Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, why would the epilogue have been filled with little red-headed Potters? Other than because Ginny kicks butt… But yeah, not mine.

Chapter 3

Draco walked Potter from the Entrance Hall to Gryffindor Tower nearly every day for the next few weeks. He became quite a regular in the kitchens, never bothering to attend dinner first: Potter ate very little, and as he wasn't inclined to socialise, left the meal as soon as possible; Draco would wait in the shadows, falling into step beside the boy as he passed – though if someone else was in the hall, he would simply wait in the next corridor in Potter's path.

Sometimes the inner voice of the Malfoy heir would sneer at him, asking why he'd ever go through so much trouble simply to talk to the tragic little hero of the Wizarding World. 'What are you getting out of this? He doesn't even react, doesn't appreciate you at all. Here's your chance: take it, grind him into the dust… Show the Wizarding World who the true hero is!'

Then the voice of Draco, with his newfound and hard-won pride of self, would snarl at it to 'shut the hell up, you don't control me now'; and when Potter turned the corner, Draco would watch his eyes light up with warmth as he stepped out of the shadows. Something in those eyes melted a forgotten place deep within his own heart, and Draco knew that until he saw the other boy smile, and laugh, and hold his head high, these walks would continue. He wouldn't leave Potter alone in the dark, couldn't, not now that he could finally see the light.

When Draco had a detention and couldn't make it to their little meetings, his improved relationship with the house elves revealed itself to be quite useful: he'd duck by the kitchens to grab a quick meal before meeting his fate, and wheedle one of the house elves (usually Dobby, who was very worried about Mr Harry Potter sir, he hadn't been to see Dobby in some time, oh no sir) into dropping a note under Harry's plate, the edge poking out where only he could see it.

'Alas, I have detention again tonight. It does interfere so with my usual schedule! What a relief that I'll be headed to the library at, say, eight o'clock, and can be sure to perform any important tasks on the way there.'

This method worked quite well, not giving Harry's irrational mind any reason to make him lose faith. However, there was no note to be left the night of his first detention, a week into their little routine, and Draco had been concerned; he knewexactly how Potter's critical voice would force him to interpret his absence. After spending several hours spent cleaning and dusting an entire wing of unused classrooms, he'd assured Professor McGonagall that yes, he had definitely learnt his lesson. What he didn't say was that the evening had been torturous not because of its monotony, but because of his own worry and guilt. When she'd dismissed him with a severe nod, Draco rushed straight to the seventh floor, letting his feet guide him to the Gryffindor entrance.

Lingering in a passage way and watching the Fat Lady gossip and giggle with some other painting, he'd felt his heart beat fast in his chest. His mind repeated some wordless mantra, a wish, a prayer that Potter would walk out in the next seconds… Now that he was paying attention, he'd quickly noticed that Harry went to the library to escape the emotional dangers of the Common Room after a trying day – something he could also identify quickly thanks to his new attentiveness. After his earlier no-show, Draco had a feeling this would be another tough night.

An hour later the waiting had paid off and Harry stepped through the portrait-hole. His eyes were cast down, shoulders hunched under the weight of that blanket of darkness – Draco had inwardly cursed his own idiocy for hexing that bloody Hufflepuff when McGonagall was walking by. As Harry passed he'd waited for a moment before falling into step a few paces behind him; his voice was quiet, tone much closer to apologetic than you'd imagine a Malfoy's could ever be.

"Sorry I'm late. What are we studying tonight?"

Harry had jumped, then actually given Draco a small, relieved smile. When he'd spoken, after a pause to gather his words, his voice was surprisingly sweet, addressing the Slytherin in welcoming tones for the first time. There was forgiveness in there too, and a warmth which tightened around the blonde's chest for a moment, making it difficult to breathe. And there was gratitude, seeping in at the edges, bringing back the forgotten stab of pain.

"I was thinking potions – you could help me with that essay."

For a moment Draco had been filled with longing; he wanted nothing more than to sit with Harry in some forgotten corner of the library and work side by side. He wanted to hear that voice again, telling him about some bizarre concoction older than Merlin, wanted to see those green, green eyes looking to him for guidance. But he couldn't.

That first night was the hardest, what with the awkward moment after Harry called his bluff, Draco casting about wildly for some acceptable reason why he couldn't join the Gryffindor… Thankfully, he understood the impossibility without Draco needing to explain; but the guilt still gnawed at the Slytherin, so he made up for it by throwing himself into the conversation, making the trek to the library as enjoyable as he could. But he never went in.

