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He'd always had a thing about Severus' hands. Severus himself couldn't understand it, the endless fascination, but then he didn't need to. They were so different to Harry's own; elegant and long where Harry's were stubby with the nails bitten down to the quick. They were hardly works of art to look at, stained as they were from years of handling potions ingredients but that wasn't the point. It was what Severus could do with them rather than what they looked like.

Harry had lost count of the hours that he'd lost watching Severus brew since they had become friends and later lovers; he never failed to get bored. He would never be anything more than a competent brewer but, watching Severus, he could see his lovers sheer mastery of his craft. No matter what potion Severus was making, no matter how complex it was, Severus' hands never wavered, never faltered. There was utter competence in every movement that he made. Harry was often reminded of Severus' words in that very first potions lesson. All wizards had power with their wand in their hands but Severus? He had power without a wand as well as with one.

It wasn't just when while Severus was making potions that Harry loved his hands. He also loved them when they were roaming his body, driving him wild with want. Severus knew exactly where to touch him, knew how to touch him. He could drive Harry to the point of desperation just with his hands. And when those hands, those fingers were inside him? Well, Harry wasn't ashamed to say that he'd lost count of the number of times he'd found release just from Severus' fingers.

Harry loved a lot of things about Severus, but his hands? They were definitely on the top of the list.