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Tango Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 19074 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
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A/N: I originally intended for this to be a oneshot but now I’m wondering if it should be a twoshot. Let me know what you think. DSx

Hermione Granger’s gaze slipped over the familiar features of the expansive room, its deep shadows broken only by occasional magical torches fluttering like heartbeats against the walls. Her mind slid simultaneously over a passing parade of memories from her time here—this would, after all, be her last night at Hogwarts, at least for the foreseeable future. The finale, she noted with a wry grin at the streamers sagging to the floor in tired bunches, had been unusual but not unexpected.
Unlike the Yule Ball four years earlier this, the Leavers’ Ball, had been more sedate, more mature, and more alcoholic as it turned out. The effects she now felt as a fuzzy nostalgia drifting through her mind. There had been fewer tears this time, in fact none that she could recall, fewer dresses that made her look like a frosted cake topper, and fewer friends—unfortunately. Harry had made it. Ron was busy washing his hair or something. Unlike Hermione, neither of them had returned to take their N.E.W.T.s so there was really no particular reason for either to attend. And they’d already well and truly gotten over the shock of leaving this place, the most stable foundation in their lives. She hadn’t.
Ginny had made it which was a huge relief. Throughout the evening they had exchanged whispered and increasingly crass remarks in between saving one another from the wayward hands of over-enthusiastic dance partners. Ginny required less saving as Harry was keeping one protective eye on her at all times. And it wasn’t like Hermione couldn’t have saved herself but throwing surreptitious glances at Ginny, mouthing ‘help me’, had been just another part of the ridiculousness.
Hermione had absolutely no interest in any of the young wizards who had eagerly and drunkenly approached with their mostly arrhythmic gyrations. In some ways she considered that she’d outgrown them—or at least the types of relationships that they offered. For some reason an inelegant grope and a gagging tongue down the throat were no longer appealing to her. In fact, they never had been. That’s why Ron had to go. They would always be good friends but he fucked like he ate—gluttonous, sloppy, and with no attention to detail.
But, she reflected, crossing her legs and allowing one tapered heel to hang casually off her toe, she’d been quite surprised by the number of men, both staff and students, who had tried it on this evening. She’d worn a black dress this time—backless, low neckline, thin straps and sheer material that clung to the curves of her thighs as she walked. She knew it was sexy but the looks she’d received upon entering the hall had made the reactions at the Yule Ball seem positively subtle in comparison. Even Draco’s jaw dropped like he’d just received a bludger to the balls. In fact, the only man who didn’t seem to show her any particular interest then, or at any time throughout the evening, was the man whom she was more than surprised to see there in the first place—Professor Severus Snape.
She imagined that he found such events patently painful, but his inscrutable expression as he chatted quietly to other staff members on the outskirts of the room, or sipped from a goblet balanced in his fingers, made it impossible to tell. She wasn’t entirely sure why her eyes seemed to naturally seek him out. Perhaps it was the fact that she couldn’t read his every thought, unlike the vast majority of other men ogling her from around the room—the welcome reprieve of a little mystery.
Hermione wasn’t surprised, however, that Snape had all but ignored her—it was consistent with the way he’d engaged with her this entire year. She’d excelled in all of her classes, including his. Her Potions N.E.W.T. had been incredibly challenging but she’d been up to the task. He’d not even mentioned her top mark when she’d encountered him sweeping through the halls since. In fact, outside of the classroom, all of his interactions with her had simply constituted a subtle inclination of the head and a quietly murmured, ‘Miss Granger.’
He certainly wasn’t rude or disrespectful—not like he’d been before the war. But he seemed to be careful and somewhat guarded. She wasn’t sure if it was just with her or if others had experienced the same. The war had certainly taken its toll—on everyone.
Sighing, she tilted her head back, closing her eyes against the night sky illusion. Thinking about the complexities of Hogwarts relationships served no real purpose anyway. She would be leaving in the morning and unlikely to see anyone again—except for Minerva, whom she’d promised to visit before taking her leave. She inhaled deeply, glad for the silence. Someone had magically altered a muggle jukebox for the evening’s entertainment. Although it possessed the remarkable ability to play any song following a simple incantation, it also somehow managed to be even louder than the Yule band. It had eventually been silenced—probably when the last staff member had left. And following the departure of the music, everyone else had gradually drifted or staggered back to their rooms. Now she was seated alone in the middle of the hall. She’d wanted this time to herself. Time to reflect—to say goodbye.
