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."

It sounded like Malfoy was back to arguing about arm motions with the choreographer, so Harry slunk back down in his chair and flipped through his notes once again.

Malfoy was right about one thing. They were opening in a week and there was still an incredible amount to do for this one-off performance. Lockhart was showcasing a new ballet he had been developing (or stealing, as Harry suspected) for a year or so. Apparently, the lead role had been crafted just for Draco Malfoy. Whether that was true or not, Harry really couldn't say.

He still wasn't entirely sure why the guy irked him so much. Obviously, he was stunningly beautiful and insanely talented. But Harry had been working in the theatre circuit for a decade now. He had been around countless men like that. However, none of them had shaken him quite so much as Malfoy.

Harry was fine talking to anybody else in the star's vicinity. But now Malfoy kept shooting Harry glances, forcing him to more-or-less cower behind his notes folder. For fuck's sake, why did Harry have to feel so spineless around him?

Normally, Harry didn't care who he shouted at. As the stage manager, it was his responsibility to make sure the show got off the ground. He called the shots and ensured production ran smoothly. But one snooty blond had him acting like a newbie fresh out of uni all over again.

Damn him.

The other dancers loitered around the stage and wings while Malfoy insisted on several more things being just so. They had a beautiful setting here at Sadler's Wells, one of London's most prestigious ballet theatres. But every day this production was renting the space was a day the Sadler's Wells company itself was not operating. Harry dreaded to think what that was costing.

Lockhart had the money to throw down the drain, though, or so it went on the grapevine. Harry had to say he'd never been paid so well for a production that would only go on for one night. With only two week's rehearsal, he was earning enough to cover him for the next two months. He wondered what the dancers were making.

Malfoy looked like he came from money. He was effortlessly stylish, his clothes dripping with labels, and was always talking about eating in restaurants where Harry couldn't even pronounce half the food on offer. He moved like a wild panther, always poised ready to pounce and could silence a room with a look.

It pissed Harry off that a guy like that made him feel tongue tied and inadequate. They were obviously nothing alike, so why the hell should Harry care?

Why did that tiny voice in the back of his head keep wondering what Malfoy thought of him?

Because Harry was good at his job. Because he knew how to coax the best out of performers and bring the greatest show he could to life. Because for over a decade, Harry had been working as part of more teams than he could count, ensuring they ran like well oiled machines.

He was not about to let some prima donna derail an entire production just because he made Harry's heart skip a beat.

Or so he thought.

The music swelled once again from the sound system, filling the auditorium with inspirational notes, strung together with the specific intention of pulling at the audience's hearts. Malfoy moved perfectly in time with every beat, plucking at the air with his body like a harpist might their instrument. He moved with grace and beauty and a kind of savage power Harry had never witnessed in another human being.

He knew the cues well enough by now. Malfoy weaved his way through several of the other cast members as they pulled and tugged as his clothes, trying to hold him back. Of course, neither Malfoy nor his character were destined to be restrained in any shape or form.

Malfoy ducked his platinum blond hair down, leading with the crown of his head as he broke free of the choreographed throng. He took a breath, as if genuinely distressed, and Harry's chest twanged at his subtle but powerful talent. The rumours had not been exaggerated. Draco Malfoy would have the audience eating from the palm of his hand.

Or, at least, that had been the plan.

Malfoy stepped forward, pointing his right foot as he prepared to spin on his left in a sequence of straight leg fouettes.

Harry hadn't heard of the term fouette before joining this ballet show. But the move consisted of the dancer rising on the ball of their foot as they spun, kicking out the other in front of them, then swinging the lifted foot out as they spun a full circle, repeating the motion over and over until Harry thought they were going to be sick.

Malfoy was never sick.

Though, in one split second he was whirling gracefully, impossibly fast as he spotted his head to the front, whipping around and around.

Then his ankle rolled and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, he arms flailing as he crumpled in a cursing mess of limbs.

"Fuck!" Malfoy screamed.

"House lights!" Harry bellowed into the walkie talkie, leaping to his feet. "First aiders to the stage, right now!"

He scrambled, trying to get over the old folding chairs in the auditorium. Eventually, he threw caution to the wind and trusted his balance, darting over the arm rests which at least did not flick back up just as he tried to step on them.

"Shit, bollocks, fuck!" Malfoy cried as Harry heaved himself up onto the stage, like a swimmer removing themselves from a pool.

"Was it the lighting?" Harry asked with a gasp as he dropped to Malfoy's side. In that moment, he wasn't an elite performer. He was just an injured cast member and Harry didn't feel slightly intimidated at all.

"No," Malfoy snarled.

Lavender Brown, the girl from makeup, skidded to a halt and dropped to her knees, an ice pack fresh with condensation held in her hand.

"Can you tell me were it hurts, Mr Malfoy?" she asked, wrapping the ice in a pink, tasselled scarf she was currently unwinding from around her throat.

He let out a frustrated sounding growl and gestured towards the side of his left foot. "It snapped or popped or whatever you want to call it," he bit out.

Harry wasn't sure, but he felt like under the impatient snootiness, Malfoy was trying to hold back tears.

"It's fine, it's fine," Malfoy said as Lockhart came charging onto the stage, having taken the stairs in a more dignified fashion than Harry. "It's not like we all haven't done this before."

"Not during tech week," one of the other dancers, Blaze Zabini, muttered in a less than caring tone.

Harry flashed his eyes at him, then looked back at Malfoy. "We'll get you to a hospital."

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter," Malfoy said in exasperation. "I assure you, nothing's broken. It's just a pulled ligament. I'll be dancing again in a few days if I rest it and ice it properly."

One of the female leads, a particularly angular girl with a striking black bob of hair called Pansy Parkinson, dropped to her knees and held out her hands. "Take this," she instructed in a no-nonsense manner, giving Malfoy painkillers and a bottle of water.

"This is a disaster," Lockhart moaned, pacing back and forth behind Harry, his hands gripping onto his curly ash-blond hair. "We're ruined."

"We're fine," Harry said with more confidence than he felt. He looked over his shoulder at the director. "That's what understudies are for."

A cool hand brushed his throat as it curled around Harry's T-shirt. He looked back around just in time for Malfoy to yank him two inches away from his face. His eyes – which Harry could now see were grey – blazed with hostility.

"If you give my part away, Potter," Malfoy said in a dangerously low tone. "I will make your life a living hell." He let go of Harry's T-shirt and smiled as he dropped his head back on the boards of the stage. "That ice feels wonderful," he said, his eyelids fluttering shut. "Don't you worry, petals. I'll be back on top before you know it."

For a moment, Harry wasn't sure how to react. Because his body was doing something very strange.

He wasn't sure if it was the physical contact with Malfoy, the not-so-vague threat, or the mention of Malfoy being on top. But Harry's cock was doing something it really shouldn't have been in his jeans.

"Okay, everyone," he said, readjusting himself as subtly as he could. He hoped to dispel the situation before he needed to stand up. "Let's all back off and give Draco some space. We'll start rehearsal again once we've moved him."

"Longbottom," Lockhart said, waving his fingers at a guy called Neville. "You know the part for now, don't you? You can fill in just for this afternoon."

Neville looked stricken, glancing between Malfoy and Lockhart.

"It's just for this afternoon," Harry murmured to Malfoy.

Malfoy flashed his gaze at Harry, glowering for a second. Then he huffed and waved at his fellow cast members. "Go on," he drawled. "It'll be nice to take the afternoon off, for once. Show me what you got. Don't fuck it up."

Harry blew out a small sigh of relief.

It was incredibly frustrating how much he wanted to make Malfoy happy.