(no subject)
[insert usual not-mine disclaimer here]
Drabble for lionille
Note: This was meant to be 100 words, but it sort of ran away with me. The idea came into my head when I was falling asleep the other night. I like it. I hope you do too!
Hands
I love her hands. I know that's unusual, not romantic, but I don't care. I know I should love her courage, her confidence, her intelligence, wit, kindness, the beauty she radiates. I love all of that, of course I do, those are qualities I've always wished to possess. Lately, though, I haven't thought of what I lack. In her eyes, I am whole.
I love her hands. They are soft, but for a few quill-induced calluses. They are small and milky-white. Unlike mine, which are large and rough with dirt under the nails, defying every cleaning charm known to Wizardkind. But when her delicate fingers are entwined with mine, suddenly my hands don't seem so bad.
I love her hands. They are quick with a quill, nimble with her knitting needles, although hopeless at cooking and gardening. How can anyone be so skilled at Potions yet so hopeless in the kitchen? And, conversely, how did I manage to ruin so many cauldrons yet develop a flair for the culinary arts? It remains a mystery.
I love her hands. They are gentle, cradling our child, soothing her cries. I am still anxious, sure I will clumsily drop her, so I content myself with holding Hermione holding our baby. And when my daughter grasps my finger in her tiny hand, I have never been so happy.
Drabble for lionille
Note: This was meant to be 100 words, but it sort of ran away with me. The idea came into my head when I was falling asleep the other night. I like it. I hope you do too!
Hands
I love her hands. I know that's unusual, not romantic, but I don't care. I know I should love her courage, her confidence, her intelligence, wit, kindness, the beauty she radiates. I love all of that, of course I do, those are qualities I've always wished to possess. Lately, though, I haven't thought of what I lack. In her eyes, I am whole.
I love her hands. They are soft, but for a few quill-induced calluses. They are small and milky-white. Unlike mine, which are large and rough with dirt under the nails, defying every cleaning charm known to Wizardkind. But when her delicate fingers are entwined with mine, suddenly my hands don't seem so bad.
I love her hands. They are quick with a quill, nimble with her knitting needles, although hopeless at cooking and gardening. How can anyone be so skilled at Potions yet so hopeless in the kitchen? And, conversely, how did I manage to ruin so many cauldrons yet develop a flair for the culinary arts? It remains a mystery.
I love her hands. They are gentle, cradling our child, soothing her cries. I am still anxious, sure I will clumsily drop her, so I content myself with holding Hermione holding our baby. And when my daughter grasps my finger in her tiny hand, I have never been so happy.