Proximity
[I : Contact]

"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey.
At other times, it is allowing another to take yours." –The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

It all happened quite by accident.

The Ministry liked to throw parties honoring Harry Potter, because sporadically they would remember that he saved the entire bloody world from certain destruction. So, according to the Minister's whim, they would drag along the Golden Trio to a brunch or a dinner or a masquerade ball, asking them to shake hands and dine with some of the Wizarding Elite. These got tiring after a while, but Harry felt obligated, Ron liked the food, and Hermione genuinely enjoyed attending these sorts of things, if only to meet foreign wizards to talk their ear off about the rights of magical creatures.

Naturally, once the Golden Trio was invited it would only be polite to invite all of their friends; namely the Weasleys, every professor at Hogwarts, several former students, and all of the remaining Order of the Phoenix members. Which included Severus Snape.

"He won't come," Ron said, taking another cocktail shrimp off of a silver platter. "Hasn't come out of hiding since the end of the War, right?"

"He might," Harry said as he awkwardly tugged at the neck of his rather too-small robes. "You never know. I'd like to shake his hand, at least one last time."

Ron snorted. "Shake his hand and then punch him, maybe."

"Shut it," Harry warned, "I owe him a lot, you know."

"Why, because he wanted to bang your mum?" Ron asked. Harry shot him a look. "Sorry, but seriously Harry, he was right old git when we were in school. He could've made your life a hell of a lot easier but he just liked making us miserable."

"He kept us safe," Harry pointed out. "He gave up a lot and sacrificed himself over and over again, and for that I'm grateful."

"Still a git." Ron said.

"Still sort of a git," Harry finally agreed.

"For once in your life, Mr. Weasley, you find yourself quite correct; I did relish the opportunity to make you miserable. Five points for Gryffindor," a deep voice said from behind them.

Both Harry and Ron jumped, wheeling around, schoolboy fear flashing on both of their faces. An old, deep-seated terror of detention flared into Harry's mind but he shoved it down, knowing that Snape was probably looking into his head right now.

He was still as tall and hook-nosed as ever, his shoulder-length hair still falling in a sharp widow's peak which served only to sharpen his strong features. It was as though he hadn't aged a day since the last Battle of Hogwarts, although he wore a knotted green-and-silver ascot at his throat, concealing the savage scars left behind by Nagini. His dress robes were black of course, giving him once more the appearance of an overgrown bat, and Harry felt another irrational surge of fear. He still loomed. He still had plotting, evil smirks, and a silky baritone voice that send terrified shivers down his back.

But this man, this hateful, pale, hook-nosed man with glittering black eyes and a permanent sneer, had saved his life too many times to count. He had given up his entire life, walking a knife's edge between sides, sowing doubt and gathering information. He had nearly died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, and if hadn't been for Hermione…

Speaking of which…

"Professor Snape?"

Hermione sprang across the room, dropping the Headmaster of Durmstrang cold, and headed straight for Snape. Her bushy hair, which she had tried unsuccessfully to tame, was in a thick, frizzy plait which fell down between her bare shoulders; there was a ferocious expression on her face, and for a moment Harry was unsure she was going to smack Snape or hug him.

She stopped in front of the Professor. "I thought you weren't coming," she said after a moment.

"I nearly didn't," he said frostily, "although Minerva convinced me to make an appearance and patch things up with you three brats."

Her eyes narrowed. "Professor, in case you haven't noticed, we're all adults now," she said evenly. "We're hardly brats. And I'm not particularly inclined to 'patch things up with you' since I've yet to hear back from you, even though I've sent you dozens of owls over the past five years. Not to mention I've never heard an apology, or a thank-you, come from your lips."

Snape drew himself up to his full height and his cold aura grew exponentially icier. "And why would I owe Mr. Potter or Mr. Weasley any shred of gratitude? They were inept students and even worse celebrities. I couldn't stand them when they were children and I cannot abide them as young adults, what makes you think anything has changed?"

