"COMPLICATED," by Avril Lavigne:

Chill out, what you yellin' for?

Lay back, it's all been done before

And if you could only let it be, you would see

I like you the way you are

When we're drivin' in your car

And you're talking to me one on one

But you've become

Somebody else

With everyone else

Watching your back

Like you can't relax

You're trying to be cool

You look like a fool

To me

Tell me

Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?

I see the way

You're actin' like you're somebody else

Gets me frustrated

Life like's this, you:

You fall, and you crawl, and you break and you take

What you get and you turn it into honesty

And promise me

I'm never gonna find you fakin'

No no no

You come over unannounced

Dressed up like you're something else

Where you are and where it's at you see,

You're makin' me

Laugh out when you strike your pose

Take off all your preppy clothes

You know you're not foolin' anyone

When you become

Somebody else

With everyone else

Watching your back

Like you can't relax

You're trying to be cool

You look like a fool

To me

Tell me

Why you have to go and make things so complicated?

I see the way

You're actin' like you're somebody else

Gets me frustrated

Life like's this:

You fall, and you crawl, and you break and you take

What you get and you turn it into honesty

And promise me

I'm never gonna find you fakin'

No no no

No no no

No no no!

COMPLICATED

An R/D fic

By

The Ultimate Otaku

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a little boy. His name was Draco. Draco Lucius Malfoy, if you want the biscuit in one bite. Draco did not like being a Malfoy. There were too many things to think about, and too little time to think about them, or to forget about them and go have some fun. He always had to pretend to be important, (while his parents were actually being important) when in fact, he didn't want to be important at all. Being important was not fun, little Draco decided quite early on.

Being important, or that is, trying to be, consisted of A) Considering almost everyone else too low to associate with, B) Sounding very intelligent, intelligence being only one of several qualities he had to possess, C) Taking control of difficult situations like he knew what he was doing, and as if they were easy—everything worthy enough for a Malfoy to consider doing had to be easy for him to do, of course. And as many things as there were a Malfoy could not do, there were a great many deal of things he had to do, also.

As well as being good at the fine games and sports (Chess, fencing, Quidditch and such), like any young boy should, Draco had to have manners, and know how to use those manners (misused manners, he learned soon, could be very dangerous—for instance, you were not supposed to use them at all towards the House Elves). He also had to know how to: write, read, accept all sorts of challenges, send formal and informal letters, invite people to parties, eat politely at the table, plus a hundred other rules!

The one he heard most from father though, was: speak only when spoken to, because it is part of minding manners; etiquette, it was called. There were a few exceptions to this rule, however. Speak only when spoken to, UNLESS the person speaking is A) rude, B) inferior (this particular category included many people, Draco noticed), C) a House Elf, D) A muggle, or Muggleborn, or any related to that nonsense-spouting, worthless lot, or E) A Weasley. This last one, Draco knew from his father having said so, was particularly atrocious.

Draco, however, did not learn what this "A Weasley" was for some time. So, he pondered about it. What on earth COULD this "A Weasley" BE? Was it some horridly ugly type of beast? Was it something dangerous his father feared would eat him (although Draco doubted his father feared anything)? Was it some type of nonsensical Muggle contraption? Or perhaps this "A Weasley" was the worst sort of Muggle that existed? Or maybe it was a mutated House Elf (Draco didn't see how they could get any uglier)? What WAS this "A Weasley"?

Draco pondered it, he pondered until it drove him mad. On his sixth birthday, a year later from when he had first heard the rules from his father, he was still pondering the Weasley mystery. He pondered it in his room, reading a book his father had given him (too boring to read, although he'd never say that aloud). He pondered during the morning walks with his mother (which stopped when he turned seven, and Draco could not tell his parents that he missed the walks, it would make him sound petty). He even pondered the Weasley mystery while in bed!

Finally, one day, Draco summoned the courage up to ask his father what on earth a Weasley was. Of course, he didn't phrase it like that. He said, "Father…May I ask…father, what IS a Weasley?"

For a moment, all was silent, and Draco quickly looked down at his shoes in fear, wondering if he had angered his father. But then the silence was broken, surprisingly, by Lucius' laugh. "Oh, come now, Draco, haven't you found out yet? Don't tell me you haven't seen them in the Daily Prophet, son—they get in there quite easily, the petty things."

