Disclaimer: Jesus, I don't own it, okay? If I did, there would certainly be a lot more guy-on-guy action. And Voldemort would wear a banana hammock. Sadly, this is not the case. J.K. is a goddess and I am a humble dirt-scraping-sort-of-person. Oh, sob.

Warning: Slash indicates the aforementioned (and much-cherished) "guy-on-guy action." While this story contains more contemplation than actual action, homosexually squeamish types would do well to not read the story.

A/N: Okay, okay, this is my first fic. I'm like some kind of fanfiction virgin. Please don't hate me. I'm oh-so very fragile. In all sincerity, both compliments and critiques are coveted. Hell, send me flames if you care to; I've got a healthy sense of humor. By the way, this story does not take OotP into account, because I didn't want to deal with Lucius' imprisonment and Draco's resultant little vendetta. Now let us proceed.

Complications

Draco Malfoy did not like simple things. In typical Malfoy fashion, he liked grandeur and opulence, and in typical Slytherin fashion he liked conflict and complications. So perhaps what happened was inevitable. Perhaps, beneath the floorboards of his mind, Draco had actually planned all of this out. After all, a simple life wouldn't be befitting of a Malfoy. Nonetheless, that was how things started: simply.

Draco Malfoy offered his hand of friendship to Harry Potter, and was rejected. Admittedly, that had not gone as planned, but a healthy, enjoyable, simple enmity had followed, and Draco felt that he was all the better for it. Taunting Potter, hating Potter, had become a bit like coffee in the morning: bitter, invigorating, and addictive. Not to say that it was always enjoyable. There were days when Potter would genuinely get under his skin, make him clench and writhe with frustration and embarrassment. On the day that Harry Potter bested him in Quidditch, which the Slytherin sincerely prided himself in excelling at, Draco's entire strategy of living had been shaken. The notion that he might actually have to work, more than that, have to work harder, was violently unfamiliar. If his power as the son of Lucius Malfoy didn't get him what he wanted, furthermore, if the effort he had chosen to apply didn't guarantee his success, what then? It could be said that that particular line of pondering had begun to complicate matters, but since Draco chose to handle it by increasing his domineering tendencies to make up for the fact that he could not get away with everything, said matters were still essentially simple. And as both Draco and Potter proceeded with their Hogwarts education, matters continued to be so.

Things were not complicated in fourth year, when Draco learned that the Dark Lord had returned and that Potter had faced him. In general, although He-Who-Must-Not -Be-Named and his policies against Mudbloods made Draco cackle with glee in the same way in the same way that a woman might smile happily if a book she loved were brought up in a conversation, Draco basically believed that he himself would remain untouched. Alongside the Dark Lord, his admirable father would see that the Mudbloods were stamped out; Draco simply had to make snide comments and watch the show.

As for Potter standing up to the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, well, Draco chalked it up to that damn Gryffindor Golden Boy luck that was always getting Potter out of proper punishment. So Draco plowed ahead on the path of animosity, and at the end of the year on the Hogwarts Express he jibed at Potter and all his pathetic friends with unabashed gusto, and got the expected onslaught of hexes for it.

Things were not complicated in fifth year, when Draco spotted Potter practicing for Quidditch without a shirt while meandering through the grounds one insufferably hot day in May. Draco would admit that Potter was a good flyer and a skilled Seeker (although he still credited much of Potter's "talent" to luck), but he had absolutely no interest in Potter's redeeming physical attributes. With a quick, Slytherin-biased assessment, he noted that Potter was still a bit scrawny, and, after watching Potter manuever through the air for a few minutes, Draco padded back to the Slytherin common room. The image of shirtless Potter subconsciously filed itself away for possible future reference, and remained untouched thereafter.

Things were not yet complicated in sixth year, when Draco caught Potter mid-snog session with Terrence Boot, a Ravenclaw and fellow prefect. As it was a Hogsmeade weekend, Draco could not take points, so he opted for the traditional sneer and planted as intrusive a stance as he could manage. Hand still on Boot's shoulder, Potter simply gazed at him calmly and levelly, without so much as a whisper of embarrassment. He kept his eyes locked on Draco's, and with measured emphasis, he took Boot's hand and lead him away. Draco gave one final sneer, and with a 'tch,' turned back down the alleyway to find Crabbe and Goyle.

Of course, the next day Draco made it known to all that Harry Potter chased for the other team, but after a while the scandal died down, and the people who really mattered to Potter had already known anyway. And, really, Draco didn't care that much. Sure, homosexuality was fun to snicker and crack jokes about with male friends like Blaise Zabini (Crabbe and Goyle just didn't get it). But honestly, Draco hadn't given it much thought before, and now that he had, he didn't find it especially repulsive. Now, Potter kissing anybody was, of course, revolting and entirely against the laws of nature, but as for the immorality of two guys kissing...well, he was a Slytherin. Morals were for prudish Hufflepuffs and self-righteous Gryffindors. So, beyond that conclusion, Draco thought no more of the fact that Harry Potter liked kissing boys.

