Title: Drawing The Line
Rating: R / M
Era: Post OoTP with minor changes; No HBP or DH spoilers
Genre: Slash/Angst
Summary: Harry gives up, but refuses to let Draco do the same. Loyalties are questioned, revelations are made and two lost boys explore what it means to find oneself.
Disclaimer: All characters and situations owned by JK Rowling.

Author's Notes: I think my writing and taste has matured. I know I have left many projects unfinished and I fully intend to go back and complete them all, but for now, I want to write something new and without baggage. I hope that this turns out well, and I want to reassure anyone who has read any of my other works that I haven't abandoned them!

Wish me luck with my new adventure!

Chapter One: Drawing The Line

He might have been in the third floor corridor, Harry wasn't certain. Tucked in between two suits of armour with only his worn trainers visible to whoever passed by, he held a fresh news paper clipping in his callused fingers. Sirius was still making the front page of the Daily Prophet, and Harry was slowly forgetting his shock as it turned into a grudging acceptance.

He had to take comfort in the fact Sirius' name had been cleared. It was a small breath of relief in a sea Harry felt he was drowning in. He hung his head a bit, rubbing fingers against the back of his neck and let out an impressive sigh.

Crumpling the inky page in his hand, Harry pulled himself from his small nook. One of the knights in armour saluted him as he began to walk and the Gryffindor smiled back half-heartedly. Stuffing the torn paper into the back pocket of his jeans, Harry made his way to Dumbledore's office where he had originally been requested.

When he finally walked down to the Entrance Hall during his short journey, he greeted a few Hufflepuffs chatting idly in one corner. They were wearing an array of mismatched Muggle clothing, something most Light Side Supporters had taken up to show their loyalty. It was no surprise, of course, that when Harry passed Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini he saw only traditional wizard robes.

They glared at him and he returned the favour, thinking it almost as silly to respond to the rivalry when there were larger problems present in his life. Still, the minute act of immaturity almost made his spirit feel lighter in his chest, something he was grateful for upon entering the headmaster's office.

"Harry, please take a seat." Dumbledore smiled, despite the somber mood that had enveloped the castle since the school had opened up after a long, desperate summer.

Harry did as he was told, choosing the armchair that gave him a better view out an oddly placed window rather than the one that faced Dumbledore's eyes head on. "Er, why exactly am I here, Professor?"

Dumbledore smiled, tenting his fingers. "I've just received some news. It appears the Ministry would like you to give a speech to inspire those who are afraid of the upcoming war and Voldemort." He paused as though waiting for an outburst of some sort, before continuing. "They would have sent an interviewer, but I thought that unwise after the events with Miss. Skeeter."

"A speech?" Harry frowned, looking down at the woodwork of Dumbledore's desk. He could see the expectance reflecting off the man's glasses and the weight of responsibility nestled on his shoulders groaned.

"Miss. Granger would love to assist you, I'm sure."

There was a sort of finality in his voice when Harry finally agreed, his eyes still focused out the window where the sun was beginning to set.

"I think it's a wonderful idea, Harry." Hermione consoled as Harry absently polished his broom. It was a habit to take out his broom every few days and groom it, even though he hadn't been flying once since the beginning of the semester. He relished in his habits; he relished in any normalcy he could grasp.

"Yeah, you can set the record straight. S'about time the Ministry stopped spouting their rubbish." Ron called from the floor where he had set up a game of chess.

Staring at the polished handle of his Firebolt, Harry nodded resolutely. "Wonderful idea," he echoed.

Snape's idea of wonderful was obviously very different. Harry sat in Potions class with a boiling cauldron in front of him that was clearly very wrong judging by the opaque brown colour it had taken it up. Cocking his head to one side and accidentally breathing in some potentially toxic fumes, Harry gave up.

He gave up on potions. He gave up on everything. Somewhere in between the claustrophobic smog, Harry lost himself.

After losing thirty points for creating a hazard in the classroom, Harry was sent to the ingredients cupboard to clean up the remnants of their concoction. He went through the motions methodically, trying to avoid the squid eyes for as long as possible.

It was going relatively well, Harry having evaded handling anything too grotesque, when a snide voice caught him off guard.

"I'm sure you're proud of yourself," Draco's lips were upturned in a smug smile. Harry hated Draco's smile. "You've given both Longbottom and Goyle a severe case of puss-filled boils."

Harry scowled, his reflection staring back at him from a jar of somewhat used nettles. But, unlike what was usual, he didn't feel a biting urge to respond to the goading. He took the insult and pocketed it, right next to the crumpled picture of Sirius.