Rather than saying that he did not read the Daily Prophet, and deciding he would start doing so daily, Draco shook his head no in reply. The answer he got was this: "The Weasleys are a family, son. A family of disgraceful Purebloods."

Draco, his eyes wide in surprise, stared at his father. "DISGRACEFUL Purebloods, father? I thought there was no such thing! They shouldn't exist!"

Lucius smiled. "You are right, son. They should not exist. But sadly, they do. And the Weasleys…" Lucius' countenance turned dark, his frown one of the most fearsome Draco had ever seen. "The Weasleys are the worst of all Purebloods. They are the lowest of all vermin, for disgracing the rest of us so. And each and every one of them, these Weasleys, and their children—of which they have more than they can afford— has the most atrocious red hair, and freckles."

A while later, after receiving the answer to what he had been pondering so long, six-year-old Draco sat in his room. RED hair? Draco knew he should be appalled at the thought, because father obviously was, but he just couldn't be. Rather than being appalled, Draco was fascinated. How could someone have red hair? Red, like the sunset, red, like a fox, red, red like blood! Draco knew immediately that he desired to see one of these Weasleys, he certainly did. The thought of seeing red hair was too much to pass up.

But he tossed his red ink, reddish crayons, red coat, and the dagger with the ruby-encrusted hilt away, nevertheless.

~~~~~*~~~~~

FIVE YEARS LATER…

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

Draco wasn't quite sure why he had said that. Of course, quoting father was one of his favorite things to do, but still…he hadn't meant to say that, not at all. As soon as he saw that boy, sitting beside Harry Potter himself, he had known what he was. Even who he was! Father had certainly talked enough about the Weasleys that Draco felt he knew them each, at least a little. Of course, the one who his father had ranted about most was Arthur Weasley, but the youngest son had been mentioned once or twice, along with the rest of them. Ronald Weasley had piqued Draco's interest most—a boy, his age, with freckles and red hair! Unimaginable! But then there he was, sitting there, beside the Boy Who Lived, the disgraceful young wizard, the redhead, the Weasley.

Draco hadn't known what to say to that boy. He knew what he should have said, and indeed Draco had said what he should have said, which was anything his father would approve of—and Lucius would indeed have approved of what Draco had said to this Ronald Weasley person. But Draco did not approve. Did this mean something, maybe mean that he didn't approve of what his father approved of? It meant trouble; that was what it meant.

Draco had said the first words that popped up into his head, which were the words his father had said to him so many years ago. He had had nothing else to say to that boy. But he had wanted to say something. It had felt like the words would tear out of his chest and dive at the boy if Draco hadn't said them. But he hadn't said those words. He hadn't said any words other than those words he should have, because he wasn't sure what the words he had wanted to say, needed to say, were.

That red hair…it was messy, simple, and yet full of depth, too, if only in its color. It blared out some rude sort of statement at him, teasing him, daring him to stop the torrent of mockery that came to mind when he saw it, daring him to reach out, touch it, run his fingers through it, kiss the scalp from which it grew, tug at it as if he owned it. How Draco wanted to tame that fire-haired one, embrace him like a…Well, brother certainly wasn't the word Draco was looking for, here.

Besides, the boy already had too many of those!

~~~~~*~~~~~

FIVE YEARS LATER…

"AARRGGHH! GET OFF ME, YOU BLASTED—OUCH! BLASTED—FUR BALL—MONSTER!"

The sound of cloth ripping echoed through Hogwarts halls. A pair of strong, large hands grasped two paws in a moment of satisfaction. Then, chaos broke loose. With a yowl and a loud, threatening hiss, Crookshanks caused Ron to drop him, and as soon as the cat landed on the ground, he began running.

Ron grabbed his tattered, unworn robes and flung them over his shoulder, leaving his bag on the bench in his hurry. He sprinted, and then, pausing, turned around. Yanking off his coat, which had been torn by the cat—blasted monster, tore my uniform coat! Not that I like wearing the bloody thing, the white collared shirt is enough, but still! That bloody coat is the only thing that shows I'm Gryffindor, since I'm always losing my ties.

