Chapter Text
THE ROYAL CRESCENT BALLET
One of the oldest national ballet companies in the UK. Known for its elegant adaptations of classics, dramatic style, precise technique, and world-renowned Principal dancers.
Director
Minerva McGonagall
Dame McGonagall has been the director of the RCB for twenty-five years, achieving global acclaim for modernising the two-century old company whilst maintaining its reputation for flawless, classical artistry. In recent years, the RCB has toured the classics (Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, Firebird, Romeo and Juliet) but this year is aspiring to showcase something new, unbound from gendered character roles with an adapted score from the orchestra.
Composer / Conductor
Horace Slughorn
Slughorn (OBE) has worked with the RCB for nineteen years, across several roles, landing this position as lead composer in 2016. Slughorn has a flair for dramatic renditions of the classics, drawing inspiration from the greats (Stravinsky, Ludwig van, Nabokov, Debussy). He is looking forward to working with the newly appointed Artistic Coordinator on this upcoming project.
Artistic Coordinator
Remus Lupin
The RCB’s youngest ever Artistic Coordinator, Remus climbed the ranks in the orchestra from an early age after leaving ballet due to a severe injury. Remus has continued to work closely with the RCB, responsible for various scholarship programmes and fundraising events, using his talent with various instruments and his diverse ambitions. Remus has a unique artistic style, which he endeavours to reflect in the new score and reinforce with set, stage, and choreo alike.
Choreologist
Sirius Black
Sirius trained and performed with the RCB from age four, transitioning into this role in 2018. Sirius reached global acclaim for his idiosyncratic performance in Swan Lake in 2017, but decided to pursue his passion for choreography. Sirius has spearheaded recent tours of The Nutcracker and Cinderella with a fresh perspective on the use of asymmetry, and is working closely with Dame McGonagall, Slughorn (OBE), and Lupin, to create something awe-inspiring this year.
Principal Dancers
James Potter
Born in London, James trained with the RCB from age four, turning down a career in football to pursue his passion for ballet. James graduated into the RCB corps in 2016, moving into his position as a Principal in just two years. James starred as the title role in Don Quixote; Prince Siegried in Swan Lake; Romeo in Romeo and Juliet; Prince Albrecht in Giselle; Prince Désiré in Sleeping Beauty; the Prince in Cinderella; Drosselmeyere in The Nutcracker; Prince Ivan Firebird; Ferdinand in The Tempest. His favourite ballet is Still Life at the Penguin Café.
Marlene McKinnon
Born in Newcastle, Marlene trained with the NSoB since she was six. After eleven years, Marlene auditioned and joined the RCB in 2017. Marlene has starred as Myrtha in Giselle; the Lilac Fairy in Sleeping Beauty; Juliet in Romeo and Juliet; Odile in Swan Lake; the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella. Her favourite ballet is Giselle.
Aiden Mulciber
Born in Surrey, Aiden trained with the SB from the age of seven. Aiden joined the RCB in 2011, becoming a Principal in 2018. Aiden has performed as Baron von Rothbart in Swan Lake; Caliban in The Tempest; Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet; the Rat King in The Nutcracker; Koschei the Deathless in The Firebird. His favourite ballet is The Nutcracker.
Mary Macdonald
Born in Beirut, Mary trained with the LBS since she was five. Mary has performed in theatres across the world with various companies, joining the RCB in 2014. Mary has starred as the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker; Aurora in Sleeping Beauty; Odette in Swan Lake; Kitri in Don Quixote; title role in Cinderella. Her favourite ballet is The Mountain Spirit.
Regulus Black
Born in London, Regulus began training with the Paris Opera Ballet when he was three. Regulus has been a lead dancer in companies in France, Japan, and Russia since he was fifteen. He has a world-renowned reputation, hailed by critics as a ‘savant of movement’, famed for his roles as Solor in La Baydére; Chevalier des Grieux in Manon; Don José in Carmen; Albrecht in Giselle; Daphnis in Daphnis et Chloé; lead role in Agon; lead role in Elite Syncopations; twin partner in Connectome; Prince Siegfried in Swan Lake; Romeo in Romeo and Juliet; Prince Charming in Cinderella; Franz in Coppélia; Prince Désiré in Sleeping Beauty; Sultan Shahryar in Arabian Nights; Lyr in The Little Mermaid; title role in Macbeth; Demetrius in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Regulus has joined the RCB this year as a Principal. His favourite ballet is The Rite of Spring.
⋆ ☆ ⋆ ── 1 ── ⋆ ☆ ⋆
“Of course his favourite ballet is The Rite of Spring.” Sirius snorts, chucking the new brochure to James, who grabs it and quickly flicks through.
