Title: Web Knot
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.
Pairings: Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott
Arthur Note: Written for English, supposed to be a poem.. My teacher now thinks I'm angst-ridden with some horrid, painful past. XD The only people that really will be able to get this are the ones who know who Blaise and Nott are. And probably knowing my versions of them helps too. Set around after Attraction and before Will You Remember.
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When it all fell apart no one noticed except me…and it could have been because they didn't care
Or perhaps it wasn't worth their while.
Everything slips by and no one quite cares if the fog melts away or the bell chimes another hour…as the moments trickle by
And the years are going by so soon there won't be anything left, anyone left except for those who were right all along.
I understand,understood though for I watch and take in the details: the change of their expressions, the pages left curling around the edges as the ink pools and dries,
staining the soft mahogany,
the hasty silences when the words fall short because the outcast has entered,
crumpled sheets tasting of warmth and him and days before,
what couldn't be, used to be and can never be again.
The robed ones claim it's merely imagination… a hallucination and paranoia, a figment and yesterday is just like today and how tomorrow is destined to be.
The lies are strung for security without them there might be nothing,
or maybe there would be truth.
Is it worth the chance of error?
I know it is, with the blinds down and drawn shut it is all empty and the world and you and I, we're all blind without it.
But I'll bear it all and see, and see and perhaps my sight will lose its foothold as the details wear their pupils away.
The stone never changed, nor the trees, twisted or young, fir, willow, thrashing against the sky streaked with teal clouds who gasped softly and trailed along, the lake sat still, quivered, pulsed and ignored.
The tea left a brown ring near the edge of the cup, abandoned, long since past lukewarm and undoubtedly evaporating even if only into the dim candlelight…
a creature, all knees and elbows,
sips it later while cleaning up and doesn't notice the difference.
The feather is broken, he'll have to buy another
but chances are the student will forget, life is too distracting, he's sorry.
It's quiet, besides the creaks and groans rooms can make and even those are muffled these days.
All the melodies live in my head, tossed and turned, curving, playing , reciting, repeating, notes forgotten, notes remembered,
arches and drops, shimmering, soft and high,
forever and don't lose them because the parchment's contents have run and drain in streaks of dark and gray.
Where would we be without them?
The orchestras and sopranos sprawled, piccolos, violins off high edges, tender throats slit, piano keys torn, cracked flutes, destitute air wheezing, choking, until it's all gone…music is dead.
The worst is the rejection…
As he turns away and leaves with his face towards what was always there but denied and behind is nothing.
What was once something can so easily becomes nothing and I should know.
Pleas, begging, they're looked down upon, scorned and of little point to waste what you have left on what has long since gone.
A pile on the ground with weak legs and years to trek before it can rest and maybe later it will be a story,
a tale to be told and heads will shake and sigh and romance at such a recollection, an audience that
disbelieves the narrator because words are beyond what can exist in their world, our world but its standards, rules and choices are composed by the inhabitants that won't stretch or reach for what's just out of grasp.
A child knows it can touch the moon if it stands on small toes and tries, tries…
The memories drift away, on purpose, unwillingly, by accident, I want them back whenever I'm not careful.
Not's the word after all.
Use and spin and there are knots in ropes and trees, deep inside of you…
always within me.
It captures the expanse, the inches and the warm, steady rising of chest while the heart beats its meter without fail, weeds, verdant and brown slithers, there's silver bark somewhere and its tatters linger through the winter.
There's only me to bring it back where no one else will know.
Haul it back from far away from a place anything might be but nothing happens until there's not.
Fin