The lights are dimmed, the orchestra’s prepped and the audience are silent.
The violins begin first. Followed closely by the flutes. The upbeat melody building, bringing us closer to the opening number. The rise and fall of the violins lulling the audience into a trance. The conductor moves freely and effortlessly, guiding the notes through the air like a breath.
The scene opens with the toymaker constructing a beautiful fairy of red and gold. He greets his assistant with a grande plié. The assistant responds with a trio of chene turns. The two men move in unison to package the doll and the assistant is carted out the door. The toymaker’s attention is captured by the wooden object in the corner of the room. A nutcracker. The nutcracker stands proudly in the spotlight. The reflection of the gold clasping’s on the red coat attracting the audience’ eyes. The height of its hat commanding attention. The scene ends.
A sleigh is in the middle of the stage. There are children, arms linked, galloping from stage right. The assistant has arrived and is ringing the bell. We are welcomed into the Christmas Eve party and are greeted by the Silberhaus family. A beautiful ballerina is front and centre, en pointe, arms in bras bas. Clara. Our Prima Assoluta. She moves to fifth position as the scrim rises. The partygoers are socialising, children are running, the tree is decorated, and the audience captivated. As a variety of gifts are presented, the toymaker’s assistant enters from stage left. He bows deeply to Mrs Silberhaus before producing the fairy. Beautiful extended lines can be seen throughout the stage. Pointed toes and soft fingers. The melody changes, its low and filled with anticipation. The Toymaker has arrived, and the fairy is alive. The dance of the Christmas tree commences.
Clara’s straight legs and quick movements hypnotize all in the vicinity. She leaps and she turns and she’s stunning. All eyes focused on her. A particular set of grey eyes are unblinking. Enthralled. Infatuated by her.
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Draco had been immensely grateful for this opportunity. It had always been his dream to be cast in a West End orchestra and he’d finally been successful. He’d received the letter in the post offering him the position of first pianist. His mother had been ecstatic and his father mildly proud. The letter stated that he was required to attend the auditions for the dancers to provide the music.
The hall was bustling with people from the moment he arrived. Anxious dancers. Cocky dancers. Pushy parents. Stuffy directors. And her. She was stood by herself, in the corner of the room, stretching. She looked relaxed but not overconfident. To the untrained eye she could appear plain. But not to his. He could see the smattering of freckles on her shoulder, peeking out from the strap of the leotard. Her long, shapely legs obscured in the pale pink tights. Her bone structure highlighted by the tightness of her bun. Her skin smooth and unblemished. Like porcelain, he thought. Deep brown eyes that drew him in and refused to let him go.
Throughout the auditions, the dancers felt flat. Dull. Boring. Until her.
She dominated the floor. She was everything a ballerina should be. Strong, graceful, feminine, light, and powerful. She extended every line and landed every fouetté. She didn’t bobble her arabesque or pirouettes. She was utterly flawless. She had the attention of everyone in the room and she knew it. When she ended with a deep bow, even he knew she’d secured the part of Clara.
Weeks later he saw her again. This time on the stage during the first rehearsal. She was quiet at she worked, methodical. She took her role as seriously as he did. Not a step missed, or a key slipped between them. In perfect unison. When the cast was dismissed for the day, she didn’t leave the stage. She continued practicing. So, he continued playing. Every leap drew a note, every turn warranted a crescendo and by the end of the sequence, the dance and the melody flowed hand in hand. They worked like an organ. With every heartbeat, the blood flowed. It was gruelling and effortless at the same time.
They went on like this for weeks. Never speaking to each other. Only communicating through movement and music. Connecting through art. She heard him and he saw her. He could feel her presence whenever she entered the room and his eyes automatically found hers. In the lead up to opening night, their private rehearsals seemed to go on for hours. Neither wanting to leave before the other. Every night ended the same way. His fingers cramping and her chest heaving. Him departing with a brisk nod and her with a small upturn of her lips.
Opening night came and went. He thought their sessions would slow down or even end when the show started but she continued to stay every night. It was an unwritten, unspoken, agreement. This was their time. It felt particularly intimate. Over the months, he had developed a strange affection for this woman. A woman who he both knows well and not at all. He doesn’t know her name, but he knows her determination. He doesn’t know her voice, but he knows her smile. He doesn’t know her mind, but he knows her heart. She doesn’t know his name, but she knows his dedication. She doesn’t know his voice, but she knows his hands. She doesn’t know his intention, but she knows his soul.
As they got closer and closer to the final curtain call, his anxiety grew. He had come to rely on her and their routine. She brought him comfort. He didn’t want to lose her, even though he didn’t really have her.
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The chimes of the triangle break the silence of the stage. Clara becomes protective of the nutcracker. She cradles him to her chest, praying for him to heal. She duets with the toymaker. He lifts her. She turns. The tree rises. The Mouse King arrives. Clara disappears in the flurry of battle. The nutcracker is alive. She’s back. She’s hitting the Mouse King with her slipper. She is victorious. The nutcracker is not.
He watches her as she moves. She’s transcendent. The nutcracker is back in the form of a rather annoyingly handsome man. Strong legs and sharp angles. He loves to watch her dance. He hates to watch her dance with him.
The Sugarplum Fairy graces the stage. She’s airy and light. She doesn’t hold a candle to her. The waltz of the snowflakes brings joy to the audience. It is the perfect picture of Christmas. She’s back. A chasse here, an al seconde there. All he knows is that he can see only her. Its snowing.
He loses himself in her performance. Playing his keys on autopilot. When he tries to bring the memory into focus after the performance, all he will be able to see is her. Her at a party. Her in battle. Her in the snow.
The interval. He uses the time to calm his breathing. He knows that once this performance is finished, so is their relationship.
They’re in the kingdom of sweets. The Sugarplum Fairy radiates warmth and acceptance. The nutcracker prances about on stage with an air of masculinity. He zones back out and focuses on his sheet music. He increases the tempo, harmonising with the violins. A series of half-steps, creating a chromatic scale, using G as the tonic. The Arabian dance is soft to his ears. Easy to play.
He watches her delicate fingers during the dance of the reed-pipes. How they flutter around the wood. How they grip.
It’s snowing again. The prince gives her his cloak. It’s the final waltz. His last opportunity to watch his favourite muse. He chokes from the gravity of it all. How had he fallen so deeply for someone he does not know.
The dancers have bowed, the conductor is on the stage, clasping hands. The curtains close. Its over. He doesn’t even notice the audience leave, too busy wallowing in grief. He doesn’t notice a presence in front of his piano until practiced fingers run along the top. His head snaps up and his eyes meet the dark ones he has been admiring for the past 3 months. Up close he can see that he was wrong, they aren’t just brown, they’re laced with gold. They spark when she smiles down at him. He tries to speak but the words die in his mouth. 3 months of stolen glances and she’s finally right in from of him.
“Hi” she says breathlessly, “I’m Hermione”.
Hermione. Her. Mine.
“Hello Hermione. I’m Draco”.