“That’s a fucking great photo.” James grins, turning it around and pointing. “See, they used the one from Swan Lake - I looked magnificent in those feather trousers.”
“Magnificent.” Sirius echoes amusedly, allowing a few moments for James to scan over the various profiles. “James - do you think this was a mistake?”
James looks up, placing the brochure gently down on the table. “Sirius, it can only be a good thing, right? You’ve wanted to be able to see him more, this is - it’s sort of perfect.”
Sirius raises his eyebrows, “How are you so optimistic?”
James shrugs, waving him off. “Finish your breakfast, I actually want to be there on time. We can’t all be Sirius damn Black.” James chucks his dishes in the machine and shuffles off to pack his bag and pull on whatever clothes he can find nearby.
As always, they make their way together.
James can feel the nerves radiating from Sirius. He’s picking at his nails, chipping off the polish and trying to bite at them, constantly swatted away by James. He’s nervous too, sort of, but his nerves are different. They’re fluttery and fizzy, rounded edges, liquid, filling the space around him easily. Sirius’ are not - his are sharp pulses, flitting, unsteady, bouncing off every wall around him and coming right back.
The building comes into view. The Royal Crescent Ballet studio spans the top three floors of the seven-story building, a repurposed Victorian factory with enormous arched windows and huge brickwork ceilings. The RCB is open 16 hours a day. James got his schedule a couple weeks ago over the break - most of that was spent getting inordinately drunk with his mates in various warmer countries - and said schedule is a little brutal for him.
In the mornings, they have a whole-company warm-up for up to three and a half hours, including a 15 minute break, then five hours of specialised practice with an hour for lunch around 11:30PM. As always, he sees Pomfrey, the physio, for thirty minutes during afternoon class, so he’s glad of the extra scheduled rest. James loves being a Principal, it’s his dream and has been for over two decades, but he has always had a great work-life balance, he knows how to step away when needed and he knows how to listen to his body. It’s the one thing he and Sirius have clashed about over the years.
When Sirius officially left home and moved in with James all those years ago, it was hard for the both of them. A complete relief, of course, but healing isn’t straight forward. It ties you in knots sometimes; when you finally pick the cord loose, you realise you were holding onto the wrong damn end and you’re back at the start. But James is a patient man and he has all the time in the world for those he loves. Sirius has been one of those lucky few since they were kids, toddling around in ballet together trying to outdo each other every chance available, much to the disgust of their peers.
James takes a deep breath and follows Sirius, noticing the way his shoulders drop when they step inside. They wave at the receptionist and head up to the top studio, up every single one of the seventy-two steps (James has counted many times). On their way, they come across a familiar sight.
“Minnie, darling, fancy seeing you here!” Sirius beams, offering his hand, “Been in Portugal again? Your skin is fantastic, what moisturiser is that?”
“Good morning Mr Black.” She nods curtly, her eyes narrow and jumping between the two, suspicious as always. “Actually, I was hoping for a moment with the both of you. Follow me.”
James shares a worried look with Sirius, the same thought running through their heads. New record.
McGonagall’s office is always warm. She has framed photographs and newspaper clippings all over the walls, of her staff more so than her, and according to Sirius, a secret drawer of biscuits. James rests his bag on the floor beside his comfy seat and spies one of him in the left corner of the airy room: The Royal Crescent Ballet promotes James Potter to Principal Dancer, Youngest Ever POC Lead in the UK.
“Gentlemen,” she begins, leaning forward at her desk as soon as the pair sit down, “I wanted to speak with you regarding the new Principal and some potential issues we need to prepare for.”
Sirius raises his eyebrows. James keeps his mouth shut, waiting.
“I’m sure you’re aware of the young Mr Black’s reputation. I personally, alongside the Board, am thrilled that he has decided to join us here, as I’m sure you are too, Sirius. The upcoming production is vital for securing additional investment into our graduate scheme, so I wanted to reiterate the importance of everything running smoothly.”
Sirius has clearly switched into his work-mode, because he sits up and mirrors her posture. “Of course, that’s all we want too.”
“I know.” She cracks a small smile. “Now, Mr Potter, I also wanted you here to ask if you would be interested in some additional responsibility. It’s rather minor, unfortunately, nothing outside of your current hours, but with a 5% raise -”
“What is it?” He’s sitting up too, now.
“It would involve working closer with Mr Black here, taking the lead from the dancers’ perspective as you work through the choreography process.”
James is a little taken aback. His first instinct is fuck yes, but he looks over at Sirius, who seems confused.
“So… James would be like my assistant?”