“I would have thought this evening couldn’t end soon enough for you, Miss Granger.”
Hermione’s eyes flew open and she jerked her head around to see a figure standing in the shadowed recess of a doorway. She wondered how long he’d been there.
“And why would you have thought such a thing, Professor?” she asked, self-consciously uncrossing her legs and smoothing her dress back down.
He approached slowly, his face changing with each measured step as the torchlight curved around his features. His back and shoulders were rigid but his inimitable voice, still impossibly rich, was laced with an unfamiliar lightness, which in her slightly drunken haze she hoped, perhaps naively, might signify an effort at conciliation after all these years.
“I imagined a clever witch—one who had obviously outgrown her surroundings, would be more than ready for what the world has to offer.”
Clever? He’d never even suggested that he knew her to be so. ‘Insufferable know-it-all’ was as close as he had come in the past to acknowledging it. Now the word rolled easily from his tongue as though it were a simple truth. She wondered why he couldn’t have given her the pleasure of saying it before now. But perhaps that was the problem. It was something she so desperately desired, and he had known it. He was never one to give up such things easily.
Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m not as ready as I pretend,” she stated truthfully, wondering why she was sharing her most intimate thoughts with him. Perhaps it was the drink. It tended to make her more trusting than she should be.
“Unfinished business?” He advanced a few more paces, the slow rhythm of his steps making her insides suddenly stir. She had always been so wary of his presence in the classroom. Always careful to know where he was—sensing his proximity, his approach, waiting for the critical appraisal.
Except that this time it hadn’t come—‘unfinished business?’ It was such a curious thing to say. And it made Hermione think—something he’d always been able to do to her, even when she didn’t want to.
Was there really unfinished business? She wasn’t sure that she would describe it as such but she had been ultimately disappointed by the events of the evening. For some reason she’d imagined her final night at Hogwarts would be enchanting, magical and, hopefully, memorable. She’d wanted to go out with a bang in both celebration of, and defiance against, all that had happened in her time there. But she also considered it a rite of passage of sorts, an acknowledgement that she was now a woman. Unfortunately, however, everything that had transpired had simply been an extension of the classroom banter and childish antics that had characterised her past eight years.
She’d basically expected more from her final evening at Hogwarts. How could she articulate that? A nebulous feeling of being left wanting?
“Perhaps.”
Did she consider that her enigmatic answer would satiate him? No. If she were honest, she really meant for it to entice him further. This was the longest normal conversation she’d ever had with him after all.
“Was there something that you . . . desired?”
The final word was lifted on the curve of one of his expressive eyebrows and happened to strike deeper than Hermione could explain. Desire? That was definitely not a topic she’d ever expected to be discussing with her dour and distant Potions Professor—the man whom she had never even shared a joke with, let alone a personal story. And certainly, she noted with a rapid intake of breath, not with his monumental presence standing over the prickling flesh of her bare legs, his black gaze sliding over her response to his encroachment.
Despite the unsettling waves that surged through her, she managed what she hoped passed for a wry grin. “I could have done with a half-decent dance partner.”
She’d meant it as a joke. Sort of. She didn’t really expect a response.
But he did respond. After a long moment of appraisal, he lifted his chin slightly before emitting a familiar drawl, “Really?”
She felt rather foolish. After all that Hogwarts had provided—to be apparently sulking over a night of crappy dancing seemed ridiculous. But the derisive sneer that she’d expected didn’t come. Instead his gaze intensified.
“Perhaps that can be . . . remedied.”
Hermione was taken aback. What? What was he suggesting? That he would dance with her? Was he claiming that he could even dance? He certainly had the posture for it—and the poise and grace for that matter. But still. It was him—Professor Severus Snape. Dancing seemed a frivolous pursuit for such a man.
Then the most inexplicable utterance tripped from his lips, “Can you tango?”
He may as well have asked ‘Can you sky dive?’ for all the relatability that the question held. Tango? She’d imagined he might step out a reasonable waltz, but a tango? That was an entirely different matter. The truth was that she’d always wanted to learn. It had enticed her with its fluid but rather combative combination of seductive posturing and sensuous cavorting. But she imagined that a poor exponent, like herself, might come across as the dancing equivalent of Ron executing his foreplay ‘technique’.