With only his robes fluttering behind him in a mass of cloth, like a cape, Ron rushed after Crookshanks, his untied shoelaces a hinder that he was too furious to bother with. Unfortunately, Ron was so focused on his chase, that as he rounded the corner, he missed the person standing in the middle of the corridor entirely—although, as the person was eventually directly in front of him, Ron couldn't help but notice. By then, however, it was much too late for him to stop, as Ron was propelling forward quite quickly.

He grimaced as he flew forward with the momentum of halting his run so abruptly. Ron waited for an ominous crunch as he fell forward on top of the person in an inevitable tangle of limbs. More prepared than the person he'd bumped into, Ron avoided bumping his head, hands flying out to catch himself. Who knew practicing a bit of Quidditch in the summer could rub off on him a few of those reflexes the best of 'em had?

As it was, however, there was no denying Ron was still in a mess. A mess which, with his luck, he'd no doubt get in trouble for. His knee had hit the floor so hard, Ron couldn't help but yelp, although he doubted he quite had the right to, because he hadn't been the one crashed into and squashed, like the person currently beneath him! And Ron knew he wasn't quite the lightweight kind, either.

A low moan came from the person he'd collided into. Ron hoped against hope that the person he'd fallen into wasn't a complete stranger, or worse, a GIRL! He didn't understand the fussy, giggling natures of most of them, and barely got by in a day without bickering with the only studious one among them: Hermione. Otherwise, they were nearly all the same: quite boring, really. He didn't see why they appealed so much to all the rest of the boys—blimey, even Colin liked them! That was a bit of relief though, honestly; with the amount of—what were they called?—Fittogriffs, or whatever they were, that Colin had taken of Harry in a lifetime, Ron had begun to wonder if Colin fancied Harry!

Wishing he'd never agreed to take that blasted animal of Hermione's for a walk while she proofread his Potions paper, which was due tomorrow, Ron tried to resolve this situation. Before he could even think of a solution, however, the person he'd collided into sat up a bit.

Daring to look down (the case was rarely up, for he'd grown to be one of the tallest students in school, taller than even Harry), Ron's mouth dropped open. The hand that had its fingertips rested on the floor was ornamented by a ring, two silver snakes entwining to sink their fangs into an emerald jewel, upon which was carved a swirling letter M. He didn't recognize the symbol, but the M, and the snakes, gave Ron no doubt as to who it was: Draco Malfoy.

A moment later and Ron found his chin was grabbed roughly by slender fingers, and then tilted downward in a commanding way so he could be looked at. Ron found himself looking into a pair of familiar grey eyes. So cold, so unfeeling…most of the time, he supposed the coldness, the apathy, and the cruelty were just due to the Malfoy boy being who he was, and having the father he did. Sometimes, though, Ron couldn't help but wonder what someone so careless about most things externally, could have feelings about, internally, as an individual, opposed to the evil thoughts his father surely trained him to think. Was Draco Malfoy just a brainwashed bloke? Or did he actually think something with depth, maybe even not so evil, in that brain of his?

Usually those eyes were narrowed at him, a look of hatred aflame in that gaze. But now…Ron gulped. He'd never quite seen such a look in anyone's eyes. It was a mixture of intense looks that he recognized and remembered from different faces he'd seen them on, though never on Draco Malfoy's face. It was doubt, sadness, weariness, awe, hope, want, need, curiosity, even fear! And all in one face, contained in a single glance.

Ron couldn't turn away from the look, for a little while. He couldn't abandon someone who seemed so helpless, even though that seemed impossible, and even though he had never been the hero before. He had always wanted to help someone like that, to help someone who didn't know what they were doing, or where they were going, which Harry and Hermione, the ones he had the opportunity to help most, always seemed to know. He had heard so many stories of people who were weak whose problems had been solved by simple answers to their questions, or responses to their words.

The only thing was, at this moment, Malfoy wasn't asking any questions, or saying any words. He was just staring…staring at Ron. Ron realized with a start that he was now straddling the other boy, and that one of Malfoy's hands was rested on his chest, perhaps in an attempt to push him away, or stop Ron from falling further, or…well, what reasons other than those two could there be?! There could be no other explanations. He became fidgety at the thought that, being so close, he could feel the Slytherin's body heat; the warmth was inviting. Ron shivered despite himself, realizing that he'd never been quite so close to Draco Malfoy before, and he'd never had the boy actually touch him—why would he? They hated each other, after all.

