A/N: Yes, I'm alive. No, I haven't abandoned The Claws of Winter. I have the next chapter halfway done; yes, it has been a long time. Finals are almost out of the way and I'll have time to write, but no promises. I may have other one-shots posted soon. There are a couple I have been working on. Encouragement will bring them faster ;)

Warnings: This is slash, people. Need I say more?

Picture

It was just a picture.

Harry's hands trembled as he held the photograph in front of him. He had been unpacking his things after he moved into his new flat; after the end of the war so many things had changed. Harry tried not to dwell on it, but he couldn't. He just couldn't let it go.

How could he, when such a big part of his life was changed? More like taken away, he corrected himself. And no, it wasn't part of his life; it was all of it.

Harry sat, glaring at the wall, still trembling. The picture in his hands continued moving as he tried to ignore it, but it was no use. He had tried ignoring it, ignoring everything, since the end of the war just a few weeks ago. It didn't even work for five minutes.

It's like someone has wrenched your heart out, he tried to describe to Ron, who would never understand. Take the thing you care about the most in your life - the thing you would give your very life to keep - and take it away without giving it a second thought. Picture yourself without your other half. Picture the rest of your life, alone. Imagine the pain of the Unforgivables - all of them at once - plaguing your every movement. Put all of those things together, and you might understand.

And Ron had nodded, pretending to understand. No one will understand his pain, Harry had thought, unless they experienced this loss themselves. But that meant having a similar bond that Harry did, in order for it to be broken. And as Harry thought about the one he loved, still loves, he felt that was not even possible.

The portrait mocked him. It mocked everything he stood for now since his life was ruined. It mocked his last few weeks of darkness, the loneliness that overcame his senses. It mocked the emptiness. Its happiness contrasted his heart's grief. But Harry was still transfixed by it.

He stared at the moving image, tear-filled eyes unblinking. He had shed enough tears already. He would have labeled them as weakness, Harry had thought at first. But then the pain reminded Harry that it was only natural. It was the only natural thing he felt. His world was blank; pain brought him back to the reality he wished didn't exist.

He hadn't let himself think about his lover since the Final Battle. He had built his walls strong; he didn't think he would be tearing them down just weeks later. But he had realized that there really was no point in protecting himself any longer. Without him, why even bother being strong? He didn't care what everyone else thought. They wouldn't understand.

Those thoughts considered and reconsidered, he glanced at the picture, scrutinizing its every detail. Harry saw himself, his arms wrapped around his blonde lover as they danced. He hadn't spoken the name of his beloved since the incident; it was his way of avoiding the truth. The blonde's arms were around Harry's neck as they swayed back and forth, back and forth. Harry's own arms were on his partner's hips, clutching the other boy to him. Everywhere they touched was electric; you could just feel it looking at the picture. Harry's eyes watered as he watched his past self look towards the camera, smile, and wink. His lover rolled his eyes, and then brought picture-Harry's attention back to himself. Their lips connected in a short kiss, forever repeating within the confines of the picture.

Harry sniffed. His last memory of the blonde had been blood-stained. Voldemort would attack the ones he loved, Harry knew. He had always known that. He was prepared to protect them, as he felt it was his duty. But Harry never expected his treachery to run so deep. How had he even known about himself and Dra...

He still didn't say it. It made it too real. Too tangible. Too painful.

But it was real. It was tangible; it hurt. It hurt more than anything Harry had ever experienced. He gritted his teeth and spoke into the emptiness that was his world.

"Draco, Draco, Draco, Draco..."

He repeated again and again until his facade began to crumble.

"Draco, Draco," he whispered, clutching the picture to his heart as sobs wracked his body.

"Dray..."

And he broke.

The scene repeated in his mind over and over as the tears streamed down his face. He was sweating; he was crying; he was winning. The Dark Lord was crippled by Harry's curse, limiting the use of his wand-arm. Their fight was at the center of the battle; every wizard both dark and light fought with one another around them, each keeping an eye on the Boy-Who-Lived and his foil.

Dr-Draco was one of them. His blonde locks were soiled in blood and sweat as he fought the Death Eaters who once called him one of them. For a split second he paused, looking to his lover, willing him the strength to do the task at hand. Green connected with silver, and the ghost of a smile graced Harry's lips as he remembered what he was fighting for. And that's all it took to undo him.

In the time it took for Voldemort to turn, to mutter those fateful words - Avada Kedavra - Harry had no way to react. Draco was dead before either knew what hit him.

In shock, he just had enough time to echo the Dark Lord's words, except this time against him. As he saw the hooded figure fall, he forgot everything else and ran to his beloved.

"Draco, Draco..."

Harry threw the picture across the room where it landed with a crash on the floor.

His face was twisted in surprise. And Harry couldn't believe it; he wouldn't. He touched his love's cheek. He had expected wetness. He had expected cold. He hadn't expected the warmth of life.

"Draco, Draco..."

But he knew there was no life left behind those stormy-grey eyes, and that was when Harry's life ended as well. He hadn't known true pain for so long, regardless of what he may have once thought. The gash across his chest meant nothing. The scar on his forehead had but tickled him in his nightmares. Sirius' death was but a passing sickness.

And when he kissed those lips, one last time, returning the words Draco had spoken to him so many times, he tasted death. And his world turned to black.

Harry sniffed, tears still flowing. How he could care for one person so much was beyond his understanding.

"Harry you fool," Draco had said, laughing as Harry licked the ice cream off his nose. He grinned.

"You're like a little kid."

"Draco Malfoy! I never knew you were a cradle robber!"

"I can make some exceptions."

And were they but a foot apart before, there was no distance anymore. Their lips met, the cold from the ice cream quickly vanishing as they borrowed warmth from the other.

When he pulled back, Harry's eyes were rid of the laughter they had once possessed, leaving only serious dark shade of jade. Draco tilted his head to the side.

Harry's voice was but a whisper.

"What would I ever do without you?"

But Draco didn't give him time to ponder. He covered his mouth with his own for a second kiss, and tried to dispel those thoughts from his love's mind.

"It doesn't matter. I-I love you."

"But it does!" Harry shouted to the apparitions that were his memory. "You're gone.. you're gone.."

He crawled to the picture that was now on the other side of the room. In his hands once more, Harry took the time to run his fingers over the inscription on the frame.

Yours Forever.

"Draco, Draco.."

Pictures swirled in Harry's mind, while the darkness engulfed him on the outside. The faces in the picture returned his gaze in mockery, and he discarded it once again. Another lie.

Harry stood and threw himself on his bed, which was much too large for him to occupy alone. As was his life.

"Nothing's real. It's all lies... lies… Draco..."

When Harry opened his tired eyes moments later, a realization dawned on him. He knew now that the only truth he would ever know was loss, and the lies were his only happiness. And as he questioned everything he ever knew, the figures in the portrait kissed, over and over, as if they were the only inhabitants of the world.

Questions, comments, criticism – all welcome. Thanks for reading; I appreciate it!