Disclaimer: No, sadly I do not own the wonderful ideas I've heard in many songs and read in many books, or the characters of Rowling's Harry Potter. I am merely a sponge; wring me out, and this story is the result. (Partly AN: there are one or two quotes/references in here, each marked with *; I'll list the sources at the end.)

Chapter 2

Several hours later it was dinnertime in the Great Hall, and Draco was wandering the corridors. He told himself he just couldn't find the patience to put up with his fellow Slytherins, but really he was lacking the appetite to stomach a meal.

Draco felt… shaken. However hard he tried, he was unable to shake the disquieting awareness he'd been tethered with following the 'staring contest' with Potter. The look in his eyes, that unfathomable pit of misery and desolation – it was far too familiar. The same empty orbs had stared at him accusingly from the mirror for years, nestled in a face terrifyingly void of emotion, and they frightened him even now. Every day he fought the overwhelming darkness, each day, week and month that he did not slip back a silent triumph. But seeing that face, those eyes… he may as well have been in front of the mirror again, and he had fought too damn hard to let that happen.

That's how Draco knew, knew he had to do everything in his power to bring Potter away from that path. Because no one else was doing a damn thing, and there was no way he could sit by and watch another person walk that road alone, fuck the Malfoy code of conduct. Having reached a conclusion, Draco's thinking was now to the purpose of reconciling his nature to this resolution. I mean, it was Potter he was proposing to help; Potter who, despite recent circumstances, had been nothing more than a pain in his side for years. Besides, Draco knew he himself was far from innocent; why should the Gryffindor welcome his assistance?

Unfortunately, all such thoughts were interrupted, perhaps even at the key moment, by a sound – Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp…
The rhythmic shuffle forced its way into his hearing, and he was unable to block it out. It grated like sandpaper, somehow managing to grind away all Draco's good intentions, and allowing his irritation, animosity and fear to come flooding back. As he rounded a final corner, there ahead of him was the Boy Saviour himself.

And before he was even aware of it, Draco was hurrying forwards, venomous words pooling on his tongue. One part of him was frantically screaming. 'What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing? You'll just make it worse!' Another part, the one that was in control, was hastily rationalising his actions. 'Maybe, just maybe, if I can get him angry he'll be ok. All I have to do is insult him, he'll show some emotion, and we'll be back to wringing each other's necks within a week.' He was catching up to Potter now, and, ignoring the insignificant fact that no part of him believed his flimsy excuse, Draco opened his mouth:

"Walking alone after dark, Potter?" He spat out the name like it was the very poisonous disease he was fighting against. "Didn't…?" 'Mummy dearest ever teach you about Stranger Danger?'

But the words had died in his throat as Harry turned, quietly ready to accept whatever pain the Universe, and the Slytherin Prince, meant to throw at him today. Draco could hear the outraged "What do you want Malfoy?" echoing through the corridor – But it was all in his head, and the shout never broke the silence between them. The thought occurred to him that this Harry wouldn't even know how to shout. This Harry had calmly ceased his dragging walk, turned slowly to face his attacker; his eyes seemed to never have known defiance. In fact, Draco couldn't even see his eyes as Potter seemed to be focussing somewhere around his knees. Having hung from the ledge where the other boy was standing,* Draco was well aware that even this height, against such a foe, was an enormous effort.

To hold one's head high requires pride, and that was the first casualty of this bastard of a disease.*It worked by gnawing away at your triumphs and successes, your good traits; a voice that was painfully your own whispered ugly words of hate and disgust in your ear, and you took heed. Sometimes a person would try and convince you otherwise – tell you you're handsome, and smart, and funny, and talented… (Though not so much in Draco's case; he'd been truly alone.) But it didn't matter, because they were only words. Somehow, your own critical thoughts are never just words: they are truths.

The deflated, cowed boy before him bore no resemblance to the feisty, defiant creature Draco had been faced with in the past, but everything is relative. Considering the state Potter was in right now, this was probably as argumentative as he had been in many weeks, excluding the occasional burst of pent up anger. So, he did have some strength left in him then. Good; strength meant you could fight.

