Not Harry, or at least not the Harry I thought I knew. It was hard for me to reconcile the angelic curly-haired boy I met in fifth year to the cipher he became in our sixth year at the academy.
In that moment, he could be on a million magazine covers and dance every part in Swan Lake. I didn’t
care. I would forgive him if he asked me to. He just had to say the word and I’d go back to being exactly as we were: best friends, twin souls, first loves.
“You think she’d publish a piece on Beauchamp in one of her newspapers?”
“I think she could make him the most hated man on the planet if she wanted to.”
“You did, Louis. You always told me I was your favorite dancer, remember?” he said, so innocently that I saw a glimpse of the shy boy in Madame Lesauvage’s class.
“That’s not what I meant by that comment and you know it.”
Gigi fluffed up my tutu. “He’s Titania. Pretty, no?”
“He’s Lysander!” Louis barked. He pulled me up off the ground and ripped off the tutu. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said, his hand fixed possessively on the small of my back.
I ran through the atrium adjacent to the Royal Opera House, stars through the glass ceiling lighting my path. The building that housed both the Royal Opera and the Royal Ballet was silent and still. One would think the place was deserted but I knew better.