And, in reality, was this even something she could possibly bring herself to consider engaging in with the man standing before her? Scrutinising her? Turning her to mush? She looked up at him, uncertain of how to respond.
Then something even more unthinkable happened. He held out his hand.
His long fingers extended, palm up, toward her. He might have been casting a spell—a wandless bolt could have easily exploded from his fingertips, disintegrating her and her pathetically mute indecision. But he didn’t. His hand was obviously intended for her to touch. And that, she noted with a sudden twist of her stomach, was almost a scarier prospect.
But Hermione couldn’t deny that she was intrigued—even by the thought of touching him. What did he feel like? It seemed strange that she had never deliberately touched him before. She’d barely even brushed against him by accident. It was as though there had been some invisible screen between them this entire time. And now there wasn’t. She could stop wondering—after all, he was inviting her to place her skin over his, a deliberate act.
She was clearly overthinking it. She also knew that if she left it any longer he was likely to withdraw the offer. With a contemptuous glare he’d jerk his hand away, turn on the heel of his black boot and be gone. Perhaps forever.
She reacted before she’d even decided, accepting his hand, curling her fingers around its firm contours. His skin was warm and dry, contrasting starkly with the sticky fumbling fingers she’d encountered throughout the evening. And she noted something else—a curious vibration, faint but definitely there. It felt very much like magical energy—something she’d encountered in certain magical creatures before, but never in another human being—not even a wizard. Then again, she reflected as she held his intense gaze, he wasn’t just any wizard. And when he slowly drew her up from her chair, eyes never leaving hers, she sensed that it wasn’t the only surprise in store for her.
He took a few steps backwards, drawing her toward him. There was a certain grace to the dip of his wrist, an elegance to the way he supported her fingers in the valley of his palm—restrained, almost reverential. It made her feel special. Something she’d never felt in his presence before. But perhaps it was simply a requirement of the dance—not at all personal.
Suddenly he swept his free hand toward the jukebox and muttered an indecipherable incantation causing the reedy strains of a violin to drift from it, weaving around them. Then, sliding his fingers to her wrist, he gently adjusted the position of her hand in his before grasping her other hand and lifting it to his shoulder, his fingertips trailing under her palm as he released her. Clearly this was going to be a lesson by feel, rather than instruction. Although, she wouldn’t mind a few of his words. His voice had always managed to—
She dragged her eyes away from his, not wanting her shuttered gaze to betray her thoughts. He was standing closer than she’d ever expected him to be. And he was tall. She now found herself at eye height with his chest, despite her heels, and decided it would probably be best for her to focus on his buttons—the safest spot while her mind refused to behave itself.
Rather than remaining closed around hers, his fingers gradually unfurled until he was delicately cupping, rather than holding, her hand. Then his other arm extended elegantly from his side before curling around her bare back, higher than she’d expected, just beneath her shoulder blades. In response, she firmed her grasp on the stiff fabric of his frock coat, somewhat surprised to discover that it wasn’t all padding. She hadn’t really known how much of his form was coat and how much was actually him. She now found that his shoulders were naturally broader than she’d expected, and she could feel his taut muscles moving beneath her fingertips as he adjusted his position around her.
As further instruments joined the winding strains of the solo violin, weaving and melding, a rhythm emerged but he didn’t seem ready to move, holding her gently but firmly in place. Despite the narrow gap between their bodies, she felt positively encapsulated by him. His fresh masculine scent—sandalwood with a hint of peppermint—didn’t drift over her like cologne; it emanated from him, the natural scent of his skin. She imagined if she licked him, that’s exactly what he would taste like. But then she had to quickly un-imagine it because her hands started to sweat and she absolutely couldn’t bear the thought of her hot sweaty hands betraying her. They would be the hands of a little girl, a terrified student. She wanted to have the hands of a woman. Grown now. Ready for the rest of her life.
What struck her then was the sense that while her relationships with her other professors had matured over the years, becoming more amiable, some even developing into friendships, her relationship with Professor Snape had not changed since the beginning. And it was the distance that he’d maintained with herself and just about every other student that made the current proximity to him feel unnatural, almost forbidden. But perhaps for him this was simply another lesson. The stirring rod was now her hand, the cauldron, the curve of her back. Unfortunately for her, however, it was like being swamped by a wave of masculine energy that she’d never encountered before. Obviously she’d been around a lot of young men, but they were light, playful, energies. His was formidable—mature and serious.
