Have you ever looked at your hands? I like to look at mine sometimes. They're nice enough I suppose, but they're nothing compared to his. His hands are like an angel's; long, soft and elegant. He would make a wonderful pianist. I took piano lessons when I was six. My teacher quit. He would have quit too.
Sometimes I think he's the cruellest man alive-then I look at his hands. No one with hands like that could be anything but beautiful. Sometimes I try not to look at his hands; but then I look at his face. His slim, pale, beautiful face.
He looks at me sometimes. I can feel his eyes burning into me. I looked up into them once. I felt like weeping. I couldn't handle those eyes, filled with pain and…passion? Yes, it must be. I can see it in his hands. I can see it in the way he makes his potions, the way he caresses each ingredient.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to feel those hands running over you. It must be awful when he lets them go, his willing slaves, into the cauldron. It would be worth it though, just to feel those hands. I would be his piano. If he played me, I would sing.