Yet even as he watched, Potter's head drooped lower and lower, his shoulders hunching in a way that poisoned Draco inside. He sighed. Even with all the strength in the world, the fight would be one hell of a battle; but despite any objections to Potter himself, Draco was still determined to make someone else's struggle easier than his had been. No one should have to struggle against the outside world quite as hard as they do against themselves; it is simply asking too much. So he walked forward slowly and cautiously, ignoring the second stab of pain when Potter didn't even flinch – he was too far gone to fear the threat of Draco. Now he was standing right beside him, the closest they'd ever been without having physically attacked each other. Draco opened his mouth and, speaking softly, began.

"You know, if you keep dragging your feet around like that you'll wear out your shoes in a couple of months." No response, but his keyed up senses noticed the tension sloowly beginning to slide away from Potter's shoulders. He gestured with one elegant hand, began to walk, and Harry followed.

"So I heard the Cannons finally had a win last weekend. Weasley follows them, doesn't he? They're saying it was the first in over three centuries. Merlin, but Quidditch is old… The great and noble sport, don't they call it? Though it is the only sport… We're not the most imaginative lot, us magical folk. But three hundred years! Don't you think you would've given in by now? I wonder how they managed it… Against the Holyhead Harpies too, the most vicious team in the league. Though they have to be, I suppose, to keep up their reputation. And show up those sexist bastards in the Ministry – you know they're still insisting that women shouldn't play Quidditch? Fools. They've obviously never seen the Weasley girl on a broom."

Draco continued rambling, keeping his tone measured. The trick was to never stay on one topic too long – that way Harry's mind couldn't grow accustomed enough to spin off on its own tangent and betray him. "We Malfoys of course have always followed the Ballycastle Bats, no surprise there. So, I believe, does Professor Snape… Ironic, isn't it? Though personally I've always had a soft spot for the Falmouth Falcons – they're amazing birds, falcons, though not my favourite bird of prey. I'm quite fond of my eagle owl really, Artemis I named him. You have a snowy, right?"

And as Harry nodded, a small word managed to escape his silence, almost of its own accord: "Hedwig."
It had begun.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Sitting in class that afternoon, Harry couldn't keep Malfoy out of his head. The other boy's grey eyes seemed to worm their way through any chinks in his usually tight focus. Where there weren't flaws to be found, they pulled out a hammer and chisel, chipping away at Harry's brain until he gave in, exhausted, and let his mind sink into those cool grey depths. Unfortunately, with his guard so destroyed, his own cruel voice could slip in too – But it didn't seem to bother him today, the poisonous words drifting like whispers of mist above the calming water where his mind was submerged. He took them in, yes, he still believed them, but then he let them float away on the breeze – for what did they matter?

The distraction had been such that Harry was left with slightly more homework than usual. As Malfoy had apparently avoided the Great Hall, and there was work to be done, he'd slipped away from dinner slightly earlier than usual, murmuring some pointless excuse to his friends. They nodded vaguely in his direction, Ginny with a distracted smile that didn't reach her eyes, and he was away with no incident. Initiating this small amount of contact, while difficult, was actually instrumental in keeping their attention away from him; without it, the wordless absences, mysterious in their silence, would only bring about more painfully awkward conversations.

The most confusing thing about Harry's state of mind was that he desired, craved, he needed his friends to notice – but he cunningly and manipulatively did his utmost to ensure that they wouldn't. (It was all rather Slytherin, really. Always listen to wise old hats that have no business opening their mouths, or even having them for that matter; for if a hat takes the trouble to say something to you, it's probably dreadfully important.)

Really, Harry avoided their attention for a simple reason: all those months ago, when people had seen his turmoil, it was all anyone would talk about. It was the subject of every conversation, whether openly or not; when he wasn't being criticised for his depressed mood, or questioned as to its source, it was the metaphorical elephant in the room – people talked around it, and the yawning chasm left by the silence was as painful to Harry as its contemplation. Depression had defined his life. But now, while from one side his current silence sounded suspiciously like defeat – filled as it was with lonely and despairing thoughts – viewed from another angle it could be seen as a small defiance, a control of the control.