And when he leaned down and murmured into her ear, “Follow . . . my . . . lead,” each word making her heart stagger and her cleavage surge, she felt another sensation leap into bed with the others; it was magnetism—a sensation that she’d felt before but tried to deny. There were so many reasons why allowing herself to feel attracted to him had been the worst idea on the planet. Especially considering how much he appeared to hate them all, had killed their beloved Dumbledore, was a despised Death Eater and so on. But now those past feelings came creeping back like rejected souls returning for forgiveness—the prodigal urchins of her mind.
And when he moved she followed him, stepping backwards as his foot slid forward, then withdrawing her other foot it time with his. He almost seemed to carry her as they glided fluidly across the floor, creating the illusion that she could actually match him. She was, however, simply the marionette under his expert operation, her feet joined to his to complete the illusion.
Suddenly halting his liquid advance, he leaned her backwards, the skin of her back pressing into his palm, her neck straining up so that she caught sight of his face—actually mainly his nose. While it was definitely prominent, she noted that it didn’t seem out of place on a face full of prominent features—expressive brows, a chiselled jaw, those slightly shuttered eyelids around perfectly black orbs, and a mouth that was so beautifully sculpted it could have belonged to a Greek God. Instead it was here, hovering not so far from hers.
As he righted her and spun her around, moving backwards now and drawing her with him, she noticed that his lips tightened and loosened faintly with his movements. As he stepped, glided, swivelled and leaned, his lips were doing their own tango. Each movement may have been slight, almost imperceptible, but she was entranced by the way it was playing out on his face. Even his eyebrows occasionally softened and arched. She suddenly wanted to touch his face with her fingertips—to close her eyes and feel the tiny tics and twitches under them. She wondered if she could read him like this—the weaving and rolling of his muscles.
Hermione forced herself to look away from him. She had to be very careful about where she allowed her mind to go to. Otherwise she was at risk of being overcome with feelings that would be most . . . unhelpful.
And then he drew her closer. As her abdomen pressed into his, she realised what he was doing. He had started by guiding her feet but had now moved on to her hips. His hand was lower, resting in the small of her back, and he had positioned her so that when he swivelled his hips, she would move with them. It was clearly a technique but it also felt like . . . almost like grinding. But the most elegant grinding she had ever engaged in. And it surprisingly worked. She found her hips naturally moving with his. When he spun her around or swivelled her from side to side, tilting her pelvis, it all happened with ease. His body was the template and she was simply filling it with her own.
“Loosen your hips,” he muttered as she felt his breath roll down her neck.
It might have been a reasonably innocuous statement if this was a dance lesson but where her mind was at that moment, it was a statement that was a long way down the path to eroticism. And if she replayed it over and over in her head, as she unfortunately did now, it was an aphrodisiac that she definitely didn’t need. It was a stick of dynamite in her—
“That’s it . . . right . . . there.” His silky purr proceeded to ignite the dynamite.
She sighed. Yes, she knew she was right there; in that sweet spot with him. Their pelvises moved in union like a mating pair. And whilst she may have learned something significant about the tango, she was also working such a carnal rhythm with his groin that she was having trouble congratulating herself on simply mastering the dynamics of it. How did people dance this thing without ending up fucking each other? Or maybe that’s exactly . . . what . . . they . . . did. Shit!
And then he drew her closer again until he was delicately abrading her chest with his woollen clothing. Rather than being an unintended outcome, however, it felt quite deliberate—like her clingy charmeuse should be pitched against his rough weave, her soft skin against the timeless ridges of his calloused palms, her smooth acquiescence against his rough insistence at each vigorous directional change, and her suddenly erect nipples against Merlin-knows-what was sliding about under all . . . those . . . buttons.
His hand had slipped around and was now grasping her waist, assisting her to lean—to bend sideways, backwards and even to lean into him, pressing against the hard planes of his torso. And each time he took her a little deeper. She held him tightly, trying to follow, but was absolutely no match for his deft elegance. And the startling speed of his movements meant she was often taken off guard. This time when he arched her back over his arm, her groin pressed against his and neck exposed, he suddenly leaned forward, his face coming so close to hers she wondered if he was actually going to kiss her. But he didn’t. Instead his nose lingered against her neck. Was he smelling her?
Hermione flushed deeply. She suddenly wanted to pull free from his firm grasp and run away. But the reality was that she was even more desperate for him to smell her. Everywhere.