Malfoy's past actions had proved the simplicity with which a tradition can begin, and this was no different. Each night that Harry found a note under his plate he'd make up some excuse for Ginny, throwing it to Ron and Hermione as he walked past them and out the portrait-hole. As he passed the secret passageway that led to the Transfiguration classrooms, Draco would step out of the darkness and Harry would frown. His voice steeped in mock disapproval, he'd ask, "And what time do you call this?" Every night Draco answered differently, one night offering up a sheepish "I fell asleep writing my History of Magic essay" (Harry couldn't blame him), another night granting him a smug "The Ravenclaw had it coming."

As the weeks went by, Draco watched as Harry's eyes focused higher and higher, his posture seeming to straighten. He'd walk past a courtyard, and catch a glimpse out of his eye: Harry sitting and talking with the Weasley girl, the shadow of a smile on his face. Walking down a corridor, they'd pass each other, and Draco would notice Harry pick up the pace, throwing back his shoulders, as if his presence was a reminder of the other boy's goal.

Pretty soon, the companionable walks became a daily pleasure for Draco, something to look forward to. He found himself bookmarking events, thoughts and conversations for later use, the most common phrases in his mind, 'I wonder what Harry would think' and 'I should tell Potter about that, it might light up those green eyes…'

One specific afternoon had garnered another such moment to be remembered, but for analysis rather than discussion. Walking down one of the many corridors of the castle – perhaps the same passage as that first fateful day, perhaps not – Draco had been witness to a sight so surprising it had almost stopped him in his tracks. Rounding the corner was an unruly black mop of hair, the slight bow of the head allowing it to shadow tired green eyes, framed by Potter's trademark specs. Now this may not sound all that shocking, but Draco was very aware of the silence.

Oh of course it wasn't silent, not by any means. This was a school full of noisy, cooped up teenagers and children! No, there was noise enough, all blurred into one hubbub of sound. Voices raised above each other in excitement, or outrage; laughter both free and cruel; paper rustling, books dropping, birds chirping! And the footsteps, my word the footsteps… Hurried feet, measured steps, strides both short and long; some people were running, some matched their steps, and still others seemed to be marching to some internal beat. But in the midst of this, one noise was missing, and Draco's ears were filled with the absence of that sound: Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp…

Potter wasn't dragging his feet. With each step, his shoes lifted all the way off the floor, and were replaced a respectable distance away. Draco's lips quirked, teased by the impulse of a grin; but Malfoy's didn't grin, and though Draco was no longer just 'a Malfoy', and never would be again, he wasn't sure yet that grinning was something Draco's did, at least not in public.

But his face didn't seem to have gotten the memo, contorting further into that unfamiliar expression as he noticed the peculiar look of concentration gracing Potter's face. Draco felt his heart squeeze with a fierce, almost physical intensity as he saw the beautiful, naked vulnerability also on display there.

At last the boys were face to face, closer, closer… and passing. Their expressions were carefully masked, each pretending to ignore the other's presence as they both tried (and failed, and so just pretended) not to stare. The same spark lit both their eyes, their hearts rejoicing in union with every second they didn't hear the echo of dragging feet – and a little at the thought of this moment they now shared, though neither would admit it.

Yes, the dynamic between the two had certainly changed since that first night spent walking together. The comfortable but enigmatic atmosphere of the one-sided conversations between former enemies had now been replaced by an easy, companionable tête-à-tête; sometimes it rose into a teasing battle of wits, but Draco painstakingly ensured that it never, ever descended into silence. However, things between them were far more different than he realised…

o0o0o0o0o0o

In the midst of the myriad changes Malfoy had noticed in Harry's behaviour, there was one thing that slipped under his radar, missed by those usually keen senses (sharpened as they were by a lifetime of looking over his shoulder). Draco's uncharacteristic oversight could be construed as a small blessing, a mark from the Gods if you will – a sure sign that they had smiled on this unlikely union. For if he had observed this tiny change –with all its enormous implications – he would have turned tail and ran; and if he fled, all would be lost. Harry would sink once more into the depths of despair, and this time Draco would be right down there with him; because if Malfoy ran from this, his destiny, he'd fall straight into the waiting arms of that darkness – and a boy can only save himself so many times.

