Disclaimer: Made it all up.
Hands
Harry lifted one of Draco's limp hands studying it closely while Draco shifted in his sleep. Harry thought that Draco's hands had to be his single-most favorite thing in the world. Well, they would be if you didn't count things like quidditch and chocolate frogs. His hands were as white as the petals of a dogwood, and like the dogwood indelibly stained crimson.
The war had left scars of many kinds upon just about everyone. Harry noted as he idly traced the inside of Draco's palm that those beautiful lily white hands had however remained unmarred. Draco's scars were more than skin deep.
He lost himself some days in all of the tiny plains, hills, valleys, and crevices that were Draco's hands. Harry thought he felt closer to Draco as he traced his hands. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, the passion for everything he emanated, his pride, his love, his arrogance, and his tenderness. He would feel the slightly rough places around his fingertips where his quill usually rested as he took notes, and then he would feel the pads of his fingers that were so soft. This was who Draco was to him. He was soft, sweet, and tender to him mostly, but he was rough around the edges. It was more than Harry ever expected from someone who had to learn not to suppress human emotion as he had been trained to do thus far.
But the thing that fascinated Harry the most was the amazing power that those hands held. They could cast a killing curse just as easily as they could ruffle Harry's hair. He could shatter Harry like glass with one rough push away from him with those hands. He could bring Harry pleasure like no one else could with those hands. Harry liked to watch Draco as he slept. It was then that he could watch his face unguarded and touch those hands while he thought undisturbed. Draco slowly opened his eyes and looked up to find Harry staring down at him and tracing his palm. He raised his other hand to Harry's face and traced it gently and smiled. Yes, Harry loved those hands.
fin.
Hands
Harry lifted one of Draco's limp hands studying it closely while Draco shifted in his sleep. Harry thought that Draco's hands had to be his single-most favorite thing in the world. Well, they would be if you didn't count things like quidditch and chocolate frogs. His hands were as white as the petals of a dogwood, and like the dogwood indelibly stained crimson.
The war had left scars of many kinds upon just about everyone. Harry noted as he idly traced the inside of Draco's palm that those beautiful lily white hands had however remained unmarred. Draco's scars were more than skin deep.
He lost himself some days in all of the tiny plains, hills, valleys, and crevices that were Draco's hands. Harry thought he felt closer to Draco as he traced his hands. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, the passion for everything he emanated, his pride, his love, his arrogance, and his tenderness. He would feel the slightly rough places around his fingertips where his quill usually rested as he took notes, and then he would feel the pads of his fingers that were so soft. This was who Draco was to him. He was soft, sweet, and tender to him mostly, but he was rough around the edges. It was more than Harry ever expected from someone who had to learn not to suppress human emotion as he had been trained to do thus far.
But the thing that fascinated Harry the most was the amazing power that those hands held. They could cast a killing curse just as easily as they could ruffle Harry's hair. He could shatter Harry like glass with one rough push away from him with those hands. He could bring Harry pleasure like no one else could with those hands. Harry liked to watch Draco as he slept. It was then that he could watch his face unguarded and touch those hands while he thought undisturbed. Draco slowly opened his eyes and looked up to find Harry staring down at him and tracing his palm. He raised his other hand to Harry's face and traced it gently and smiled. Yes, Harry loved those hands.
fin.