Then he was upright again—tall, proper, rigid—as though he’d never even been there. Like he’d never had his lips hovering only millimetres from her throbbing pulse. As if he’d never been close enough to run his tongue along the dimpled ridgeline of her collarbone, tangy with her frantic perspiration.
And just when Hermione didn’t think she could take any more of the mixed messages that this infernal dance seemed to evoke, he halted, pushing her away. Was that it? The end of the lesson? Had he had enough of her pathetically clingy cavorting?
Chest lightly rising and falling with his efforts, he raised his hand above her head.
“Accio,” he rumbled as the torchlight danced in the darkened chambers of his eyes.
Suddenly the silver pins that she had carefully threaded into her hair to tie it back into a loose chignon, shot up into his palm as if his skin were magnetic. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders as, without a word, he slipped the collection into his coat pocket. Hermione’s breathing accelerated. Clearly he was determined to loosen up more than just her hips.
Then, without warning, he grabbed her and spun her around, his large hand delving down to splay across her pelvis. Holding her tightly, her back pressed against his torso, he lifted one of her arms above her head, bending it swanlike over them before trailing his prickling fingertips down the exposed underside. The exquisite trickle down to the outer curve of her breast made her suddenly shiver. But it wasn’t only her skin that was affected; his tantalising digits generated an equivalent sensation in that very spot that only an object embedded deeply inside her could attend to. And then she felt the throbbing need as her entire insides tingled in anticipation. She sighed, wishing her insides would get real. Nothing was going in there. At least not that far. The little device in her bedside drawer would be lucky to make it half way which, she reflected, was usually enough. But not tonight. Tonight it wouldn’t even come close.
Then in one sudden movement he whipped her forward and then back. His hand was briefly pressed into the small of her back as he bent her at the waist, her hair flicking against the wooden floor as her straining cheeks nestled into his groin. For the briefest of moments he was bending her over something, anything, and doing her from behind. But then she was upright again, his cheek whispering against hers before his hand slid around, grasped her wrist and then rolled her body away, only just keeping her upright. One second he was practically fucking her, the next he was barely touching her. If this wasn’t the definition of clit teasing she didn’t know what was. Was this what the tango was all about? The wanting? The building of desire? The slow tease?
Although not so slow now.
The speed of the music had been building, and with it the tension in his shoulders and forcefulness of his movements. She noticed a glimmer of sweat on his temple. She couldn’t ever remember seeing him sweat before, although she herself was coated in a fine sheen and wearing only a fraction of the clothing that he was; and doing a fraction of the work for that matter.
After a few more powerful swivels of his hips, he leaned her backwards and managed to do something remarkable. With a muttered incantation, he released all of the buttons of his coat in a wave-like ripple, his angular body extruding gradually from its black encasement. Quickly slipping his arm free, he tossed her to his other arm before flinging his entire coat aside like a matador’s cape. And as she hung there, grasping his bicep to prevent herself from joining the coat in its slide across the hard wooden floor, he flicked the top button of his white shirt open, and then the next. She held her breath, secretly hoping he was going to keep going. But he didn’t. Instead she had to suffice with ogling the taut column of muscle that glistened with sweat as it delved into the open neck of his shirt. She suspected he was also exceedingly damp underneath. If he had chosen to remove his entire shirt, she wondered how much of her waning control would be eroded by being forced to cling to the sinewy muscles of his shoulder, slick with his efforts, as his gleaming chest threatened to daub her face at every turn.
Hermione could no longer deny it. She was more than a little aroused by what had become of the evening—being flung around and against the body of this man whom she’d only ever admired from afar. His heady presence was far more intoxicating than the liquor she’d downed, and she was beginning to wonder how much more she could withstand of his touch, his voice, and his warm breath, which now ghosted across her cleavage.
When he finally pulled her up to him, it was a slow roll of her body up his, pelvis first, until his face was so close to hers that the air from his lips vibrated against her forehead.
“I think you might be ready to go . . . further.”
“Oh Gods,” she whispered.