"You don't owe Harry or Ron anything," Hermione said waspishly, "but in case you don't remember, I saved your life. Twice. Once on the floor of the Shrieking Shack and once again during the Battle of Hogwarts when that rubble nearly crushed your head. I think I'm owed maybe a 'shred' of gratitude, and perhaps a bit of respect. I was your brightest student and you know it."

Snape's velvety voice had a snarl of impatience running through it. "Idiot girl. You were never my brightest student. And if you wish to drag gratitude out of me with a meat hook, so be it. Thank you, Hermione Granger, for saving my life and not allowing me to escape this wretched plane of existence where Harry Potter's face is plastered on every rubbish bin."

Harry sensed Hermione's oncoming anger and stuck out his hand to disperse it. "I don't care what happened in the past," he said, squaring his shoulders and looking Severus in the eye. "I'm grateful for what you've done. And I'm sorry, for spending so much time hating you when I was a kid. It was unnecessary."

The professor eyed Harry's hand distastefully. "It was quite necessary. I made your life a miserable hell and I regret none of it. Kindly remove yourself from my proximity, Mr. Potter." He adjusted his ascot and turned away.

Hermione stepped forward, into Snape's personal space, and grabbed his elbow. "How dare you," she said quietly, almost under her breath, "Its one thing to snub me. God knows you've been doing that for years. But don't dismiss Harry, not after he respects you a bit."

Her hand was still on his elbow and it was odd, there seemed to be something rolling over his skin at her contact, like a prickle of static electricity. There was an odd expression on Hermione's face as well, as though he could feel it too—Snape frowned and jerked away from her.

"It was clearly a mistake to come here," Snape said, feeling a headache beginning to build at the base of his skull. "I wish to be left alone. And I was obviously in error to attend this function."

He turned on his heel and Apparated out of the ballroom.

Two hours later, both of them were in St. Mungo's.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed.

The Healer jumped back as though he'd been burned. Hermione's skin was covered with feverish little bumps, and her eyes were wild. The sheets had twisted around her and onto the floor, her pillow thrown across the room, and there were tears streaming out of her blotchy eyes. Every inch of her skin felt as though someone were brushing hot coals along her muscles, leaving a line of fire in their wake. The whole world burned.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered, curling into a ball, "it just hurts so much when you…t-touch me."

Harry and Ron watched, sickened, as Healers threw open the door to Hermione's ward and streamed inside. It had been two hours, two hours of listening to her wail and thrash; it was as though they were back in the Malfoy Manor, listening to Bellatrix savage their friend with the Cruciatus curse.

"We've got to do something," Ron said hoarsely, his freckles standing out in sharp relief against his chalk-white face. "She…she sounds like she's dying."

"She's not dying," Harry said numbly. "She's not…Hermione's not…she can't."

The bravest, smartest, cleverest witch he had ever known was being tortured by her own illness. The Healers were baffled—it wasn't an infection, it wasn't a side effect from a potion. It had to be a curse, but it was unlike anything they'd ever seen. More importantly it had come on so suddenly andfiercely, causing Hermione to collapse on the floor. Cooling Draughts and Dreamless Sleep potions were being brought in by the liter, and no matter how many things they attempted, her fever wouldn't go down. If only we could get her to sleep, the healers kept saying.

"Harry!" a voice called from the hallway. Harry looked up to see Minerva McGonagall, her crimson robes wrinkled and her gray hair mussed. "Harry, you must come—bring Ronald as well, something dreadful has happened—"

"What is it?" Harry demanded, springing to his feet. What could possibly be worse?

"It's Severus," Minerva whispered. "He's been checked back into the hospital, he's been struck by a curse—I found him in his study, frozen like an icicle—"

Harry's stomach twisted; he was being pulled in two different directions again. "I'll come," he muttered. Anything to get away from Hermione's ward, Hermione's familiar screams of terror and anguish.

"Hermione's in there," Ron said, sitting back down. "I'm not leaving her."

Another painful shriek came from behind the closed doors, and a Healer hurried inside, his wand drawn. Harry followed McGonagall down the hall, a leaden lump in his stomach.

"Don't touch me!" Severus spat.

