Complication

Complication, by Dark Fairy of the Wood

Puede que hayas nacido en la cara buena del mundo,

Yo naci- en la cara mala,

Llevo la marca del Lado Oscuro

Y no me sonrojo si te digo que te quiero

Y que me dejes o te deje, eso ya no me da miedo;

Habi-as sido, sin dudarlo, la mas bella

De entre todas las estrellas que yo vi en el firmamento...

El lado oscuro, by Jarabe de Palo

[You may have been born on the world's good side,

I was born on the bad side, I carry the mark of the Dark Side,

And I don't blush if I tell you I love you

And I'm no longer afraid of leaving you, or you leaving me

Because you were, without a doubt, the prettiest

Of all the stars I saw on the night-sky...]

Draco Malfoy lit yet another cigarette and inhaled deeply. The stars were just beginning to fade, on the morning of the 15^th of August, the morning of Harry Potter's wedding to Hermione Granger.

Funny, it was. A match, if not made in Heaven, certainly made in Dumbledore's office, which some fools would regard to be the same thing. The Boy Who Just Wouldn't Die and The Girl Who Just Wouldn't Shut Up. Childhood friends, the paragons of the Light Side and all its ideals, the shining example of what the wizarding world should strive to be, a couple reuniting all the virtues that the masses admired... yes, Draco Malfoy definitely didn't fit in that picture.

He had never fit in that picture, he though bitterly, watching as the smoke dissolved into the cool morning air. He had always been the odd piece of the puzzle, the fly on the wineglass of happiness of those two. When he had been something, which was more than he could say at present. And yet, he was prepared to bet his blond head on it, there had been a time in which he had been everything and more to Harry.

He still remembered, it seemed to be all he could remember, the days of the tortured, forbidden love between them, the stolen kisses in musty broom-closets, the ostensibly casual glances during lessons or meals, the relatively careless days of school. Sometime at the end of their sixth-year, during a detention given to them by none other than Professor Trelawney, the tension between Hogwarts famous archrivals had exploded between much shouting and insulting and confessing from both parties; and then, in the deafening silence that followed, Draco had looked up to really see Harry Potter for the first time. It wasn't the little suffering hero, nor Dumbledore's Golden Boy, nor The Boy Who Lived, not even Harry Potter. It was a confused, sad, hurt sixteen-year-old boy who was looking at him with dark-green eyes, and Draco still had trouble processing what had happened after that.

The kiss. Who started it, no-one knows, and no-one could care less, because all that mattered was that it Harry Potter in his arms, kissing him like there was no tomorrow, and nothing should feel that right and yet be so wrong... and that night, something in Draco's world crumbled and it all fell apart: all the notions of right and wrong, to start with, the pretended hate that still left scars, the animosity he was supposed to be feeling, the lid he had put on those unnameable feeling that now reared up with dangerous strength. It was the beginning of something horrendous and wonderful at the same time, of love they had to keep hidden from the world. Somehow they managed to do it, while still enjoying the bittersweet fruits it brought them; each encounter was desperate and passionate, both of them knowing that it could very well be their last one, and both of them enjoying it was if it were.

Seventh year. After a summer of not seeing each other, Draco and Harry's relationship had surpassed its own record of frantic want, almost, at times, making them forget about their respective places in the world. But not even their disregarding love could ignore Harry's perfect girlfriend and his world-saving crusade, or Draco's Death-Eater and family duties. It was like that for the whole of the school year, holding their façade to the world, stepping in their private universe as soon as they were with each other.

"Gryffindor-Slytherin are playing for the Quidditch Cup!!!" exclaimed Seamus Finningan's Irish voice in Draco's mind. A dry smile quirked the pale-pink lips of the young man who was remembering. The Quidditch match, scheduled last in the season, the definitive show-down, tons of pressure put upon both Seekers, the whole wizarding world holding their breath for what seemed the dress-rehearsal for the Final Battle. Slytherin was losing badly, like they always did, and everybody was just waiting for Harry to catch the Snitch and be done with it. The Slytherin Seeker shot a worried look to his Gryffindor counterpart, hoping that he was holding out well; Harry had almost cried the night before, tangled in his arms, whimpering about the unfairness of a world who thrust so much upon his shoulders, but now he seemed fine, hawk-like scanning for the elusive golden ball, and Draco returned to his duty as well, hoping that something could happen before the Snitch appeared, something to dilute the pressure.