She suddenly felt his hand on the back of her thigh, grasping the soft flesh just below her buttock through her dress. Digging more insistently, he slid her leg up and hooked it around his slim hip, her foot naturally entwining his leg like Devil’s Snare before he lunged toward the ground, both of their weights balanced on his one strong thigh. It was then that Hermione became aware of the wanton display that the tango seemed to naturally evoke. She was clutching at his slick neck like an animal clinging to the branch of a tree, panting through parted lips as he crushed against her abdomen, and gazing pleadingly into his eyes in the hope he wouldn’t allow her to crash to the floor beneath him. And he was necessarily the polar opposite—looming over her, dominant, powerful, eyes roving hungrily over her submissive display. He held her in that position for so long that her neck started to ache. But just when her head felt ready to collapse back with fatigue, his arm slid forward until his hand was resting beneath it. It may have been intended for support but when she felt his long fingers rake into her liberated hair, nails grazing against her scalp, she felt she might suddenly shatter into a pile of confetti.
As a convulsive shudder captured her, she was somewhat surprised to discover that all of her molecules remained intact. The shadow of a smirk slid across his face as he strained back up to a standing position, her leg slowly slipping down the back of his. She was gasping by this stage. The music swelled around them as he placed his fingertips under her chin, lifting it and forcing her to look him in the eyes; the emphatic firming of his jaw told her that he expected her to keep them there.
She was hyperventilating, very aware that they were sharing the same air. She was breathing in that which had been already moistened by him—which had already churned around deep inside the vast chamber of his chest. And his eyes positively drilled into her. She felt herself falling apart in an attempt to allow him through, to remove all resistance; she just didn’t have the fortitude in that moment. And she suddenly felt extremely thirsty—for him. She felt an intense desire to draw from his mouth, his tongue, to suck on him. It might seem rather inappropriate, considering that the target of her desirous urges was a man she had shared nothing more with previously than the occasional terse exchange. But she was certain she wasn’t over-interpreting the situation. She was prone to doing that, admittedly, but this time she really considered that any objective observer would agree that the intimacy of their engagement wasn’t simply confined to her imagination.
Continuing to penetrate her with his gaze, he suddenly lifted her bodily with both hands and wrapped one of her legs around his waist, their pelvises grinding together as he trailed her free toe along the ground. She suddenly wondered if he was as aroused as she was. It seemed ridiculous but she couldn’t actually tell. His entire body was so hard that it felt like he was in the throes of a whole of body erection. But perhaps it was simply projection on her part—she herself was so agonisingly aroused that she could feel her G-string mashing into her saturated slot as he ground against her. Could he make her come like this? Yes he could. A few more circuits of his rubbing and grinding and she would be moaning and clawing at his shoulders as her pussy convulsed against him. In fact, it would probably be her only perfect tango move of the evening. And as the breath seeped out between her pursed lips, she knew she was blatantly revealing that she was approaching the gasping edge of orgasm but there was absolutely nothing she could do to hide it.
Just as she felt the tension building to frightening proportions, her breathing turning ragged, he suddenly stopped his gyrations, gradually dragging her throbbing clitoris down the placket of his trousers as he slid her back to the floor. It felt absolutely deliberate, but like everything before, it came under the confusing domain of this infernal dance. There was no way for her to know his true intentions.
Her legs were trembling slightly as she felt his hands slide down to grasp her hips, his long fingers pointing downward, thumbs encircling the tops of her buttocks. Then he began swivelling her hips slowly in time with the music that she suspected he’d charmed to infinitely repeat. And as she took on the rhythm, he forced her down, gently but insistently, against him until she was slithering up and down his body. It might be yet another questionable tango move but all she could think about was continuing the journey down to her knees until her face was level with his groin so she could check out the arousal situation for herself. She might even find something to suck on while she was there. But he held her in place, controlling her descent and watching her closely as her body flexed and swayed under his ministrations.
Hermione decided then and there that the tango, at least the one they’d been engaging in, was essentially sex in dance form. And she knew about sex—she’d done it plenty of times before. There was no real reason for her to be a passive recipient in this exchange—no matter how delectably sensuous he was. She couldn’t deny that his expert tutelage had been exhilarating, but she now suspected that she might have a few moves of her own to contribute—tango Granger-style.
She continued rocking her hips while she slid her palms from his broad shoulders, down his arms, until they sat directly on top of his hands, grasping them tightly. Then, in a move that seemed to take him completely by surprise, she stepped backwards and swung him around, pitching him directly into the chair that she had occupied when he’d entered the room what seemed like an eternity ago.