But now, Malfoy was touching him. Ron could feel those cold fingertips just below his collarbone, just resting there. He wished immediately that he had not left the top button of his shirt open. He hurriedly moved to button it, bumping Malfoy's hand in the process, thank god. Ron half expected the other boy to grab his wrist and snap it, or punch the daylights out of him, when his hand brushed against Malfoy's.

Bumping that hand though, apparently, didn't do much. Rather then pulling away, Malfoy just let his hand slide downward, along Ron's stomach, straight down to rest upon the Gryffindor's left thigh. Ron gaped. Just the sensation of that hand against him, creeping ever…so…slowly, had made the hair at the back of his neck raise, and his breath hitched when the hand on his thigh didn't even move.

"Wh-what…what are you DOING?! Malfoy, you—I—what the bloody hell!"

Ron quickly clambered backward off the Slytherin, panting, his blue eyes wide in what he had to admit was fear. What did Malfoy think he was doing? Was he a raving lunatic, or what? Putting—putting his hand there, so close, so close to—to—to…Ron took a deep breath. He couldn't even finish that thought!

Malfoy smirked that aggravating smirk of his, the one that always made Ron want to hit him. An improvement compared to my wanting to grab his hand and, and…well, DOING something with it, Ron thought. Standing up, that smirk still twisting his lips, Malfoy brushed himself off, slowly, every movement languid and careless. Ron couldn't help but watch these movements, noticing the way a flash of pale skin and slender hips was shown when Malfoy lifted both hands to comb through his hair, and the way those hands brushed carefully, slowly down that chest, palms directly against the black cotton cloth, before stopping their movement just above the knees. Malfoy stood like that for a moment, leant down, hands on his legs, palms flat against the cloth of snug fitting trousers. Then, his smirk melting to a look that could have been a true smile, an actual mildly pleasant look, he offered Ron a hand.

Ron stared at that hand. What was Malfoy thinking? Did he actually think Ron would fall for this sort of trick? No way was Ron going to be that gullible! Sworn enemies didn't just up and decide to be kind to you one day! Impossible! Ludicrous! Absolutely shite! There was no way Ron dared to accept that hand. No way. Besides, he didn't need help! He could take care of himself just fine, thank you very much! That hand was the hand of evil. That hand was, well…it had…had touched him! In places Ron would rather—Ron took a deep breath, knowing he had to finish this thought!—rather, really, not be touched! By anyone! Especially not, of all people, MALFOY!

Smacking the hand away with a snarl, Ron pushed himself up to a standing position with difficulty, reeling with dizziness when he was standing. Ow, my head! Its pounding…feels like a bloody hammer's at it! Damn…knew I shouldn't have had anything to do with that orange monster cat…ow, god, the ceiling's spinning…

Frowning, Ron shot Malfoy a dark glower, before quickly walking off to the Great Hall for dinner. When he walked in, feeling a bit better away from his enemy, it was to silence. Then, suddenly, giggles broke out at the Gryffindor table, even as he sat down, bleary-eyed. Placing his robes aside, he looked up reluctantly away from his plate as Seamus called his name. Seamus, a great grin on his face, was laughing as he said, "Crikey, Ron, from the looks of you, seems like someone wanted to shag you real badly!" The Gryffindor table broke out in laughter again.

Bewildered, Ron looked down at himself in questioning. Then, he realized the picture he presented to people: his hair was a wild mess, his tie was gone, his shirt was wrinkled, and his red overcoat had large holes and tears from Crookshanks' claws in the back of it, allowing all to see that, yes, the freckles Weasleys were famed for were on his back as well as arms, neck, and face. Plus, he discovered as he looked down, there was an evident bulge down below, and a tight feeling to each and every muscle of his. His face reddened slightly, the flush spreading down to boil a torturous heat in his groin. Looking up at the table again, Ron realized the memory of a hand on his thigh and the warmth of someone close was causing his hands to tremble…