Everybody has something that they notice first about a person when they meet, although some people don't realize they notice. For some, it's the person's hair style, or eye color. For me, it's their hands. Al says that's weird, but it's true. I notice the way my cousin Al's hands are never still; he always has to be doing something. And my cousin Lily wears nail polish that changes color with her mood. Hugo traces the freckles on the backs of his hands with ink like a connect-the-dots. And then there's Scorpius. One of my best friends. I notice his hands a lot.
I notice the way he never gets ink on his hands when he writes, even though he takes the most notes, and Al and I just copy his. I notice the way when he takes notes, his handwriting is small and neat, very unlike a guy's handwriting, but when he writes essays, his writing spreads out, looking more like Al's because it takes up more room that way. We all do that. Al always has ink on his hands because he's left handed, and always ends up putting his hand in the words he just wrote, but Scorp never does; his hands are always clean.
I've watched Scorp play his guitar, with the ease of someone who's been playing since he was twelve. His long, thin fingers seem to dance across the fret board, especially during some of the more crazy riffs. I've helped heal his fingers after he plays so much that they bleed.
I've seen his fingers wrapped tightly around his wand, his face screwed up in concentration, trying to master a tough spell. I've watched him play with his wand too, spinning it around his fingers when he's bored.
I notice the way he talks with his hands, waving them around madly when he's trying to make a point and Al and I won't listen. He only does that with us. When he talks to teachers his hands are perfectly still, at his sides or resting on his desk.
I watch Al and him playing a game Al learned from Jimmy, the American muggle-born. It's called paper football. Basically the flick a triangular folded piece of parchment at each other, trying to get it into the "goal" made by the other's hands. They usually hit each other in the face. Scorp's better at it.
I've seen the golden wings of the snitch poking out of his fist, as he dances around, having just won the Quidditch cup. I know his hands are calloused from all the time he spends on his broom, practicing alone as well as with the team.
I've seen his knuckles bloody from punching a wall, but he won't tell me what made him angry enough to hit things. He usually uses his wand.
I've felt his fingers brushing away tears as he comforts me when Crookshanks dies. His hands cup my face and his thumb brushed my cheeks, catching tears. Then he hugs me, letting me cry on his shoulder, his hands rubbing my back, comforting.
I always marvel at the way our fingers fit together perfectly when we hold hands. My hands are tan, from spending every possible moment outside, but despite spending quite a bit of time outdoors with me, Scorpius's hands are still almost unnaturally pale. The contrast is stunning. He doesn't have freckles on his hands like I do either. His hands are much bigger than mine, but it feels nice, the way they fit together. It reminds me of that Muggle song, saying, "The spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly." That's us.
I've felt his hands in my hair, one hand twisting strands of it around his fingers as he kisses me, his other hand on my back, pulling me closer.
And now I watch, as his long, pale, thin, graceful fingers slide the engagement ring on my left hand.
END
It was a plot bunny that didn't actually have a plot. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Flames are poked with a stick.