Things were still not yet complicated in seventh year, when Potter disappeared for six months. Draco felt no secret gnawing worry, shed no silent midnight tears in fear and remorse. He had to admit that, while taunting the Mudblood and the Weasel was fun, it lacked the zest it had had with Potter. Certainly, that red-haired, half-brained, muggle-loving charity case gave it a good try, and certainly, the Mudblood's threats to jinx him into the next century were as well-founded, if not more so, than Potter's. But the exchanges lacked Potter's...bite, that cool sophistication that gave their arguments more edge than any raging displays of testosterone could ever contribute. Weasley didn't understand that sort of thing, and Granger was too rule-minded to use it.

So yes, in that sense, Draco missed Potter. But he satisfied himself with the knowledge that the Golden Boy was probably off somewhere enduring impossible torment and misery, and if that misery could not be administered by his own hands, then he would have to settle for the hands of his father, or maybe those dementors Potter seemed to hate so much. No, things were still simple. Harry Potter was an uptight, attention-seeking, swotty Gryffindor git, and Draco Malfoy hated him.

And then Potter came back. On a Tuesday in April, with no particular distinguishing qualities about it, Potter came back from wherever it was that he had been for half a year. Draco was taking out his ink and parchment so that he could at least appear to be taking notes, Crabbe and Goyle shuffling to their seats on either side of him, when he heard the faraway murmurs of a familiar voice coming down the hall. Without preamble Potter entered the classroom with Weasley and Granger, as if no time at all had passed from his last double Potions with Slytherin. The three of them sat down near the front of the class, Potter slipping his bag off his right shoulder in a motion that Draco vaguely realized he had memorized.

Draco felt the curious urge to stare. Even more unnerving, a minuscule smile was forming on his face (although in all fairness it was hardly discernable from his usual smirk). Potter was no taller than he had been before he had disappeared; his hair was as messy as ever, and both his clothes and his expression looked slightly worse for wear. But there behind the lenses of Potter's glasses, flashing almost imperceptibly, like the snitch right before it took off, was that glint of life that Draco had always, always watched for. And he was certainly watching now.

And from the unattended periphery of Draco's mind came a thought: I never wanted him to die. To be sure, imagining Potter in gruesomely dire straits during his absence was a worthy pastime, but Draco found himself surprisingly relieved that Potter had not been killed. But if he did not want Potter dead, did he truly hate him? His brain stalled and protested, all the while keeping an eye on the way the tips of hair at the base of Potter's neck were brushing against the hood of his cloak, and finally conceded a begrudging "no." With an uncharacteristic touch of introspection, Draco's mind queried: What do I think Potter is? Instinctively, the word "enemy" flared in his mind, only to fall abruptly flat. Although once unquestioned, the notion now seemed starkly ridiculous. "Rival" was technically accurate, but fell abysmally short of encompassing everything that was Potter. After all, a Malfoy didn't know insignificant details, such as which direction a person's head bent when writing, about something as fleeting as a rival.

"Nuisance." It was true. It was not enough. Draco's brain inspected itself more thoroughly. "Challenge" came a bit closer but was too like "rival;" "obsession" made his inner self push back in shock and horror, and felt too melodramatic to be truthful. No, he had an inkling that how he felt about Potter was a scrap more commonplace.

Then came, not so much an answer as a curious response in the form of a question. It was breathlessly quiet, would not even voice itself in words, like a flicker of the eyes or an indicative curl of the fingers. The hand that held Draco's quill rose half an inch in astonishment; Draco's eyes widened a fraction. Oh. Draco slowly sat back in his chair, Potter's form growing blurry before him. After a moment a small voice in his head felt compelled to make some sort of statement. I didn't know.

Draco then regained focus, Potter sharpening back into proper vision. Distractedly, he thought that he should have some excuse. A thousand memories of Potter swarmed his mind, each one disposing of itself as quickly as it had risen. Then the stampede was still, and Draco held in his mind, not the mental image of Potter flying without a shirt, not the recollection of Potter kissing Terrence Boot, not even the often-revisited memory of the intriguing refusal in their first year, but instead a captivating look of confidence and abandon the Gryffindor had unknowingly sent him in third year. When Draco had tried to frighten Potter off his broom during the Quidditch game by posing as a Dementor, Potter hadn't shown a second of hesitation, but cast the counterspellwith a laugh in his voice and gone on flying. With a slight nod to himself, Draco decided that would do for an excuse.

He cast a surreptitious glance at Potter. Resignedly, he realized that in the coming weeks he would begin to notice things like the curve of Potter's smile or the difference between his laughs. Or, perhaps more accurately, he would begin to appreciate them. The simple rivalry that had stood firm for years was gone and could not be regained.

A smirk edged its way up Draco's face. He had always liked things to be complicated, anyway.

fin