So now you see why it was both a miracle and a blessing that Malfoy had somehow managed to overlook the new light that filled Harry's eyes whenever they were turned on him. That light was one of understanding, mingled with a new respect and admiration – the light, if he'd listened to it, would have whispered, 'I know your secret.'

The sudden insight came upon Harry during a rare hour spent staring into the flames of the Gryffindor fire. Malfoy had detention that night but, it being a Saturday, he had slipped a note into Harry's books when he was studying in the library, rather than pleading his case with the house elves once again. Now Harry was faced with an unappetising dinner, surrounded by the same chatty Gryffindors whose voices had sawed at his nerves all week, and without the consolation of a walk with his new friend immediately afterwards to strengthen his resolve. Deciding he'd rather skip the meal altogether, Harry indulged himself by the fire, relishing the silence, the privacy and the warmth.

Curious as to what Malfoy had been caught doing this time, he let his mind and imagination wander and soon found himself questioning the Slytherin's recent kindness, and wondering about his mysterious understanding. Made drowsy by the heat, the malicious voice was quieted once more, failing to exercise its usual tight control over any topic remotely relating to his self-esteem; Harry was able to think clearly and reasonably, without being distracted by the cruel whisperings.

'How is that he knows exactly how I feel, without me ever needing to say it? And why is it Malfoy, of all people, who understands what I'm going through? He never was the most eloquent person I knew, he put his foot in his mouth the first time we met at Madam Malkin's, but he's the one who knows exactly what to say. I always thought no one would understand what I needed to hear, not unless they'd felt… the same.' –a beat– 'Merlin, please no…'

Yes, like a light coming on in his head, the great mystery had suddenly been illuminated and set out clear before him. It had finally dawned on Harry that Malfoy did know exactly what he was going through, because he'd felt the dull ache of that darkness himself.

The realisation jerked him back to full awareness, and Harry felt his mind race, considering this new bit of information from all angles, fitting it into every scenario like it was a jigsaw piece and he was searching for its home; and so he was, trying to find where this knowledge fit within him, wondering how much it changed things, trying to decide how he felt about it.

So this was why Draco was talking to him – not because he cared about Harry, but because he knew he was the only one who could help him. But wait, why did that have to be a bad thing? As a Slytherin and a Malfoy, the fact that he had even considered helping someone, let alone his life-long enemy, was most definitely a point in his favour.

His mind jumping to another tack, Harry felt a pang of disappointment in his chest as he realised this meant Malfoy didn't have any kind of insight into his soul, any special understanding of him. (That did rather take the romance out of things.) But he told himself it didn't make a difference as Malfoy was still the only one who understood, and after that a little of the fluttering returned to his chest when he thought of every thankless but never missed walk the Slytherin had joined him on.

Then the full understanding of what Malfoy had been through hit him: the fact that Malfoy had been through it. Draco had climbed out of this darkness and lived every day in the light, even if it was sometimes dimmed by the shadows of what had been. Harry wondered if he'd ever find out the details of Malfoy's battle: what had caused it? When had he felt that way, and for how long? Who had helped him through it?

Harry thought of Draco's cold features and fierce independence. He thought of the disdain for friendship, family and love that had shone through in countless arguments over the years. There wasn't even any pride of self to be detected in the blonde's demeanour, just vain pride. Did anyone help Malfoy out of his depression? Or was he left to fight alone, smothered by the darkness? Forced to struggle his way out by sheer force of will, or give in and lose himself forever? If Draco had been alone, Harry thought, it would explain a lot; like why he was now so strong and independent – and bitter.

AN: Well? What do you think? I know this chapter skips over quite a chunk of potentially exciting squee moments, but it likes being vague and hopeful. And I did love the little looks in the hallway… More to come! (Also, neongreenleaves, I hope this is slightly less depressing for you! The drama is irremovable)

ThankyouThankyouThankyou to the four very special people who have my stumbling little fic favourited. And a huge thanks to HellItself! Your feedback and encouragement was greatly appreciated, and I'm glad I made you smile :)

Finally, an actual note: I know this story has very quickly begun to stray from its original theme of depression, so it won't do much good as an ice-breaker for those affected. But I'd still like to say that, like poor Draco, I may not have insight into your soul but I want to help in any way I can. I can always listen, and I'll try to understand. (People who aren't good with words are totally welcome too! I know that can sometimes seem like a barrier, but as I hope I've shown, I get that words don't always describe experience. Just start typing.) Drop me a line any time; I will get back to you. Stay strong, and love yourself. That's what got me through.

You are amazing; I promise.