Mocking his words, a golden shine materialized by the Slytherin's goal-posts, and Draco tore down towards it on pure instinct, ignoring the excited screams of the crowd, or the Bludger that grazed his elbow, or the distinct feeling that *someone* was following him. Someone in a much faster broom than his, someone with a much better Seeker instinct than him, someone who was much too far away from the Snitch to reach it before him. And then, in a totally dreamlike moment, he felt silver wings flapping uselessly against his hand, and the collective gasp of the multitude, and looked up to the score-board and the very numbers mocked him: "Gryffindor 220- Slytherin 220"... He looked up to see conflicting green-eyes, a hurricane of admiration, disappointment, rage, love, respect, humiliation and pride. "And Slytherin ties the match and the cup!!! Gryffindor and Slytherin are tied, ladies and gentlemen!!!" Seamus boisterous narrative broke the moment in a thousand pieces, and Draco turned back down to receive the congratulations of his team-mates, house-mates, teachers, etc... the only congratulation he was waiting for didn't come.

Only three weeks after that (when Slytherin and Gryffindor had tied for the House Cup as well), on their last evening in Hogwarts, after the Leaving Ball, Harry and Draco met in their secret place. They hadn't spoken of what would happen after school; in the last days they hadn't spoken at all, too caught up in shame and desire to say the words they feared. But that night, there was no escaping it: there were words that needed to be said, decisions that had to be made, hearts that had to be broken. The dialogue played inside Draco's head, and the young man did nothing to stop it, too tired to resist the bittersweet taste of those memories.

"This can't go on like this!" exclaimed Harry's voice. "While we were here it was fine, there wasn't so much complication involved, but once we're out there... you know it's impossible!"

"I thought that word didn't exist in your Gryffindor dictionary."

"What is your suggestion then? Have you got a better idea?"

"Yours isn't an idea at all, it's simply a fact: you're leaving me because you're too much of a coward to face the truth."

"Oh, fine, insult me if it makes you feel better! I don't want to do this either, but I don't know what else to do..."

"Do you really think that breaking my heart is the only way out? So be it."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but words got stuck on his throat and he fell silent as well. Draco was trying hard not to cry, digging his well-kept nails into his own flesh, trying to ignore the vortex of void spiralling in his chest, breathing deeply to lighten the weight on what once had been a heart.

"I love you, Draco," whispered Harry helplessly, his tears well evident in his voice.

"I love you too, Harry," replied Draco, putting all his sadness in those words. "You better go, the Mudblood will be wondering where you are."

"Kiss me one last time?"

Draco shook his head negatively, and tried unsuccessfully to keep the pain out of his voice. "No, those kisses are not mine to take anymore. Maybe they never were. Goodbye, Harry."

After a moment, Draco heard the shuffling of feet and the creaking open and closed of the door. Reassured that he was alone, he sat down and cried.

With a sigh, Draco shook his head and the room in the Astronomy Tower dissolved in the cold air of the morning in the French countryside. That conversation had happened two years before, and he shouldn't be able to remember it, word by word. But he did, as he remembered what had happened afterwards.

They didn't see each other again after that late-night conversation. Draco Apparated to Malfoy Manor first thing on the morning, from nearby Hogsmeade, and threw himself into his Death Eater chores with a vengeance. When Voldemort was defeated by Harry, a year later, the Malfoy family went back to occupy their privileged position in society. Lucius had learnt from past mistakes and this time there was no incriminatory evidence to tie him to the Dark movement; after a few lavish donations to hospitals and such, he acquired a high post in the Ministry and dedicated himself to politics. Draco retired from the world, quite literally, retreating into a small palace in the French countryside, far away from everyone he had ever known, from everything that reminded him of Harry. His only tie to the outside world was his mother, who owled him daily, keeping him updated on the latest gossip. That is how he had found out about the wedding, which was a secret to start with. His mother had sent the note with a black ribbon tied to it, to show her son how sorry she was, and Draco was once again surprised at Narcissa's insight into things she hadn't been told.

