Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me.

Warnings: None.

Note: This is Harry and Hermione if you really look into it. It was a poem I wrote and I think they fit into it. Enjoy and please review.

To my special someone.

Like the back of her hand

He knew her well.

From her favorite color to the way the lazy strings tied her shoes. From the pulse in her touch to the way her brows knot when she reads. From the way she spoke to the way she read.

He knew that she blushed when they called her pretty, but was radiant when they complimented her work. Knew that her eyes became a shade darker when she spoke of something she loved and had passion for.

In all ways…

He knew all of her.

He loved all of her.

Lived all of her.

*

She could say she knew him like the back of her hand. But that was too cliché and she was about reason and facts and -

Like the palm of her hand.

She had seen the bumps and lines, his struggles in life. But she never forgot about the plane surfaces that were the simple aspects of life, like holding hands or the grin on his face.

She examined her birthmark in the middle if her hand and knew it was him, the center of her.

And the scar on her hand - that was them, when the blood had fused with the air. She wanted the scar to continue its path, to become a bracelet, memories of him and her. But, she knew that was impossible.

She was, after al, about reason and facts and -

Love. Like the back of her hand.

*

They were meant to be substitute people. They were created to fit wherever place; to move and change their shape, to mold with anyone.

Once they stopped moving and changing and molding, they became a piece with different edges and curves, but one piece.

There were times, of course, when they though being substitute people was better than being themselves because they could adapt and pretend.

No one had time to accept their true selves.

But, they made a bracelet and tied little lazy strings together and knew the different types of pulses when they touched.

There were no copies, replicas of their love. Not even their story on script or moving pictures on film.

They were the drawings on the wall, the letters on the streets, the edges of a portrait, and the curves of a smile.

They were and are and never happened.

Hope you guys liked it because this is the only thing I'll ever dedicate to that special someone. I know there is a Ginny in your life now.