“Not quite. His priority is his role as a Principal dancer. I simply am proposing that Mr Potter joins us in Board meetings bi-weekly and is able to offer his creative input if and when necessary.”
James feels that flutter of excitement again. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” She nods, “I will have Mrs Weasley send over a draft proposal by this afternoon.”
James can’t fight his grin. Sirius has broken into a small smile, which makes him grin a little wider.
She looks at them with a certain bluntness that says Okay, get out now, which Sirius takes his sweet time doing, trying to barter for a custard cream, before they finally make it out and continue up the final thirty-six steps.
James pushes open the studio door and breathes in the buzzing atmosphere. Most dancers are here now, about thirty of them. He spies his usual place by the barré in the centre free. Sirius has wandered off to talk to someone, but James walks over to chuck his bag down and get his tape out for his knee.
“What time do you call this?” Marlene hits him on the arm as he plops down, rolling up the left leg of his joggers.
“It’s called morning, Marley, did they not teach you that up North?”
“Smartarse.” She quips, returning to her shoes. She’s darning them, not that she needs pointe until this afternoon, if at all today, but she’s always getting in trouble for forgetting her shoes so this is good progress.
“How are you?” He ignores Marlene, directing his question to Mary, who is in a perfect split on her phone.
She puts it in her bag, sitting up and leaning back into the stretch. “Fucking buzzing, I love getting tortured by Scottish women at 8AM.”
James groans. McGonagall is a fucking drill-seargant when she’s in a good mood, which she (unlucky for them) seemed to be this morning. He bites off another piece of tape and angles it under his knee. In the lull of conversation, he notices the white noise of whispering around him, the buzzing of it, like static, pointy and blurry.
“What’s everyone faffing about?” He mumbles, digging into his messy bag for his brown shoes.
Marlene snorts, “Are you having a laugh? Regulus fucking Black?”
“Oh yeah, is he - oh.” James sees the reflection in the mirror, his heart catching in his throat.
Regulus is standing with Sirius in the far corner of the room. The same grey eyes. The same arrogant, perfect posture. The same light skin. The same voluminous, raven hair. The same lazy lean onto the barre. Yet, entirely different. His hair is in looser curls than Sirius’. His eyes are slightly wider, more cat-like as he slowly blinks. His frame is a touch smaller. His body is cloaked in several layers, whereas Sirius is already in a tank top and shorts. He looks at Sirius intently when he talks, whereas Sirius stares off into space around him, soaking up the atmosphere.
More importantly, Regulus hits James somewhere different, somewhere more abstract, somewhere James can’t yet define.
“Yeah, he’s hot.” Marlene murmurs, entertained by the way James’ mouth has dropped open a touch.
“What - no - well - objectively, I suppose -”
“Sirius is gonna love this.” Mary giggles, changing legs on her split.
“This? What? There’s no this - I just - I’ve never seen Regulus in person before, he’s very… interesting.”
“Interesting.” Marlene sounds out each syllable, quirking an eyebrow, “So, you’re interested?”
“Why do I deal with you two?” He sighs, finally tearing his eyes away and pulling on his shoes.
“Blood oath.” Mary shrugs, returning to her phone.
McGonagall comes striding in, clapping her hands together, “We begin in sixty seconds, let’s go, let’s go. At the barre, hurry up! Fifty seconds!”
Everyone springs into action, scrambling to find a place that hides them from view somewhat - everyone other than James, who frankly enjoys being tortured. He strolls over to his place at the front, very confused when someone is already standing in front of him - usually, he has a good metre or so either side as nobody else wants to stand there.
James eyes the baggy clothing and the pale hand on the barre, knowing exactly who it is. “Joining me at the front?”
Regulus turns around. Grey eyes survey him, dipping over his red t-shirt and his legs and his probably messy hair. He meets his eyes last. Regulus’ face does not change at all; he turns around and looks over at McGonagall.
James’ face scrunches a little in confusion at the blatant disregard for social politeness. He looks over at Sirius, who seems very entertained from where he stands at the front next to McGonagall. Ignore him, Sirius mouths with a grin. James cracks a smile and gets into position.
McGonagall glides through the first sequence in alarming brevity, stepping through each move only once. It’s just the plié, to warm up their joints a little more, but McGonagall always does the trickiest arms that contradict the years of training they’ve all had, so when the pianist starts immediately playing, every single person is way off. Well, except for one person, James hates to notice.
“Stop!” McGonagall shouts. The pianist raises their hands as if in surrender. “Once more -”
Sirius steps through it with her, following along with ease, the little shit.
“Off we go!” McGonagall gestures, and the piano resumes.