The Healer sprang away from the man. Snape was ice cold, his skin light blue, dark veins marbling his forearms. His Dark Mark was inky black against the frigid skin, and his thin lips were dark. For all intents and purposes he looked frostbitten, and he kept dozing off to sleep. Every time he did so one of the Healers would wake him up with a Pepper-Up potion, which would do little to restore him; now, however, keeping him awake was as simple as touching his bare skin.

"The pain…" he rasped, "is worse when you touch me…"

He faded off again, head falling against the pillow. His heartbeat slowed dangerously beneath the Healer's finger.

McGonagall's mouth tightened and she said to Harry, "They think it's a latent curse. The sort that doesn't come into full effect until it's too late."

"They said the same thing about Hermione," Harry said, his brow furrowing. "They think…they said if she could just stay asleep long enough for her body to fight off the fever, she'd be all right."

The Gryffindor Head of House looked up at him, alarmed. "Do you think they could be hit by the same curse?"

"When, though? Hermione was fine…she's been fine for ages…it happened so quick, one moment we were getting ready to leave, and then the next moment she collapsed, she took Ron down with her…"

"We need to get them in the same room," McGonagall said firmly, her brogue thickening with impatience as she gathered her skirts. "Where is that Head Healer? Mogwitch! Mogwitch you bastard, where are you?"

Behind the doors, Severus let out a roar of pain and Harry heard something smash. They had to be linked. Both checked into St. Mungo's at the same time, both with the same sort of undefinable illness? There was too much to be a coincidence. But how could this have happened? Who could have hit them both with the same curse? Obviously at the Ministry brunch, but how could they have not seen anyone raise their wand?

Harry could hear McGonagall shouting in the hallways; it sounded as though arrangements were being made to move Hermione. What if the curse worsened when they were in the same room? And why Hermione? Why, of all the people in the world, did it have to be Hermione? The only one who kept her head, the one who came through in the end, through everything—nothing could sneak up on her. She was indomitable.

The doors of the ward flew open and a levitating stretcher came through, bearing a thrashing Hermione. Ron, McGonagall, and a rather frightened looking wizard with blond hair came through as well, following closely. Harry jumped out of the way and let the Healers pass; they set Hermione down next to Severus's bedside, lowering their wands as they did so.

Hermione's whimpers trailed off.

Severus's eyes opened.

"I need," Hermione gulped, her eyes red-rimmed, "I need, please, just, just please-!"

His hand outstretched and their fingers locked.

It was like a thunderclap on a clear day; Hermione's unhealthy red blotches vanished almost completely, and healthy color flew into Severus's cheeks. She struggled off her stretcher and into his narrow bed, falling on top of him, burying her head against his neck; his arms wrapped around her waist and they seemed to melt into one another, until it was almost impossible to tell where one began and the other ended. Their fingers intertwined and Severus seemed to nuzzle her shoulder, as though her presence was oxygen to a suffocating man. Hermione rested her cheek on the bare patch of skin on his chest, and her feet tucked around his, every inch of skin pressing against one another.

Hermione was fast asleep, her head tucked beneath his chin. Severus was wide awake and lucid, his bright black eyes glaring at McGonagall.

"What," he hissed venomously, "is the meaning of this?"

So, structured stories.

I suck at them.

Anyone who's followed my stories for a while knows I can't keep to a steady pace, the plot meanders, and I really have no idea what I'm doing. That's because I don't—when I write fanfiction I stick to one-shots, mostly, until story ideas which couldn't be hashed out in one chapter started biting me. This lead to many half-hearted stories, most of which ought to be rewritten even though they either haven't been completed or only just finished up.

This one, however, is an idea I worked on with my beta, araeofsomething. She's been amazing keeping me on track and helping me hash out story ideas, along with where the story should go; to be honest I have more hope for this story than anything I've written in a long time. And I don't 'hope' for things like fanfiction.

Anyway. I hope you enjoyed the beginning of Proximity. I enjoyed writing it and I hope people stick around for the continuance.

But I'm still myself. There will still be sex. yisssss. nylex