As Harry began the long, lonely walk back to Gryffindor tower, he thought about what he needed from his friends. He knew it wasn't fair to expect them to know themselves, especially having never been in his situation, but he would never be able to explain: the self-loathing part of him wouldn't let the words out, condemning him to this punishment of solitary silence, and there was really no other way to make them see, short of putting them through the same hell. All Harry wanted someone to talk to him, to acknowledge his existence without having to focus on his illness. He wanted no pressure to be happy, to fix himself, to meet any kind of standards, or even to talk. He wanted someone to spend time with him because he was Harry (though not Harry Potter), not because they were concerned about his bloody mental state!

His ruminations, already periodically interrupted by the ever-present dragging of feet, were disrupted further by hurried footsteps behind him, and a loud call in a familiar voice. That voice was full of spite, and after their brief eye-contact in the corridor earlier, it surprised Harry.

'Why?' The reproachful voice was quick to ask. 'Why should it surprise you that a person would speak to you with malice – especially when that person is Malfoy? What makes you so wonderful, that no one could ever have a problem with you? Even Ron, your first and oldest friend is fed up. You're no fun anymore Potter; you drag yourself around the castle looking for all the world like someone's died.'

'People HAVE died!' Harry was quick to defend himself, but his own voice merely waved away such trivial details:

'You're pathetic.'

With this little tirade running through his mind, Harry was painfully aware of his shoulders scrunching, eyes keeping low as he turned to face Malfoy – the only person, it seemed, still willing to act like nothing had changed. But then the Slytherin's words trailed off, and Harry was almost too tired to feel surprised this time. He just waited as the anger on Malfoy's face became a look of desperation, quickly morphing into resignation, and finally settling on determination – though he saw none of this, eyes hovering closer to the floor than the blonde's face.

He waited, and something distinctly odd happened: Malfoy approached him. When he spoke again, his voice was almost gentle, kind of friendly – companionable, Harry decided. "You know, if you keep dragging your feet around like that you'll wear out your shoes in a couple of months."

So someone else had been just as conscious of the awful, shuffling drag; he almost could have smiled at the thought. Draco would never know how perfect that choice of words had been as Harry felt himself begin to relax, the constant voice momentarily stunned into silence by the knowledge that someone had noticed, and commented without criticising, or questioning, or interfering.

As the two boys directed their steps towards Gryffindor Tower that voice would have sought to interrupt the unlikely camaraderie, but Harry was carried along by the wave of Draco's words and refused to let his mind pull him away again.

After some thoughtless rambling about Quidditch teams and birds of prey, which somehow led into Draco's suspicions of various teachers' sex lives – a topic which did earn a smile from Harry (who cares if it said 'Ew!' more than 'lol', a smile's a smile) – the two finally reached the portrait on the seventh floor. Ignoring the distrustful stare of the Fat Lady, Malfoy again turned to face him. Their eyes met once more as one boy regarded the other, a searching look on his face. Harry simply watched Draco watch him (counting the shades in those watchful eyes – they seemed to be specked with a much darker grey, almost blue in its intensity), as Malfoy took quick stock of his body language. Within moments it was over, and he stepped back.

"Do me a favour?" Malfoy waited for the slight incline of the head, the acceptance in the green eyes. "Don't over-think this." With those four words, Harry knew exactly what he was referring to. If he started to question this the voice would take over; Malfoy had opened up the possibility of making progress, but with analysis, with questioning, he would only slip further back. (For a moment Harry marvelled at Draco's understanding – not over-emphasised, not matter-of-fact, just there. Somehow he knew how much he could say safely; how to acknowledge the situation without mentioning or dwelling on it.) Again Harry nodded, and relief momentarily flashed over Malfoy's face, gone so fast he almost doubted it was ever there.

"I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he turned a corner and was gone.

"What were you doing with that boy? He's a Malfoy you know, and a Slytherin; nasty creatures." Harry turned to the Fat Lady just in time to see her shudder with distaste. He quietly gave her the password and waited out her criticism while staring, not at the floor, he noticed, but at the stonework of the wall. When she realised he wasn't listening, the portrait swung open with a loud 'harrumph', and Harry stepped into the empty Common Room.

