Chapter Text
The waiting room was buzzing with nerves. Crowds of dancers chatted together, forming random cliques in their dire attempts to distract each other from their stress.
“Where are you from?”
“How long have you been dancing?”
“Who’s your favourite judge?”
Small talk and unassuming questions were thrown around; everyone was too busy to think too hard or too long about their answers.
“Come on, Harry!” Hermione gently pulled Harry’s fingers from his mouth, examining the peeling cuticles around the nail. “I’m going to get grey hairs from just looking at you.”
The group was sitting around him in an odd state of silence, one usually broken by Harry and Ron’s chatter. Right now, the former sat to the side, boring holes into the wall and gnawing on his thumbs. On his left, Ron looked as if he were the actual competitor instead. Not even the sharp jabs thrown his way by Hermione could drag him out of his personal staring competition against the wooden planks.
“Easy for you to say, you’re just the audience,” Harry retorted. Shaking his hand free from Hermione’s tight grip, he began chewing at his nails nervously. “I’m the only one competing here. Of course, I’m freaking out! What if I fall on my face and make a fool of myself on national television?” His hands wound up in his hair, tugging at the curls in an awful plea to calm himself down.
“Hey, she’s just trying to help-.” He heard Ron start before a hand was plastered across his mouth. Under the palm, Ron continued to argue, a weird babble sounding through her fingers. Hermione sighed, sending a pointed glare towards her boyfriend. She moved to Harry’s side before gently removing his tense hands from his hair.
“Harry, deep breaths.” She placed his hand on his stomach. “Come on, I’ll do it with you.”
A few minutes passed in this silence, only punctuated by exhales. Soon enough, Harry’s breathing evened out again. He stood up to stretch, in hopes of shaking out the last of his apprehension.
He had barely finished stretching when the large, wooden doors at the front of the hall creaked open. The crowded hall fell quiet as a staff member stepped forward, his clipboard hugged protectively against his chest.
“Number 0687. Please make your way to the front. Number 0687, please and thank you.” The staff member quickly stepped out after making the announcement, leaving the door slightly open for the auditionee.
A sharp breath escaped Harry’s mouth. Not far behind, Hermione and Ron grabbed the bags he’d left in his wake and rushed after him.
“Good luck, Harry!” Ron’s loud voice boomed through the quaint hallway.
The rented theatre stage, despite its small size, felt like an endless canvas in front of Harry’s eyes. Bright lights washed down from above, painting a celestial glow on everything it touched. In front, three judges sat behind a makeshift office desk — their eyes waiting for the next participant to arrive. Taking one last inhale, Harry slowly made his way to the centre stage.
The stage lights felt like a sauna, leaving the air sticky. He could feel the once cool metal in his hand slowly turning to a sweaty warmth. Despite the humid, stuffy environment, the judges behind the desk never lost their less-than-perfect personas. Each hair stayed stuck in place, regardless of the damp hours sitting in the sweltering room.
“Hello there, what is your name and what will you be performing today?” A judge encouraged Harry with a small smile. The faux butterflies hanging off her golden blonde hair flittered mechanically, as if cheering him on.
Bringing the mic close to his mouth, he took a deep breath before introducing himself. Just as he had memorised, he spouted the script Hermione had prepared: name, age, song and the genre of dance. The judges nodded along, some writing quick notes on their clipboards.
With a clap, one of the judges, Minerva McGonagall, looked back at Harry. “You can start when you’re ready.”
The next few minutes felt like a white-flash in his mind. Harry mechanically went through the steps, handing the sweaty microphone back to the audio-visual staff member. He assumed a starting position, inhaling deeply before initiating the music. The melody washed over him, a dive into cold ocean water. His body swayed, moving through the motions as he had practised. The stress of performing that he had embodied only minutes ago was left behind. Taking its place, the rejuvenating musicality filled him, breathing life into his limbs.
As the music slowly faded to a close, Harry could hear the echoes of applause ringing in the background. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, fast and loud, a frantic bird trapped in his chest. His palms were slick with sweat, and his knees were weak. Only when a backstage staff member gently handed the microphone to his shaking hand did he finally manage to stand up, his gaze trembling as he looked towards the judging panel.
Ron paced outside the stage doors, his footsteps echoing against the narrow corridor. The skin around his thumb was raw, chewed down to redness, while his muttered breaths came in uneven bursts.
“What if he freezes out there?” he whispered, voice tight as his fingers clawed through his short ginger hair. The fiery strands stood in sharp contrast against the pallor of his face. He spun on his heel, stopping abruptly before Hermione. She reached out without hesitation, her slender arms pulling him down beside her. His anxious murmurs muffled against the weave of her sweater as he collapsed into her embrace. Hermione pressed her cheek lightly to his temple, grounding him with the steady rhythm of her breathing. For a moment, the chaos in his chest eased, tethered by her warmth.
Yet Hermione’s own thoughts raced. Her gaze kept darting toward the heavy wooden doors, as though sheer willpower could pierce them and reassure her that everything was fine. She squeezed Ron’s hand, intertwining her fingers with his. The corridor held its breath, the silence pressing down on them like a weight. Ron’s knee bounced restlessly, his fingers still tangled with Hermione’s. She squeezed tighter, closing her eyes in an attempt to rest her worries.
Moments passed by in this careful silence, as if any noise would curse Harry into a blunderous mess.
Then, without warning, the creak of a door broke the quietude. A rush of light spilled into the hallway, and there stood Harry; flushed, breathless, his eyes wide with disbelief. In his hand gleamed a golden ticket, catching the glow of the stage lights like a flare signal at sea.
For a heartbeat, Ron and Hermione froze, their worry suspended in midair. Then Ron shot to his feet, a strangled laugh breaking from his chest. “You did it!” he shouted, voice cracking with relief. Hermione rose beside him, her face breaking into a smile so radiant it erased every trace of her earlier composure.
Harry grinned, though he was clearly still stunned as he held the ticket aloft. Ron clapped him on the shoulder with a force that nearly knocked him sideways, while Hermione wrapped her arms around them both, pulling the three of them into a tight embrace.
The corridor no longer felt heavy. It buzzed with their laughter, their disbelief, their joy. The doors had opened not just to Harry’s triumph, but to the release of all the tension carried on their backs. Together, they stood in the glow of that golden ticket, hearts lighter than they had been all day.