew what was going on around here.

To his credit (much as Harry was loathed to give it) he genuinely sounded distressed rather than a prissy, demanding dickhead. Although Harry wasn't convinced it was all just an act to get sympathy. Malfoy ran his long fingers through his infuriatingly gorgeous platinum blond hair. Harry could still make out the shining individual strands from where he was sat, several rows back from the stage.

"We're going to look a mess," Draco pleaded. "This isn't safe!"

"Draco, darling, please," their director said, like he was soothing a wild animal. Gilderoy Lockhart was one of the UK's premier directors of contemporary ballet. Despite years of rumours suggesting he stole all his best ideas from small, independent dance companies in Eastern Europe, Harry had to admit that here, in the trenches, the man had a kind of magic about him. It was enough to make Malfoy huff, cross his arms and listen.

"The light keeps blinding me," Malfoy said in his beautifully refined accent. He was seriously posh; just another thing to add to Harry's list of why he was so insufferable.

Still, he had a point. It was a health and safety concern if any of the lights were improperly angled and impairing his vision.

Harry clicked on his walkie talkie. "Ron, are you hearing this?" he asked the lighting board operator up in his booth.

Ron Weasley was a solid guy. He and Harry were genuinely friends outside of the theatre, having worked on several productions together now. This was the first time either of them had been on the crew for a ballet. But apparently Lockhart had sought out the very best in the business London had to offer, and their last director, Minerva McGonagall, had recommended the two of them.

"Yep," Ron's voice crackled in Harry's ear. "It's because he's so bloody tall. None of the other dancers are having this problem. I can fix it if he stops bitching for five minutes."

Harry chuckled. "Thanks, mate." He clicked the walkie talkie off again and waved over at Lockhart. "Lighting can have that fixed in five minutes," he called out. He focused on Lockhart and not Malfoy, trying not to draw his attention.

So far, Harry had managed to stay off their star dancer's radar. He was worried if he got to close to such a beautiful, intimidating man he wouldn't be able to escape. Like a fly caught in a spider's web.

But Malfoy noticed him anyway. "Thank you, Potter" he said with a huff, throwing his hands up. Harry was stunned Malfoy even knew his last name. "At least someone is paying attention. Now, Trelawny, about those port de bras we were discussing."