Summary:

When Harry opens the door to that dusty room which stayed locked for many years, things that have been forgotten surface again. Memories of love, in the form of a blank canvas, his light eyelashes and that pouty lips, which was pulled back into a smile oh so slightly. He could still hear his laugh, which chimed though the whole room and see the light that got caught in his shiny hair.

But all of this is no more, and never again will be...

Pairing: Harry/Draco

AU setting

The characters belong to J.K Rowling...sadly

A middle aged man, close to his fifties was standing in front of a tall mahogany door, a door which led to an room that was locked a long time ago. It used to be his hobby room. The man took a deep breath and with anticipating, shaking hands turned the key and opened the door.
The curtains were pulled back, just like he left them from his last piece and filled the room with light. Paint was laying everywhere and of course the table, chair and his canvas where covert in dust, in the corners of the room spiders have settled down, yet in Harry's inner eye the room began to change.
It came back to it's old glory, when he was still young and naïve, when a slender, fair boy danced around on tiptoes, happily singing a melody with the lovely voice of a chirping bird. He could see the blond sitting on the window still with cloudy grey eyes and his head filled with things no one new about, not even Harry. That boy was special; there was no denying that.

The tall man walked over to the canvas and his eyes widened, his last piece, the last picture he drew was still there, looking at him, judging him and Harry could do nothing but stare into those lovely, pale eyes. That very same day was the last day he saw him, but he could never forget him. Could never forget those long, graceful limbs, his soft white-blond hair, the shadows his eyelashes cast on those chiseled, fair cheeks, his hipbones and slim waist, the small feet and long pianist fingers, it would be forever burned into his mind.
The black haired man heaved a long sight and with sad green eyes reached a hand toward the exquisite, pointed face, fingertips ghosting over the painting he whispered "Draco," before all the memories came crashing down.