Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn't belong to me.
A/N: Hmmm.
(fifth year)
Hands
Maybe, she thinks, the only reason she said yes was because of his hands. The hands that took hers, under the cherry-blossom tree on a warm Saturday at three o six precisely. And when he asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him, she was thinking more about his hands than the actual date.
She had an obsession with hands in general, but Sirius Black's hands were, in her mind, the model of pure perfection. She had always stared at his hands in class. They were always lazily resting on his desk as he precariously tipped back in his chair, stretching slightly and grinning at James Potter (who would naturally be at the desk next to him, doing more or less the exact same thing). His hair fell in his eyes as he grinned, seeming to emanate a relaxed coolness, effortless, elusive.
His hands looked strong and large and tanned, with the nails a bit short round the edges. Rugged hands, with his shirtsleeves rolled up a bit in the summers' heat, exposing his powerful wrists. The muscles strained a little as he pressed himself back from the desk, and they operated with such a natural, relaxed ease, strong and sturdy yet fluid and gripping all at once.
It was a warm Wednesday and the teacher was droning on about something at the board but summer was fast approaching, seeping through the opened window, sunshine slipping over desks and illuminating them. Heat pulled the shirtsleeves of the boys up; it likewise exposed the girls' collarbones as they unbuttoned their tops by one or two buttons; it was solid and pressing and gold-colored. Outside, almost absurdly perfect-looking sprays of blossoms were still in the heat, on the trees, and the grass was a new green; the grounds were perfect and appealing. It was evident that all the fifth-years wanted to do was sprint as fast as they could out of the constraining classroom, through the freeing grounds and into the shade of a willow tree.
Come on, Lily, pay attention; it's summer, so what? You still need to do well, and his hands are not going to stop you from concentrating. They are not, it is silly for even considering that.
She turned her gaze back to the teacher and wrote down a few words, blood pumping almost audibly through her. She wouldn't look at his hands again. They wouldn't take her focus. She wrote a few more words down, concentrating solely on her parchment, pressing the quill a little harder down than was necessary to write.
His slow, lazy yawn made its way to her ears; she couldn't help it; she glanced over almost reflexively. He was stretched even further back in his seat; his hands were now crossed behind his neck (how does he do that without tipping over, anyway?) ; he looked relaxed. Her eyes quickly traveled across his slightly muscle-straining forearms, as his white crisp shirtsleeves slipped a bit upwards. He was made so perfectly in his casual carelessness.
He caught her wandering eyes, grinning a little mocking grin at her. He was handsome. The sunlight was all over his face, illuminating her eyes, making them sparkle at her. The blood pumped warm through her.
And after, she gathered up her books and he slowly took his, with his hands, those hands, those strong hands, those graceful rugged hands. Laughing and joking with his friends; he was oblivious as the sunlight hit his face, making it ever more alive for her benefit.
Stepping through the halls to lunch, she tried to stop running her mind over him and his hands. She liked his hands. She liked the way he could grip a quaffle in concentration with them, every muscle alert, fine-tuned and elegantly passing and receiving easily. She liked the way he held a quill with them, concentrating sometimes, precise with his handwriting and his schoolwork. They were serious hands then, hands with a purpose, and she liked to watch his hands, gripping a quill in the common room, sometimes betraying his facial expression. His hands showed no nervousness; he was the epitome of confidence; ease. But you could tell he tried with these hands, and they were made perfectly because whatever he tried, he succeeded.
It was different when he held girls in his lap or hugged them. Then his hands were different; they transformed to the needs of the situation, they adapted. They became graceful and caring, yet still large and rough and strong, but exercising their power carefully and gently. They were responsible, protective hands then, caring hands. His hands across a girls' back as he hugged her, his hands over a tiny girl's waist as he held her; careful, protective, rugged and contrasting with the little carved diamond held in the palm of his hand. That was always how it was with him. His face in a indulgently gentle smile, his hands serious. On some inscrutable quest.
Sometimes they had talked outside the classrooms and in the dining hall and she felt a kind of simple happiness from the interactions. A selfish happiness. He always knew how to relate to people, he knew somehow, intuitively, and what she loved most is that it wasn't faked. Him, six feet tall with dark hair in his crisp white collared shirt and tie, leaning against a doorframe and laughing; her, small at five-foot-two, redheaded, looking up.
And then his hand was on her small shoulder, and she turned around, and he smiled at her, and asked her if she wanted to go for a walk outside.
She said yes.
They walked and his strides were bigger than hers always; she could see he tried to tailor his speed to hers, and it made her smile. The sun, with all its brightness and rays, set her hair aflame and his smile shone down on her, as if a gift from some divine presence.
He made her laugh; she looked down at her hands and his, swinging side by side, juxtaposed, her creamy white small hands, delicate and meticulous, next to his, tan and large and relaxed and she wondered if they would meet. His finger brushed hers, was it on accident? Was it on purpose?
He led her to the shade under the cherry blossom tree. He was so tall that his hair brushed the branches. One tiny flower floated gently onto his hair, pale pink contrasting with his dark hair. Her face split into a smile as pure as the blossoms around her, and she picked it out. He grinned and gathered her hands, holding them in front of him, innocently, delicately, sweetly. Her hands felt suddenly electric in his; his hands enveloped hers. Sunlight spread in her body and especially her stomach.
The air felt new and the sprays of flowers swayed around them.
He looked down at her, Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend, Lily Evans, and she looked down at their intertwined hands; Adam and Eve in a Garden of Eden.
Yes, I will, Sirius Black, as the flowers melted down around them in self-contained pure happiness. A heavenly canopy, and his hands and hers making an indeterminable bond.
Sometimes the only reason she thought she said yes was because of his serious eloquent hands, hands that spoke to her, and the cherry blossoms that fell around them.
p.s. It isn't meant to be S/L at all. Just a little peek to what might have happened once in the fifth year. Just letting you know.