Draco looked unnerved at his lack of response. He pushed the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows and pulled some lovage out from a large pot. "Don't tell me you still get emotional while reading Black's story. It was a tear jerker all through summer, certainly, but you have to draw the line somewhere."

Harry wasn't expecting anything like that to escape the snarling lips of his rival. His eyebrows angled downwards and he frowned. "Where exactly should I draw the line, then?" The voice that echoed out from his mouth was foreign and Draco hesitated in pinching off the stems of his plant.

"It should have been drawn already." He said shortly. There was a bit of confusion written on his face as if Draco was unsure of why he and Harry were not at each other's throats.

Harry nodded and as if it were symbolic, later threw the crumpled parchment forced into his pocket away.

The chatter of the Great Hall was friendly and boisterous, but Harry found himself pushing away his dinner plate not ten minutes into the meal and standing up to walk away. Hermione pressed him for answers of why he was leaving so early, but Harry shrugged it off with a dull excuse. He wondered how one explained to their best friends that suddenly, life held no interest – no importance. That simple acts like polishing a broomstick were all you looked forward to because it were things like that which kept you sane.

The corridors were dark as Harry walked down them, as if they knew everyone was meant to be at dinner and that light was not necessary. At one point during the evening, he became stoic, standing in the middle of the hallway even as numerous portraits tried their best to wake him from his stupor.

It wasn't until much later that he suddenly felt a tug on the anxious nerves that brought him back to responsiveness. There was something that felt wrong – unnatural – and it wasn't the fact that he was standing in the middle of a dim lit hallway unaware of his surroundings. The feeling nagged him all through his walk back to the Common Room, and when he went to bed after a long stare at his canopy, it stirred in his dreams.

Harry wasn't sure what was wrong with him. When he woke up the next morning, he wasn't late and therefore wasn't in a rush. He went through his trunk sluggishly, bedraggled clothes hanging off his slight frame as he pulled out a brown patterned sock. His mind was reeling as the sun began to rise, shards of crooked light washing down over his sock and reminding him that he could never find the other foot to complete the pair.

The feeling in his gut only grew over the course of the night and as he showered, every bead of water that sifted through his hair and down his body seemed to ignite the restless nerves even more. He thought that perhaps he was coming down with something, and never once did he take into consideration that his spark was disappearing. The shine of his eyes and the honesty of his smile were disappearing into a restless, hopeless creature.

He was one of the first Gryffindors at breakfast, there before even Hermione. He wasn't sure what had propelled him to dress so quickly and make his way down to the Great Hall instead of catch some extra sleep, but when he got there he instantly felt relieved. The suffocating anxiety was gone, the feeling that something horrible had happened was only a dull throb.

It all returned in a matter of two seconds. Harry had routinely picked up the Daily Prophet, expecting Sirius' picture to stare up at him and simultaneously provoke a wave of sadness and exhilaration at seeing him again. He froze at the headline that had replaced the usual story of Dementors and Peter Pettigrew, a roaring noise echoing in his ears.

He wasn't sure why he had chosen to tear out the page and stuff it into the pocket reserved for Sirius' story. Perhaps he felt he needed proof, as if Draco would never believe him unless he showed the blond the entire clipping.

The Slytherin table was completely empty and yet Harry stared at it for a long moment as if Draco was there. Adrenaline was pumping in his veins and Harry suddenly felt elated at the prospect of feeling again.

He had no idea where to look for the Slytherin, and then finally came to terms with the obvious answer. It was early – too early and Draco was probably still asleep in his luxurious bed, completely unaware of something that would most-likely change his life forever. Harry felt a morose jab in his chest at the innocence of Draco sleeping through the horrible tragedy.

For unfathomable reasons, Harry changed his course and headed for the dungeons. The dingy stone walls closed in on him, but he found his way to the Slytherin Entrance soon enough, the vague memory of being led toward it in his second year growing suddenly vibrant.

Something inside him made him reach out a fist and knock. It was a pathetic knock, unsure, and he instantly regretted it. But an answer came and there was no turning back.

"Potter?"

"Er – Hi, Greengrass. Morning," Harry craned his neck, trying to peer inside the Common Room. Nothing had changed since his second year, the green and silver motif was as daunting and dreary as it had always been.

"Here to gloat, are you?" Daphne's blue eyes looked murderous and Harry stopped his spying to stare at her indignantly.

"Gloat?"

"Oh, please. You obviously read the news. As if Draco needs you acting as immature as always after something like this." She made to close the door, but Harry called out for her to wait, and pressed his hand against the stone door.