Ten minutes later he was set up at his usual table in the corner, the day's homework piled before him. With a steadying breath, he read over the first essay topic, opened his book, and began. Surprisingly, the evening's unusual events didn't affect his concentration nearly as much as the chance encounter earlier in the day. On the contrary, Harry settled to each task with unexpected ease, even feeling a little warmer inside, though winter's chill fingers gripped the castle harder than ever.

When the other students started drifting up from dinner, he still noticed the dismissive glances cast his way – the usual over-looking of the pathetic figure huddled in the corner. But that night the detached voice, though unchanged, suddenly became the voice of reason worth listening to. It told him that their analysis was the result of his recent behaviour, and not his character – he'd noticed this before, in his absent sort of way, but somehow tonight it was true. The information clicked.

When Ron and Hermione entered they were as unaware of his presence as usual, and to be honest (though he was highly conscious of them being there) Harry paid them as little attention. Most nights their treatment of him would add further fuel to the flame of self-loathing, and that little voice would speak all the louder for it; he didn't get his homework done as quickly after that, and would often disappear to the library to avoid the interruption. But tonight Harry stayed in the comfort of the Common Room, and let that tiny glow of warmth drown out the cold that followed them, like an icy gust, through the portrait-hole.

A few hours later he glanced up to find that Ginny was suddenly seated at his table. She appeared most nights, avoiding his eye as much as he did hers, as if it was too painful to look upon his face. The words flowed off her tongue, her tone staying bright and cheery, as she prayed for some tiny response from him – though she never expected one. Tonight Harry managed to be slightly more aware, felt that his features were somewhat less vacant than usual. He actually wanted to hear her speak, to feel that connection to the outside world.

His slight noise of amusement interrupted her diatribe against "bloody bimbos who can't even tell the difference between a fairy and a pixie", and he was rewarded with a bright grin, her face lit up as if from within. He felt awkward under such a gaze, especially when she began to ask if he was feeling better, but it felt good to make Ginny smile. She was a nice girl, with such a fiery personality – but she was sensitive, and he hated being the one to cast a shadow over her light.

At last his homework was done, and Harry could drag himself wearily up the stairs to his dorm. As usual he was the first to go to bed: partly because he was so desperate for the day to be done, for that little success to be achieved; and partly because he was just so tired. He had to admit, it was also design in part as he felt less conspicuous preparing for sleep, drawing the curtains round his private space, when there were no others in the room.

Though he was always first in bed, Harry would rarely be asleep before any of the others. After a particularly difficult day, while the curtains shielded his miserable form from prying eyes and his body was wracked with sobs, Harry might fall into an exhausted slumber, to awake the next day with swollen eyes and salt on his face. But most nights he lay awake, listening to the loud preparations of his roommates, so used to his forbidding curtains that they forgot he was there.

Long after their breathing became even, he would lie in his bed, eyes fixed open and staring. The silence was smothering, the heavy blanket of the dark serving only to amplify those malicious whisperings of his inner voice. It went through every moment of his day, finding every possible source of misery. It reminded him, as the night wore on, that in a matter of hours he would have to get up, and it would all begin again. It taunted him about what tomorrow might bring.

But not tonight. Tonight, he smothered the darkness, replacing it on an impulse with the glow of candles. Tonight that taunting voice, muted for so many hours, was kept at bay by the hope in his chest. Tonight Harry lay in the silence, feeling his eyes drift closed, and let himself rest in the promise of "tomorrow".

AN: After many hours putting this off, I have finally reviewed chapter 2 at 3 in the morning… Hopefully it makes sense, and I haven't left in too many gross abuses of grammar and understanding. Thank you most heartily to my two reviewers! Thanks also to those who added me to your story alerts. Thanks to anyone who reads this and smiles.

Blatant theft:
"And I was once there, hanging from that very ledge where you are standing. And I know, I know, I know, it's easier to let go." – Nightminds, Missy Higgins

"It's a weird smile, but it reaches his eyes and I bottle it. And I put it in my ammo pack that's kept right next to my soul. The one that holds Mia's scent and Justine's spirit and Siobhan's hope and Tara's passion. Because if I'm going to wake up one morning and not be able to get out of bed, I'm going to need everything I've got to fight this bastard of a disease that could be sleeping inside of me." – Saving Francesca, Melina Marchetta