Inell's Fanfiction Archive

He follows her from room to room, watching and listening. He should not find her fascinating, should definitely not stalk her through Grimmauld Place with a hungry gaze, and he certainly has no business imagining what she feels like, tastes like, smells like. She is a Mudblood, a Gryffindor, and she's not even that beautiful. He listens to them, discussing the Dark Lord and the skinny boy with the messy hair that is her best friend. He knows from other portraits that he became one of them despite his determination, at the time he sat for this portrait, to not follow in cousin Bella's misguided footsteps. He also knows that he betrayed them and died, though he has no idea why and that bothers him even more than his own death. He should not be fascinated by her, but he is. He likes to lurk in the corner of the frame and watch her, listen to her scolding her silly friends or offer words that are so intelligent he has no doubt as to why he finds her attractive. He always preferred a brilliant mind to the most beautiful of faces so he understands why she intrigues him. There are moments, when she walks to whichever frame he is in and her fingers gently touch the canvas, that he can close his eyes and feel the smooth warmth of her fingertips against his cheek. And that, the fleeting moments when he can remember warmth and touch, love and desire, is why he can't stop himself from watching and wanting someone he'll never have.