More people have it now, adjusting to the first position feet with fifth position arms, through the ron de jambe into second but then moving arms into first, the sadists, James’ brain can hardly keep up but if there’s one thing he prides himself on, it’s his musicality. Each motion, he feels to the bone, envisioning himself as a mere skeleton melding into the atmosphere.
McGonagall and Sirius circle like vultures, offering quick verbal corrections. Sirius takes the far side of the room. McGonagall strolls by their barre, pausing at James to watch him suffer through the hands-free grand plié.
“Wobbly this morning, Mr Potter?”
“It’s the effect you have, ma’am.” James grits, forcing his heels to steady.
A couple people snigger. She tsks and turns her attention to them. “Miss McKinnon, arms fifth now. Mr Mulciber, straighten that leg. Mr Black, beautiful rotation.”
A compliment? In a plié sequence? Is she on crack? James feels the rounded flutter in his chest start to sharpen.
As always, he has been indulging in the accents of his head, arching into the motions and spotting on various points in the room for his balance, but he lets his eyes trespass, flickering over to the figure in front of him. Even through the miles of fabric, she’s right - Regulus’ legs are turned the fuck out, his feet at an impossible arch as he points through the ron de jambe to fourth position.
The music fades out soon after, leaving them all to balance on one foot, outer leg up to passe, with arms up in fifth. The room is filled with panting breath and tiny struggling groans, arms twitching and arching. James loves this bit - he has pretty good balance, even if his limbs are fussing at the effort, able to fight through it. He’s vaguely aware that most people have dropped down now, leaving just him and the black hair in front of him. Seconds stretch by. James feels his knee twinge. He lifts his pointed toe higher up his knee, drawing up and imagining a string in the top of his head pulling him to the ceiling.
When he gives in and comes down, he expects to see Regulus staying right there for an entire century, but at the exact same moment, he came down too.
“Lovely.” McGonagall states, immediately launching into the next sequence.
As barre goes on, James catches glimpse after glimpse of Regulus’ face in the mirror. His expression is still, his eyes focused purely on spotting and balancing like a damn Greek statue, his fingers like little branches of a blossom tree, different to the positioning of everyone in the room, no doubt migrating with him from Paris. Sequence after sequence, a layer is shed, first the legwarmers, then the oversized top, eventually the joggers, then finally it’s Regulus in a pristine black t-shirt and the most infuriating black shorts James has ever seen. They’re tight, running from his hips to mid-thigh. James starts avoiding looking at him then.
They near floorwork - Sirius takes the lead on the final battement sequence. His style is very… Sirius. Unlike McGonagall, he uses the French terminology alongside his own nonsensical language that somehow translates perfectly, reflecting the tone of a move or its speed or its depth. He paces while explaining, repeating certain phrases with big hand gestures or suddenly whispering, like the movement is pouring from his mouth. James loves seeing him like this, so completely in his element. Regulus doesn’t seem fazed. A few little laughs sound, not all of them kind, but nobody argues with Sirius Black. James doesn’t need to look over to check, it was definitely goddamn Mulciber.
The battement piano is much sharper and louder, ringing through the room. Sunlight pours in, casting a wedge of golden light through the room, soon to drift in bigger and bigger as the morning churns by.
James can’t help but get distracted yet again. For no fathomable reason other than showing off, Regulus’ legs are the furthest up with (annoyingly) flawless technique. In second, his leg sweeps up easily, a perfect vertical line from his grounded foot, not just hitting the line but pausing for a second before swooping down slower, torturing himself no doubt. It makes James’ stomach feel funny, the idea of his leg dipping further than a damn split.
“Battement développé, développé, boom - cha!” Sirius claps out, pacing the back of the room.
As usual, McGonagall appears when James feels like giving up. “You can get a quicker frappé than that, Mr Potter.” She states, not lingering to watch him suffer.
The gods have chosen mercy, because the sequence finally ends. As always, everyone carries the barres away to the side of the room. James frankly expects Regulus to saunter off and leave everyone else to it, but he takes the furthest side and they move in sync.
James takes his spot in the centre of room and lets himself fall into the familiar rhythms, sending cheeky grins at Marlene in the mirror when McGonagall picks on her and sticking his tongue out at Mulciber when they turn to the back of the room. He is yet again surprised by Regulus because he chooses a spot at the back of the room. Others seem to avoid him, as there’s a halo of empty space around him wherever he goes, a sort of forcefield. James hasn’t heard him speak at all yet, other than seeing him mumbling to Sirius before class.