"He knows, then?" Harry looked put out, and that only reinforced Daphne's earlier assumption – that he was there to gloat.

Daphne scowled. "Get out of here, Potter. And don't come back –"

"Potter? What's he doing here?" Blaise squeezed next to the blonde girl, his eyebrow raising as he stared at Harry's disheveled appearance. "Bit low for you to come over here and rub it in."

Harry narrowed his eyes, the vacant space in his chest filling with rage. "I didn't come here for anything like that. Just let me talk to him, please?"

Daphne looked skeptical and Blaise looked as if he wasn't going to budge no matter what. "Why?"

There was a pause in which Harry's fist slowly fell from the stone wall, and his eyes watched the inside of the Common Room blankly. "I want to show him where to draw the line." He blinked, turning to the pair a bit hopefully. "Look, I'm not here to gloat."

They looked confused, but relented. The door swung open and Blaise gripped Harry's arm hard enough to bruise. "Right, get this straight then. You irritate Draco even the littlest bit and you'll have boils that can rival Goyle's."

Harry nodded dumbly. He had always thought Slytherins were different than Gryffindors, and that they knew nothing of loyalty. Draco had obviously instilled some sort of loyalty into his housemates.

He wasn't sure where he was being led as the layout of the room was not circular like the Gryffindor Tower, and therefore completely different. Yet, after a bit of maneuvering around studying students – Slytherins were keen learners, apparently – and a lot of stairs, Harry found himself facing the sixth year boy's dormitory. Blaise grunted at him to open the door, and so he did. Very carefully.

Daphne had abandoned them, keeping guard of the Common Room Harry thought, and without her everything felt strangely private. Blaise and Draco were inseparable most of the time, and therefore he felt as though he were confronting both of them.

"I'll be back in a couple of minutes – don't try anything, Potter." Blaise warned, before stepping back and making his way down the stairs.

"Blaise? Is that you?"

Harry was startled at the congested voice, and he paused at the door.

"Blaise? Shut the door, the light is hurting my eyes."

And so Harry did, letting the door fall close and envelope them in darkness. He breathed in deeply, dull eyes growing bright with fear. He had no idea what he was doing, and as if he needed a prop to incline the conversation to where he wanted it to go, he pulled out the crumpled newspaper clipping cautiously.

"I'm really sorry, Malfoy," his breath caught in his throat. He walked toward the bed wonderingly, and as the dungeons were void of windows, managed to stub his toe on numerous bed posts along the way.

A sharp inhale echoed in the silence, and Draco's bed rustled as he pulled himself up. "Bloody Greengrass, I'll kill her." His voice sounded forced, as if he were trying to hide the previous nasal tone. "Potter, I'm not interested in what you have to say."

Harry winced and pulled out his wand, casting light into the room. He couldn't take the darkness much longer – he wanted to see the Slytherin for himself.

Draco's face was slightly flushed and his hair was rumpled. Though, other than the fine track falling down his cheek, Harry would never have guessed he'd ever cried. He looked determined to deceive Harry into thinking that he hadn't.

His still shaky voice gave him away. "I would have figured you wanted to off him yourself."

Harry shook his head in the wand light, his growing emptiness implanting a need within him to console the Slytherin. "Are you alright?"

Draco was clearly startled. "What?"

"I can help you," Harry looked confused himself. "Get over your father's death, I mean."

"Murder." Draco corrected, his voice faltering.

"What I mean is I can help you draw the line." He looked over at the newspaper clipping where Lucius Malfoy's face glared back at him. "I know what it's like."

Draco looked at the clipping as well, his eyes growing somewhat brighter. Then, he turned to Harry with a frown but didn't reject the offer.

Hermione looked at Harry with a mixture of relief and hesitance when he sat down at the Gryffindor table almost an hour later. They shared a look, and Ron was the first to boldly state it.

"It should be a weight off our shoulders," he said tentatively. "No more innocent deaths on account of Malfoy."

Hermione chewed her lip, torn between feeling somber over death and relief at what Ron had said. "It's awful how he was murdered by You-Know-Who himself. I wonder how Malfoy's coping."

Harry's eyes traveled to the Slytherin table which was much less populated than usual. Draco wasn't present and the loyalty Harry had witnessed seemed to be showing itself again.

He still wasn't sure what had compelled him to wander up to Draco's room in the first place, but he did know that when he did, his life gained a new importance. One that didn't have to do with Voldemort and saving the world. And the new found importance made Harry believe he didn't want to give up just yet.

TBC.