And now, here he was, smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the moment his beloved would say, "Yes, I do," and kiss the Mudblood and then the small flame of hope that still warmed up his heart would freeze and die. The pain was there still, firmly lodged in his chest, and Draco welcomed it, as it was the only thing of Harry's he kept.

"Como ganarse el cielo

Cuando uno ama con toda el alma?

Y es que el carino que te tengo

No se paga con dinero.

Cmo decirte que sin ti muero?"

El lado oscuro, by Jarabe de Palo

[How to earn oneself a place in Heaven

When one loves with all of one's soul?

Because the love I have for you

Cannot be paid with money.

Who can I tell you that I'd die without you?]

It was cold out there in the garden, thought Draco, not really caring, but needing a thought to keep him anchored to reality. The wedding would take place under the blazing summer sun, in Hogwarts' Quidditch field of all places, with a few friends and relatives for audience. No-one from the Ministry had been invited, or from the press; just the Weasleys, Lupin, Dumbledore, of course, and a few of the Hogwarts faculty and former students.

Draco wondered what would happen if he made his appearance in the middle of the ceremony, to claim Harry as his own; he chuckled mirthlessly as he imagined the Weasel's horrified face, or the Mudblood's dumbstruck expression. It was almost too tempting to resist, and if Draco hadn't freely and privately relinquished all his rights to step into Harry's life, he would have done it. But Hogwarts wasn't his place to be, he belonged to the cool shadow of his garden and the nagging pain of his memories. He needed another cigarette.

Draco reached with his long pale hand for the wooden box where he kept his finest tobacco, but was stopped by the creaking open of the French windows behind him. He turned, ready to scowl at the intruding house-elf, but found only a young man with the most amazing pair of green eyes he had ever seen, the colour of the jungle at night, staring back at him with uncertainty etched in his features.

"Draco?" said the husky voice, unsure, as the newcomer stared at Draco. Draco stared back, half-thinking it was some kind of hallucination, half-hoping it was true. His surprise and disbelief must have been very obvious, because the strange being managed a wry smile. "Draco, are you there?"

"Harry?" It came out as a whisper, because Draco was sure that if he spoke any louder, his breath would blow away the kind genie which had taken the shape of his most precious dream.

"It's me, Draco. Can we talk?"

The blond man nodded dumbly, watching as the other man went down the steps and settled by his side on the bench; Draco reached out tentatively and stroked the woollen cloak of the man at his side, just to make sure it was real, and was rewarded by a shiver running up both their spines.

"Look, I..."

"You're about to get married, I know." Draco had suddenly recovered all his faculties, and was invaded by a lucid rage towards the man who couldn't even let him mourn in peace but had to come and rub his face in his misery.

"How do you know that? It was meant to be a secret!" The surprise spoiled, Harry felt his control of the situation slipping.

"I know, that's all," shrugged Draco, carefully avoiding Harry's eyes. "Have you come here hoping to get your congratulations? Wrong place for that, I'm afraid." Harry looked down, blushing a bit.

"I didn't come here for that. I... I just thought I should tell you, that's all. It seemed like the fair thing to do."

"Since when have you worried about doing the fair thing? Is that another of the wonderful things I missed out? Another of the thousand and one endearing traits of the Boy Who Lived, for which we should all rever him? Unfortunately, I always seem to be on the wrong side of those."

"Draco..." pleaded Harry, feeling light-headed again, like he hadn't felt for over four years, since the night of the Leaving Ball.

"Just leave!" barked Malfoy brusquely. "Leave before I do something we'll both regret." Draco turned his flushed face to one side, to savagely put out his cigarette; his hands were trembling and he felt fire coursing through his veins, in the almost forgotten feeling that only Harry could inspire. And the infuriating man was still there, still sitting by his side, not helping any. "Go, I said. Just go now and never come back, or you'll be sorry."

"I already am," whispered Harry, gathering back his rather formidable courage. Draco closed his eyes, the last of his self-control dwindling rapidly.

"Go, Harry, please. I beg you, if you ever loved me, if I ever meant anything to you, just turn around and leave."

He had promised himself never to intrude in Harry's life ever again, no matter the provocation; only that had stopped him, night after night, from tearing into Godric's Hollow like a madman and taking Harry with him, to lock him away, out of the reach of Voldemort, of Dumbledore, of the world, where only he could see him and touch him. He had promised and he wasn't about to go back on his word.

