aisie

“You’ll survive,” you deadpan, then place your own hand lightly against his upper arm. “Your job is to hold me here, keep your posture tall, and guide me through the steps.”

“Guide,” he repeats, as though filing the word away. “Not… shove?”

“Not unless you want to be trending on Twitter for all the wrong reasons.”

That beautiful grin reappears— quick and disarming. It hits you again just how at ease he is for someone completely out of his element.

That is, until the next song starts. You carefully guide him, wanting to let him get a feel for the music.

One step.

Two–

His timing’s almost there, but his weight is in the wrong place. You adjust him mid-step, pressing your palm against his shoulder to pull him back into line. 

His brows lift.

“Bossy,” he murmurs.

“Efficient,” you correct.

The third step is less graceful.

His toe clips your heel, sending you both into a stuttered pivot. He catches you before you stumble, his arm firm around your waist. For a second, the room feels smaller, the music closer.

Then he clears his throat, straightening with exaggerated formality. “See? TOTALLY planned that. Bit of drama for the viewers.”

You try— and fail— not to laugh. “If by drama you mean clumsy foreshadowing, sure.”

“You wound me,” he says, placing his free hand over his heart.

“You’ll live,” you echo, stepping back into position.

And maybe it’s your imagination, but when you start again, his movements are just a little more deliberate. Less about the joke, more about matching your rhythm.

Somewhere between the second and third pass across the floor, you catch him glancing down at your feet— not in panic this time, but in concentration.

He wants to get this right.

And that… is promising.

_______

Minutes later, you catch him sneaking another glance at your feet, his brows furrowed.

“Eyes up here, Potter,” you chide. His head jerks up, a flash of guilt breaking into a sheepish grin.

“You can’t stare at my feet on stage,” you remind him, steering him back into position.

“I’m just— I’m making sure I don’t step on them,” he defends, though the grin stays.

“That’s what practice is for,” you say with a shake of your head. “That way you step on them now and not when there’s a live audience.”

He tilts his head as if considering your words. “So if I do it by accident during the show… you’re saying it’s your fault?”

You huff out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

_______

By the time you call for a break, James is breathing harder than he probably wants to admit. Sweat runs down his neck, making the collar of his shirt stick to his skin.

“Not bad,” you say, handing him a cold water bottle from the mini fridge in the corner as you sink to the floor to stretch. “Only stepped on me twice.”

He flops down beside you with a groan, tipping his head back. “That’s because I was watching your feet.”

You shoot him a look. “We’ve already discussed this.”

“Yeah, yeah— eyes up. Got it,” he says, smirking before taking a long drink. “Though, between you and me… I think the judges would be impressed by my skills.”

You roll your eyes, leaning forward to touch your toes. “Skills alone don’t win trophies, unfortunately.”

“They might,” he says, voice lazy and teasing. “If the trophy is for Most Charming.”

Your stomach tightens. Excitement stirs beneath the nerves, but there's pressure too. Heavy, familiar. Last season was your first as a pro, and it didn’t exactly go to plan.

You barely made it a few weeks before being voted off.

The memory still lingers, a little too sharp around the edges. Lucius had been technically skilled, sure— but proud. Resistant to critique. 

He wore every comment like a personal insult, and the audience noticed. His frustration leaked into every rehearsal, every live show. People online were quick to call him “ungrateful.” And if you’re honest, they weren’t wrong.

You remember the week you ended up in the bottom two— heart pounding, hands clammy, adrenaline buzzing in your ears. Lucius stood beside you like stone. No encouragement, no comfort. When your names were called he barely looked at you. 

You walked off stage with relief in your lungs and tension still weighed down on your shoulders. While he walked off the stage beside you like he knew there was no way he was going home.

Yet the very next week he wasn’t so lucky.

You let out a slow breath, as if you can exhale that whole experience with it. That was last season. This one’s a blank page. A clean slate. And you want— need— to believe it’ll go differently this time.

You sit up and pull your hair into a messy ponytail, the elastic snapping into place with a familiar tug. For a moment, the nerves settle, just a little.

You’re just tightening your ponytail when the door clicks open.

It’s not loud, but it cuts clean through the quiet of the practice room and the noise in your head.

You pause mid-tug, breath catching in your chest.

Across the room, the cameraman straightens, lens lifting instinctively. You don’t look up right away, but you feel it— that shift in the air. Like something's about to begin.

And then you hear his voice.

“Hope I’m not late.”

It’s casual. Easy. Like he’s done this before.

You look up— and there he is.

James Potter.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark curls slightly damp, like he’d showered and didn’t bother to dry off properly. He’s wearing black joggers and a loose white tee that clings just enough to make you aware of it, beat-up sneakers scuffed heavily at the toes. A crimson duffel bag hangs from one arm, a large water bottle dangling off the strap.

