Work Text:
They never touch.
They should, because they spend so much time together that it should have been impossible to avert it all the time.
But it is not.
He makes sure of it.
When they are in the staff room waiting for the teachers meeting to start, he sits close to her, but never close enough that his knee touches hers.
When they are eating in the Great Hall, she always sits at his side, whichever side is free at the moment, and he takes the utmost care with his movements then - just to make sure that his fingers do not brush hers when passing the salt.
When they are patrolling the corridors or playing chess - as a matter of fact, he plays chess, she just moves pieces towards death apparently -, he keeps a respectable distance, avoiding at all costs being in her path.
They never touch.
But he looks at her, and he looks every day and stoles more glances that she will ever know.
And he listens to her. He listens even when she talks about Potter, Weasley and - Salazar help him - Professor Longbottom or complains about students and bad written essays.
And he talks to her, constantly challenging her to outsmart him, and he enjoys the now familiar feelings of suprise and satisfaction when she manages to do it, which is very often.
It matters little that they never touch, he thinks. It is for the best.
Or he thought until she stops him in the middle of a corridor with a gesture that made him take a not at all subtle step back to escape her searching hand.
His heart is pounding in his chest so loudly that he misses her question, but her hurtful expression says everything that he needs to know.
She is so close and seems so broken. He survived worse strains from Dumbledore and Voldemort, but he cannot resist her pleading eyes. Like never before, he feels incapable of withholding the truth now.
"I fear that if I touch you, I'll never be able to stop."
She takes a step closer.
"Then don't stop."