"Don't make me break my promise, Harry, please. Go."

"I can't," said Harry, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, his legs too weak to support him, his original intentions long forgotten.

"To Hell you can't! Just get up and leave, disappear from my life like you did so well before!"

Throwing caution to the wind, Draco suddenly stood up and reached Harry's arm to push him out. However, as soon as they touched, through layers of clothing, a spark ignited the tension between them again.

"Go, Harry, go, please, go, go now," whispered Draco urgently, his hand roughly clutching Harry's arm, sliding up and down of its own accord.

Harry looked up in alarm; he could feel his will to resist melting by the heat of Draco's touch and when he looked into those stormy eyes, he knew he was lost and wouldn't be found again.

"Go, Harry, please," repeated Draco, his hands cupping Harry's face lovingly, his own pink lips about to kiss him. "Can't you see what you're doing to me? Leave now, while you can."

Harry's only response was to arch up wantonly and capture Draco's lips with his own, finally returning to the only home he had ever known, and everything was right again. Draco whimpered helplessly when he felt Harry's lips against his, and his promises were erased by that skilful sweep of the tongue. When they both had to come up for air, they found their arms tightly wrapped around each other, afraid of ever having to let go.

"You owed me this kiss," whispered Harry in Draco's ear.

"The last one?" guessed Malfoy, wishing his voice hadn't trembled so much.

"I asked you for one last kiss once, and you refused," said Harry simply. "If I ask you for a first kiss now, what will you say?"

"You can't be serious, Harry, don't mock me with this! Your wedding will start in a couple of hours, don't come here to drive the knife in deeper."

"I came here to tell you I was marrying Hermione, to ask you for forgiveness, to remind you that I still love you. I didn't plan for any of this to happen," admitted Harry, looking very interested in the grass under his boots.

"And so, what are you going to do now that it did happen? Are you going to run away again, perhaps, fleeing for the complication in this? If you want it simple, I can't give you that; you better run back to you perfect girlfriend and perfect life."

"It's not perfect without you," confessed the dark-haired young man.

"It'll never be perfect with me. No-one will accept me, Harry, none of your friends, or Dumbledore, no-one. And I don't want to go back to the spotlight. That is your place; mine is here, in the backstage, looking at you from afar."

"Draco..."

"'Once we're out there, you know it's impossible...'. That's what you said once, and I hated you for it, but now I know you were right."

"...do you still love me?" Hopeful expression, a surprising humility in those upturned green eyes.

"Of course I do," snapped Draco, annoyed at the way Harry ignored his speech; it had been so hard for him to refuse, and with a sole well-placed question the ex-Gryffindor had shattered the carefully-built defences.

"Then, kiss me again and ignore the rest."

It took every ounce of strength Draco possessed to refuse, but endless nights of despair had trained him well.

"No. That was then, this is now. I will not allow you to toy with me, Harry. If I kiss you again, it'll be forever; if not, go now and leave me to my mourning."

"You know it's not that easy..."

"Look up 'complication' in the dictionary and find our picture," retorted Draco, his hands softly caressing the wrinkled forehead and unruly black hair of the Boy Who Lived. A minute went by, two and then three.

With a deep sigh, Harry began disentangling himself from the pale arms wrapped around him; after an initial resistance, Draco let him go.

"You're leaving then?" he asked in a hollow voice, looking how Harry readjusted his collar.

"I am," confirmed the black-haired man, not looking at him. "I have to tell them to call off the wedding, it's the least I can do."

"You're staying?!" For the first time in years, Draco's voice tingled with excitement, hope, enthusiasm and joy.

"Of course I'm staying. I'll Apparate to Hogsmeade now, to talk to Dumbledore and Hermione, but I'll be back for lunch..." Suddenly shy, Harry looked up. "Is that alright with you?"

Reduced to speechlessness, Draco nodded. Harry smiled up to him, gave him a warm lingering kiss and went back into the house and into the Apparition chamber. After a few minutes and seeing that he wasn't going to wake up from that blissful dream, Draco ran back into the house, looking for a green ribbon to tie in the owl for his mother.