Disclaimer: Characters belong to her, everything else it mine.
She was rhythmic positively, absolutely rhythmic.
He watched as her body swayed to the guitar. As the guitarist plucked, her hips created a harmony, melody and base. There were no words, really, to describe her siren body.
The café was quaint, just a small dive on the corner of here and there. He'd visited it when work became especially daunting. The orders were really rolling in and he hadn't had a reprieve in quite some time. So here he sat, in the dark corner of a nameless café, sipping tea and filling the air around him with his musk.
He was sure she hadn't noticed him. And after nearly four years, he wasn't sure it was even her. She was older now, obviously. Her hair lengthened and with a spot less frizz. Her body remained frail but her hips had grown to maturity. He rather enjoyed the scene she was making. It wasn't out of the ordinary nor was she becoming a nuisance.
If he were a brave man he would tell her he could watch her all night. But he isn't a brave man merely a man who needs shields and masks to hide his insecurities and past oppressions. He isn't a brave man, but he would like to be.
As the song ended she took her seat. His dark eyes turned disappointed. He would play forever, for her. He would charm every guitar he saw to play, for her. He would take up the art himself. He would practice night and day until he mastered the wretched wood, for her.
But those are things a brave man would do.
She was surrounded by her friends, Muggles it seemed. They each took turns ordering tea and various other drinks. He wasn't one for Muggle alcohol and it seemed neither was she. She spoke and he strained to hear, he was too far away and too old to make any sense of her voice, but her comrades all began laughing not just giggles or smirks, but light emitting belly laughs. It was as if her hips weren't enough, she had the ability to enlighten an entire group by her tales and quips.
He could fall in love with that, if only he were a brave man.
He drank in the shape of her profile, the way her hair tucked defiantly behind her curved ear, the slight slope of her nose and its rounded tip. He saw her lips, fuller now, plump against the cup as she sipped. If he didn't know any better he would say that the world ended in that finite line between the cup and her lips, and when they finally met it was as if the cup greeted her grasping onto her pale pink flesh and never wanting to let go.
As the guitarist took up again, she rose and turned just so and caught his eye. His heart and breath both stopped. His lips curved into a smirk, she would tell you it was a charming look on his porcelain skin. The malice and anger from his previous life was gone. She took his smile and catalogued it among the things she would never wish to forget.
It was the first she'd seen him since the day he was released from the hospital, battered but healing. She didn't know why but his aura was calling to her now. She was never one to put stock in Divination or Spiritual Arts but she felt his soul calling her.
As she made her way slowly to his table, his breath hitched. Her hips took it upon themselves to sway, since when did walking allow for swaying? Why was she so enchanting? As his eyes rose from her denim clad hips to her tight white jumper he almost missed the strip of skin peaking from between, almost. He was nearly salivating.
"Professor," she called.
"Miss Granger," his return was weak but his brain refused to process any more information than the soft cup-caressing lips speaking to him. "Would you like…to sit?" He almost second guessed himself. Not sure if he should travel this road or if he should retreat, the door was only a few short steps away.
"Actually, I was just going for a dance."
His eyes moved from her lips to her eyes, "Of course." Of course she was going for a dance his eye sight was still as keen as it always was.
"I was going to ask you to join me."
His mouth opened to respond, then closed, then opened, he was at a loss. If he were a brave man he would say yes. However, he was not a brave man. He was a foolish man who pranced in the body of a brave man. "A dance?"
"Yes, unless you would rather just watch." Her eyes emblazon with something akin to humor and a flicker of lust. She had noticed him earlier. He was a particularly powerful magical being and like called to like. She knew the moment he stepped into the room. She could feel his night's eyes watching her every movement. It thrilled her.
He was caught, shit. What a fool. She had seen him watch her dance. She had noticed him. If he were a brave man he would stay and dance. If he were a brave man he would accept her invitation and grasp her hips and move with her. However, he merely cast his eyes down to look at the floor, head falling only slightly. He could feel the shame cascade upon him like a tidal wave.
That's when she did it. Standing in front of him, her hips began to sway, her feet inching closer together then further apart. Her hands exploring her sides as her gentle movements caressed the air. He could smell her perfume as she moved space, time standing still so he could watch. He was captivated. Her eyes never left his, she watched as they made love to her hips and stomach, falling on her hands and up her arms, sinking down to catalogue her breasts. She watched as they climbed to her neck, lips, taking in her tinged-pink cheeks, finally falling into her eyes. She felt beautiful, breathtaking, stunning. It didn't happen often, she felt this feeling fleetingly. But at this moment, nothing could break her confidence.
When she reached her hand out to him, he shivered. This woman was dancing for him. The sparse lit café in combination with the very few patrons allowed for privacy, and dare he say it—intimacy. He took her life raft in his hand and stood.
Time was moving so slow. The woman before him was, for the moment, his. They began a slow dance, just gentle sways of the hips, her hands, one on his shoulder and one in his grasp, felt as if they were melting. His hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, rubbing circles and pulling her tighter to his body. He wouldn't fancy himself a dancer, but he knew the basics.
As they pressed tighter her head fell to his cheek and he took the opportunity to place his lips on her hairline. It wasn't a kiss. It was his promise. She leaned into him and turned her head, her eyes traveling up his shirt to a patch of scars ghosting on the edge of his collar, up to his chin, to his lips, nose, eyes. As her toes reached the tippy top, as far as they could go, she met his lips with her own. It was a kiss. It was also her promise.
Her lips left his and met his ear, "Care for a walk?"
He wasn't a brave man but it was okay, she was brave enough for them both.
AN: This is unbeta'd thus far. I can't decide if I want this to keep going. If it does it will probably be smutty, but it could just be a kiss and a cuddle. Thoughts? Review button? Yes?