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Hands can say a lot about a person. They tell you a story, if only you want to listen.
Take James' hand. They are large, but very fitting to handle a quaffle.
They are rough, clear marks of him having an active life.
His fingers are long, very long, but they aren't what I would call elegant or delicate.
Yet there is no doubt that his hands are made for good things. He would never use them to hurt anyone.
Did you know that James bites his nails whenever he is nervous? He does. Not the most appealing feature, but then you know him, get him, you realise that it's such a big part of him. Caring I mean.
Lily's hands are different. They are small, but I guess fitting for a woman. She began painting them in 4th year, or so she said.
I noticed in 5th year, as she had a colour for each nail. They formed a rainbow.
"Some people need to know that we are there for them," she had said.
At my confused look, she had elaborated.
"The gay community. We need to show that anyone is allowed to love who they want."
Of course, Lily would fight for other outcasts than herself.
Her hands are only about the size of James'. It's funny, not in the haha way, to watch them hold hands, as hers disappear into his. Only her thumb is visible and it's always caressing James' knuckles. She calms him.
Her fingers are short but just right. I couldn't imagine them any different.
Peter's are short, more… unique.
They are about the length of Lily's, but about twice as wide.
Like James, he bites his nails, but it's a constant act.
And it appears they got a permanent ink spot on his little finger.
They shake a lot these days. But who wouldn't? The war is getting worse and it looks like we are losing.
Remus' hands are big. Long, elegant, thin… beautiful.
His piano skills are obvious in his hands. They seem to have fitted themselves into reaching the keys without effort.
I love to trace the space around his hands. Beginning on the wrist under the thumb, up, around, over, under and ends up by the wrist at his pinkie finger.
His left hand has three small scars across it. It begins over his fingers, at his pinkie, and goes two inches down towards the wrist.
His right hand is missing a piece of his middle finger. Neither of us knows why. One day it was there, the next it was gone.
But I love his fingers. Especially when they touch me. Then they touch my nose, as he tells me that he loves me. As he caresses my cheek and cups my neck as he kisses me tenderly. Then they curl into my hair, then our kiss deepens.
Or then he places those elegant slender fingers slide up my tight, and slowly inching it closer to the spot between my legs.
I need to stop thinking like this.
Alright…
Harry's hands are perfect. Small, like a baby’s should be. They are chubby but absolutely adorable. I love then he wraps his fingers around one of mine, how he pulls me down to him, demanding that I pay attention.
He is curious. Curious about the world.
And he deserves it all.
It’s for him we do this.
It’s for him we fight.
It’s for him that we see why we keep going, even then it seems like it’s going one way.
I love him.
My beautiful godson.
He is my pup.
Well… not literally, but he is.
He is James’ and Lily’s.
His small hands are a perfect blend of Lily and James.
Or I think they will be.
They are strong like James’ but gentle like Lily’s.
He is just… so so perfect.
And then there are mine.
I have never liked my hands.
My Mother always told me they were horrible. Bony and too thin, then too long.
They were never right.
But they always seemed to fit the keys on the piano.
My hands are small for a man, I have been told, but my fingers are long. Too long, if you ask the Blacks.
Perfect if you ask Remus. My Moony.
My hands fit perfectly into his. Especially when I take his left hand in my right one. Because that way we can both use our wand hand if we need to.
That’s another thing my Mother and Father never liked about me. I was forced to use my right hand. It never felt right.
I unconsciously changed hands, using my left one, because it felt better.
And every time I did, I was… I was punished.
I needed to be right.
It was first then McGonagall demanded that I stopped being ridiculous and did what felt good, felt right, for me.
I was punished for that as well.
That’s why you can see this spot here, on my wrist. Father broke my hand then he found out. But that didn’t stop me from using my left hand.
I love my hands then they caress little Harry’s cheek or tickle him. I love to see the faces he makes, hear the laughter erupting, then I do. I love that both his feet can be in my hand.
I love that his head nearly fit into my palms when he was born.
I love my hands, then I can poke Remus’ nose. I enjoy letting my fingers twirl around in his hair, or gently trace his scars.
Those scars.
I love to wrap my arms around him, let my hands slide down…
I really need to stop this.
Better stop writing now.
My mind is not to be trusted.