nekare

Okay, so I was thinking, and I realized everyone will be posting like crazy in chritmas eve, and my gifts will be probably lost among a wave of flist good wishes and nicer fic. So, in order for everyone to get to read theirs, I'll start posting them, in the orden they were written so there aren't any kind of hard feelings. First we have:

Title: The Sunflowers (Remix by Draco Malfoy)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: H/D
Word Count: 477
Author Notes: Gift for violetion, whose promt word was art and interest was Sofia Coppola. Espero que te guste, por que me hizo reir como no tienes idea! Crossposted at harrydraco.


Draco falls in love with Van Gogh three years after the war, and he cajoles Harry into buying an original with the money the Ministry gave him to keep quiet about their mysterious vanishing just before the last battle. It doesn’t take quite a struggle, in all honesty, and some sexual favors latter Draco sits on his favorite armchair in the living room to watch silently the sunflowers, a colorful dot in the otherwise grey infinity in London city. The flowers want to go out of their frame, Draco thinks, their petals burning with the intensity of the brushes, dancing under the sun while perfectly still.

It reminds Harry of a movie he’s seen a few months back, five girls dying in silence in the middle of a daisy field; so lonely, and yet together. The same way he had lived through the war alongside Ron and Hermione, living each moment as if it was the last.

(For a time, it was almost that way, and the three of them still wonder how exactly they managed to live through it.)

He tries to tell Draco, but he’s too busy gloating about his new toy to pay him any attention. Harry refuses to be ignored though, and Van Gogh’s ear is forgotten as his clothes start falling and Draco’s breathing speeds up.

(Afterwards, as they’re lying in the bed together, Draco suggests a sunflower tattoo, and Harry shuts him up with a kiss.)

The twins find out about the painting Lord knows how, and they’re thrown out of the house when they start giving toured visits, inventing all kinds of stories for the art ignorant Wizards everywhere (Van Gogh dies of rabies one night, only to become a wonderful music compositor the next one); and earning quite an astonishing amount of galleons before they had been discovered and stopped.

(Fred says sorry with an insincere smile, George just complains about the large group of elderly Witches they’d had scheduled for the next day.)

In all, Harry doesn’t complain about Draco’s new paint induced sex drive; especially when Draco fixes all of his attention on the swirly path he’s painting with purple (cool brush and tingles all over his body) on his legs, dried pieces of red paint on his pale hair (a fact Harry refuses to acknowledge, the fear of blood and lost twined too tightly with that color for comfort, a residual phobia after the war). Draco’s not so much of an artist, in all honesty, but their fights over Draco’s hideous paintings have become somewhat addictive as a way to ease the monotony.

So they’re happy and Harry doesn’t regret the millions he paid for it; at least not until the police barges unannounced and proclaims that it is quite the crafty copy, the one they have.

Then he just bangs his head against the wall.