He grasped the base of the chair with both hands to steady himself, his long legs extended and slightly askew as she approached. She didn’t hold back on the seductive swagger, figuring she owed him quite a bit in return, and the hungry look in his eyes as she gratuitously slid her hands over the sheer material clinging to her body suggested he wasn’t totally averse to the sudden role reversal.
Standing over him, she allowed herself a small mischievous grin and he arched one dark brow in response, the corner of his mouth hitching in an expression that suggested both amusement and intrigue. Stepping forward, she straddled his thighs then leaned in, her face hovering close to his as she grasped his wrists, guiding his hands to her legs. Starting below the hemline of her dress behind her knee, she placed his palms against her bare skin, sliding them up gradually so that the material gathered ahead of his supple fingers as they slid up the backs of her thighs. They continued their slow ascent, vibrating faintly against her skin, before coming to rest under the bare curves of her buttocks. She noted the slight tick of his eyebrow as she clenched her cheeks under his fingertips; then steadily she began moving her hips, rocking and arching them in time to the music. It was certainly more carnal than what the classical strains would normally invoke, but it seemed to meet with his approval as he raised and then lowered his chin in a languorous nod.
Whilst her intention had been to repay even a small degree of the heated arousal he’d induced in her, his languid endorsement of her methods somehow managed to turn her on even more. He’d never demonstrably approved of anything she’d ever done and now, as she swayed rhythmically over him, allowing him to feel each twitch and roll of her muscles, he was blatantly encouraging her. He must know it was a dangerous thing to do—to provide someone who had so desperately sought his approval with a little taste of it. She was now desperate for more.
She leaned forward and grasped the high back of the chair, continuing to swivel her hips as she dipped down, dropping her exposed cleavage lower and lower until it swayed only millimetres from his parted lips. He drank in her display, eyes slightly shuttered as though he was also becoming increasingly intoxicated by their exchange. It fuelled her further. Swaying deeper until she was practically sitting in his lap, she brought her lips to his temple.
“Tell me you want me,” she murmured.
The fingers that continued to grasp her buttocks tightened, pulling her cheeks apart.
“I want you,” his voice, roughened by his recent efforts, slid into her, “to exchange places with me.”
She was so disappointed she could have bitten the shadowed skin of his cheek. It had taken a lot for her to finally work up the courage to cut through the pretence. Sighing, she stood and backed away from his lap. He slid up from the chair but she was in two minds about whether to bother taking his place. This was clearly just another game for him. Petulantly, she finally sat. And crossed her arms. And legs.
With a half grin he knelt, extending one knee before grasping her foot and placing it on his thigh.
What in Merlin’s name was he doing?
With the utmost care, he proceeded to ease her high heel from her foot and place it on the floor before sliding his thumb with the most exquisitely placed pressure up the sole of her foot.
“Oh Gods!” she moaned, grasping the seat of the chair with both hands.
He brought his other hand in to join the first, squeezing and massaging her heel before rubbing along the arch and flexing her pinched toes.
She almost cried as hours of tension was gently eroded under his deft fingers. His thorough and sensuous disarticulation of her strained joints was pure bliss and when he grasped and lightly twisted each toe in turn she closed her eyes, sighing with ecstasy. He was totally forgiven. She couldn’t imagine anything better—well maybe a couple of things. But as she melted under his caress, she realised with utter contentment that she would gladly take this memory of her final evening with her; and she would cherish it. She really had so much to thank him for. Not only from this evening but from her entire time at Hogwarts. She just didn’t think she would ever get to do it—not in the way she wanted to.
After he’d returned both of her feet to soft pillowy flesh once again, he stood and held out his hand to her. When she took it, he pulled her to standing before drawing her to him and looking down into her face. It was the most open and unguarded she’d ever seen him and she realised then that he absolutely didn’t hate her. Far from it. Lifting his hand, he curled it around the back of her head and, with a swift twist, looped her hair into a loose knot before calling forth the pins from his coat and proceeding to carefully slide them into place. The sensation of each silver clip gently abrading her scalp as it slid home was yet another exquisite exchange within a night of many. And when he was done there was only one, less than adequate, phrase she could think to utter,
“Thank you, Professor.”
He stepped back and gave a small, formal bow.
“Thank you, Miss Granger.” He fixed her with a long, complex look. “It has been a genuine pleasure.”
Then he took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips and placing a chaste kiss upon the back before turning and walking away.
“The pleasure was all mine,” she whispered after him.
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Tango *Complete*

Tango Complete