Rarely Pure and Never Simple

Chapter 1

A/N: Before we begin, I'd like to mention that this fanfiction is not mine. I found it on Archive of our own and it's written by motleygrrrl. I thought it would be nice to be able to read this on Wattpad as well so i decided to publish it for you guys!
If she'd asked me to delete it, of course, I would do it immediately.
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Summary of this chapter:
"Is stalking me some sort of compulsive need of yours or something?"

Harry Potter won't stop following Draco around—no matter where he goes, Potter is there, watching. And Draco knows what that means—Potter is clearly planning his death, despite what Blaise and Pansy think. Because if it's not murder he's after, what else could it possibly be? And how could Draco find a way to use that information to his advantage?
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Notes:
I just wanted to start this story off with a quick hello and several warnings! So hello :) Aaand now also some warnings! This story is rated P for Profanity and AL for Awkward Love. (It won't stay awkward for long, don't worry.) It has sneaky Slytherins, manipulative schemes, immature banter, teen homosexuality, blond virgins, first dates, involuntary sounds of a decidedly flamingo-like nature, and a sweet and awkward Harry Potter. There will be all kinds of language you were taught not to say as a child, as well as all kinds of smut your parents hoped you never knew existed as a child. But let's ignore all those forgotten lessons and past-parental hopes and get into this thing, friends!

And we start, as we rightly should, with an Oscar Wilde quote:

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."
―"The Importance of Being Earnest"

Aaand now we may begin :)
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"He's staring at me again!" Draco hissed, resisting the urge to slam his fist down on the table they were sat at. Madam Pince would most likely gut him if he dared injure her precious books, and Draco could think of much better things he would prefer to be doing rather than dripping entrails all over the floor of the library; he preferred his entrails where they were, thank you very much. His guts were far too good for the library floor.

"He's not staring at you, Draco, let it go," Pansy said, rolling her eyes without ever once actually glancing in Potter's direction to check if he really was staring at Draco or not.

"Yes, he is!" Draco insisted, feeling Potter's gaze on his skin without even having to look over. "I'm telling you, he stares! All he fucking does is stare! Constantly! All the time! I think he's planning on murdering me!"

At the dramatic statement, Pansy rolled her eyes again and Draco considered flicking ink on her, ultimately deciding not to risk it just in case it landed on a library book and Madam Pince really did crucify him right there in the library as an example to all other would-be book-defilers, all of whom were worse than the Dark Lord in her eyes.

I wonder if she's ever wanked over any of the books, he wondered idly, dismissing the disturbing thought in the very next second and wondering what sort of fucked-up war trauma he was repressing that had possessed him to think such an awful thought. If he was thinking such horrendous things, it was probably already long past time to seek professional help.

"He's not going to kill you, Draco," Pansy drawled, sounding far too indifferent to Draco's impending doom. "It's Potter, he's far too boring and noble to ever be interesting enough to be actively planning another student's death. If any deaths ever result at his hands, it'll be from sheer clumsy stupidity, not premeditation."

"He could be planning my death, you don't know," Draco huffed, slinking down in his seat. Why did Pansy just dismiss the thought that Draco was worth thinking and obsessing about to the point that somebody could literally spend all their time staring at him and plotting his death? Draco was more than capable of inspiring such intense obsession in a person—he was obviously talented like that, even if the world refused to admit that inspiring fanatical hatred throughout a nation could be just as impressive as inspiring fanatical love; they were both fanatical forms of obsession, after all.