But it’s the smile that gets you.

Bright.

Boyish. 

Like he’s walked into a friend’s kitchen instead of a dance studio.

He spots you and grins, like this whole moment was something he was looking forward to.

“You must be my partner,” he says, nodding toward you like you’re already a team.

You blink. 

Once. 

Twice.

You’ve seen him before— interviews, magazine covers, game highlights playing on TVs in crowded cafés. But none of it really prepares you for James Potter in real life.

He’s a little taller than expected. And somehow he is more charming in motion.

“That’s me,” you manage, pushing yourself up from the floor and brushing your hands on your sweats, hoping to wipe away the nervous energy more than anything else. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for the season.”

His grin deepens, dimples flashing. “Stuck?” he echoes, head tilting. “Nah. I’d say I hit the jackpot.”

You arch a brow, but the smile creeps in anyway. “Flattery already?”

“Strategy,” he shoots back, dropping his duffel by the wall. “Figured I’d butter you up before I start stepping on your toes.”

You laugh— quiet and surprised by how easy it is to do.

There’s something disarming about him. Like he just… fits. And without even trying, pulls you into his orbit.

He crosses the studio and holds out a hand. “James,” he says. “Officially. But you probably guessed that already.”

You take it. His grip is warm, solid. Confident without being cocky. There’s a steadiness under all that easy charm— something grounding.

“I did,” you say, nodding. “I’ve seen you play.”

Then, with a small, nervous laugh, “I usually watch women’s football, but during the season it’s kind of impossible to avoid clips of you… everywhere.”

James lets out a breath. “Excellent. That means the hard part’s over. Now I just have to survive dance rehearsals without making a complete fool of myself in front of you.”

You huff softly, but your chest feels light. There’s a flicker of something there— recognition, maybe. Or just a small, stubborn hope fluttering gently in your chest.

He glances around the studio, then back to you. The grin is still there, but now there’s something earnest behind it.

“Last season didn’t do you justice,” he says. “I watched, you know— my roommate’s obsessed with the show. Honestly, I thought he’d be the one asked to join, but… guess I got lucky.” He flashes a sheepish smile. “Anyway, I really think we’re gonna have a great season.”

You freeze— not because you disagree, but because no one’s said it like that before.

Like they really mean it.

You smile– small, but sincere. 

“Yeah, I think we might.”

“Now,” you say, breaking the small silence as you lead him further into the studio, “how familiar are you with dancing?”

James follows without hesitation, falling into step beside you. “Other than dancing at weddings?” he grins. “Not much. Unless you count that one time I tried to learn the worm in uni.”

You huff a soft laugh and shake your head. “That absolutely does not count.”

“Shame,” he says. “I was hoping to open the season with it.”

You roll your eyes playfully, already making a mental note: athletic, quick on his feet, but very little formal technique. Still— there’s something about his posture, his ease of movement. There’s potential there.

“You’ve watched the show, right?” you ask as you settle into the center of the room, motioning for him to do the same. “Is there any dance you’d want to avoid? Not that you really can,” you add with a grin, “but it’s good to know. Gives us time to plan.”

James hums thoughtfully, then scratches at the back of his neck. “My roommate— Sirius— he’s obsessed with this show. Made me binge half a season with him once we found out I was doing it. He said the tango and… the paso doble?” He winces unsure if he got the name right.

You nod, amused. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“He said they’re intense. All sharp movements and smoldering eye contact or something like that.” James makes a dramatic face, narrowing his eyes and puffing out his chest. “He said I’d look constipated instead of sultry.”

You snort, covering your mouth. “Okay, well, that’s fair. They are harder dances. Especially for beginners.”

James lets the fake glare drop and relaxes again, giving you a sheepish shrug.

“We’ll push those toward the back end of the season,” you assure him. “Hopefully by then, you’ll feel more confident.”

He nods, relief flickering behind his grin. “Appreciate that.”

“I was thinking,” you say, turning toward the speaker system and cueing up your playlist, “we’d start off with something a little more fluid. A Viennese waltz. It’ll get you used to being in frame, learning posture, and working on flow.”

“Viennese waltz,” he echoes, as if trying the words on for size. “Sounds fancy.”

“It’s more romantic than fancy,” you say, glancing back at him with a small smirk. “But don’t get any ideas.”

James gasps dramatically. “Me? I’m the picture of professionalism.”

You raise a brow, unimpressed. “You’re wearing shoes that look like they lost a fight with a lawnmower.”

He glances down. “These are vintage,” he argues. “Adds character.”

With the shake of your head you press play letting the first soft notes of a piano introduction fill the room. You step toward him, holding out a hand.

“Alright, Potter,” you say. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

James eyes your hand like he’s about to accept a royal scepter, then takes it carefully. “Be gentle with me.”