McGonagall, despite being in her seventies, always orchestrates the most rapid petit allegros. Fast, needling footwork, sharp changes of direction, lots of little bursts, contained and constant. Fortunately, this requires them starting to split into smaller groups, so there’s more room. McGonagall teaches using Sirius, alone in the centre, while everyone watches on, tapping through it with their feet or hands. Sirius, as always, has an exceptional memory, so he keeps up easily, entirely synchronised to McGonagall’s claps. Sirius then performs with the first group as well, plucked at random, including Mary who has sweat beading down her back. She’s known for her perfect port de bras, which is no different in these jump sequences, her arms help lift her movements, making her stand out in her group easily.
Marlene is in the next group, scowling at Sirius for abandoning them for water. She does well too, showing off her turn out and rapid footwork, somehow managing to subtly flip off James without McGonagall noticing.
McGonagall calls out the next group of six, which contains Regulus. Like before, he’s off by himself at the back, but James knows everyone is watching him. He’s no exception.
Regulus deserves his reputation and has clearly worked hard for it. His face shows no flicker of pain or effort, like a swan above water, his legs working hard and fast but his expression entirely graceful and unbothered. James wonders, if his legs were cut off would that make Regulus flinch at all? He hits every position perfectly, hundreds of millisecond snapshots of his mastery, one after the other, and how he could make a petit allegro so interesting is entirely irritating, but alas.
James is most definitely interested.
His group is called last, no doubt on purpose from McGonagall to spite him - there’s been whispers of favouritism in recent years, likely from Mulciber’s insecure little gang for James always earning the leads, but James takes it in his stride. He settles in right in front of McGonagall, exaggerating his jumps a tad to ruffle her feathers and earn a pointed glare. He grins at her the entire time, ignoring the burning cramp in the arches of his feet, running off dramatically to the side like he’s exiting a stage.
Sirius barks out a laugh before he takes over for the grand allegro. Now this - this is James’ favourite. Enormous jumps, little to remember. Repeated, at least twice by every group, a chance to get into his knees and feel the pleasant burn, propel himself from the floor like he’s allergic to gravity and hit those impossible angles. He fucking loves it. He takes a second to swipe his towel over his face and drink some water, listening the entire time. Sirius starts in the top corner, giving just two steps before a tour jete, two steps then another, two steps then a third, a little sequence that travels to the other top corner to go again on the other side. Brutal for the first day back. James can’t wait.
He grins when Sirius picks him out first with a couple others, clearly putting Mulciber in his group to annoy him, then off they go. James feels like a spotlight is on him, his whole body tingling with warmth as he glides through the air, feeling the stretch of his legs and pulsing the lines through into his arms. He spots the same places over and over, trying to get higher each time and still land on a turned out foot, bending his knees to quell his weight when he touches down. His second side is a tad weaker, as it leans on his temperamental knee, but he doesn’t reel back his ambitions, still feeling like an arrow piercing the bullseye each time. James likes everyone to know he isn’t a Principal because he’s the favourite - he’s a fucking good dancer and happens to be rather charming too.
McGonagall actually throws out a compliment - “Good elevation, Mr Potter.” - wow. My lucky day. James grabs some water and stretches his calves briefly while watching on. He’s missed half of the next group but they’re quite good too, no Principals in this group but a couple First Soloists from last year. James idly wonders if they’ll finally get their breakthrough roles soon. He thinks everyone deserves a shot, even Mulciber, who honestly plays the perfect villains with his square jaw and tree-trunk thighs. He’s solid, to be fair, even if he’s an absolute prat.
The third and fourth group flick by, featuring Marlene and Mary and a couple other less close friends James smiles at supportively when they catch his eye with beetroot faces. The final group has Regulus this time, a little smaller with just three people in it. They’re both men too, older than Regulus by at least four years and a couple inches taller, but Regulus gets higher than them both. His legs are unnaturally flexible, effortless and beyond perfect. There’s something painfully beautiful about him. It grabs James around the heart and squeezes. It’s sharp and piercing. Emotion curves every part of him, twisting his lovely bones, but his face is like ice. He’s only just starting to break a sweat, but it doesn’t show on his black clothes. Even his dance shoes are black - most people have brown or tan or pink to match their skin, but no. Regulus is a Black, everywhere.
It’s in his sharp jaw, in his glinting eyes, in his steely expression, the air of well-earned arrogance that makes him enchanting and infuriating in equal measure. Sirius barks out some praise for everyone in the group, his words rolling off Regulus’ back like water as he saunters off to the side and grabs some water.
James is up again, only just making it to his spot in time before he’s off. The sequence crackles by, as do the other groups - they move into a new routine, over and over, until the final révérence - a small, simple few steps where everyone bows or curtseys in thanks to one another. It’s very sweet, to be honest, a little habit of their shared love for this.