Title: Frameless
Rating: PG-16…
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters or the song so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.
Other things: …Based upon my other Blaise and Nott fics…except a different conclusion than the one that I'm planning.
Pairings: Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, Semaus Finnigan and Dean Thomas
Author's Note: Sequel to No More I Love You's and I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight. This is also related to another four fics, set post-war. (Will You Remember, Withering Away,Tenderhearted & Draining Rain). For Auto (duuuh) and GaBo0 because she rules for taking the time to give me lovely reviews.
Good luck with figuring out the narration, I'm not sure if it's at all that easy to follow. It does switch between Dean and Theodore if that helps at all.
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"Give me but a moment of your life with him. Please…please."
A helpless gesture to the Pensieve.
He gave him his moments. A day's worth, a lifetime's worth. Nothing that would go beyond what the two had shared thought. Those times would be only theirs and always would be.
Instead he let the artist see the afterward. The homemade breakfast. Blaise with flour on his chin and batter in his hair. "You can't expect me to eat these." "They're made with love and care." "And other unnecessary ingredients." Pancakes topped by butter and syrup with the occasional dark silky strains.
His face at night, vulnerable and childlike, transfixing with soft whimpers as nightmares descended.
The telling smiles and thoughtful pauses. The sighs and held back tears, everything and nothing. An eternity in an instant yet he always wanted more. How could it all have truly come to an end?
It had. And he couldn't even pretend that late one evening he'd come back. Swing open the door and apologize for being so late and making him worry. After all he'd never even done that back during their school days. They never left each alone.
Through it all the artist watched and endured despite how it pecked and tore at himself.
What has he done?
How could he destroy this?
I'm sorry…sorry…why do I still love him?
And later, dark, slender fingers took to sketching. Images from the memories that weren't his. Eventually a final one arose, the perfect one. He'd do it in his room, the studio that's where he lived now. "No, Seamus, I won't come out" and work and work until he couldn't.
I want to capture everything and preserve it in a jar. It'll last longer than a firefly's flicker.
That was his talent after all. A canvas. The lines. Paint, paint, paint. He couldn't bring himself to enchant it, to let the figures move. Let them stay as they are. Frozen. The dark haired one in the front, head tilted back (in fact his entire body inclined in that direction) as he glanced up, smiling slightly. Arms looped about his waist, mine, mine, the taller one's face down a bit.
This was how they belonged. Together.
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The man stared. Never trust parcels brought by the mail. They'll ruin your life if you aren't cautious. Was it possible to hang it? Oh, to be in it. It would steal him away, take what was left of him anyway, if he let it. And would that really be so terrible?
I want to live inside a dream.
Never wake me.
Fin