Disclaimer: No, Harry and Draco and other such wonderful things are not mine. Neither are Crabbe and Goyle, or Ron on his bad days. Wouldn't mind owning Pansy though… Also not mine are the various references to music, literature and other fan-worshipping creations set throughout the story.

AN: One thing that perhaps needs to be made clear in this story is the voices. Harry has two internal voices speaking to him – he's not hearing things, they're just to symbolise the two different kinds of thoughts, or mental states, which in my experience come with depression. One is the cruel, critical voice that is 'painfully his own' – because it's difficult to have your own mind telling you you're pathetic and it's no wonder everyone hates you. The other voice is detached, and completely emotionless – except for its occasional foray into helpfulness. It shows how, behind the bitterness, and the spiteful voice, Harry is empty inside, and just doesn't care anymore.

Chapter 1

Harry trudged down one of the many corridors of Hogwarts castle, walking some distance behind his two best friends. They were bickering; again. Ron had tried to copy Hermione's homework. Or had Hermione rubbed Ron's nose in her high grades? Maybe Hermione had caught Ron ogling Lavender again. Perhaps Ron felt Hermione was too eloquent in her praise of Victor Krum. To be honest, Harry didn't actually know. He could barely hazard a guess; he hadn't really been paying attention to his friends' lives for… Well, for a very long time.

As he walked, he couldn't help but notice his feet dragging. Ron and Hermione had long since grown used to the rhythmic sound, but Harry noticed it with every step. He knew it wasn't a good sign, but he sensed the danger as if from a distance. He vaguely noticed the books hugged defensively to his chest, face virtually buried in the mound; he made note of the eyes, never straying further than the point of his shoes. Yes, he saw it all, but it had never occurred to him to really try and change.

The idea had come to others of course, but Harry had been quick to shoot it down. Or rather, he hadn't: he'd felt empty for a long time, unable to conjure emotion, except for the occasional welling of bitter rage; doing anything quickly or emphatically was simply out of the question. The responses to his almost abrupt change were varied, but unsurprising: Ron had blamed him, arguing every little point and criticising Harry's dull mood constantly. Hermione had tried to rationalize, shooting question after question with a thin veil of supposed patience; sometimes the expected response of answering didn't even occur to him, and he blinked back at her, face chillingly empty. Mostly, though, the answers floated into being slowly and he just couldn't think how to get them to the surface. For some unknown reason, the only time his thoughts were fast flowing was when they were spewing forth a torrent of self-recrimination and disgust, the nasty voice in his head picking at any kind of pride of self – that voice that was so unbearably his own.

After Ron and Hermione, there was Ginny. At least she got some reaction out of him, Harry mused. She had been blessed with some kind of response to her pains, rather than a vacant staring; she got anger. Ginny… she'd tried to charm and coax him out of his anguish by constantly smiling, even going so far as to instruct him to do the same, in the sort of tones that would be condescending even to a three year old. She seemed to think that with one smile his world would return to sunshine, rather than continuing on, enveloped in dark despair.
No, Harry knew that thoughts like that were uncharitable. He understood that Ginny was scared by his listlessness, and that she desperately wanted it to just go away – he vaguely acknowledged that her pain and suffering was his fault, knew he should feel some kind of guilt, but again it was just detached knowledge.

Lastly there were the teachers. One or two had tried to get him to talk, to no avail. Harry could distinctly remember sitting before Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, the unfamiliar couch setting making him extremely uncomfortable as they voiced their concern. Then there was the long meeting with Madam Pomfrey; he'd sat in a too-reclined seat, too defensive to relax back into it, but feeling too conspicuous leaning forward. She'd talked on and on, leaving pauses for him to contribute – pauses filled by his head nodding, eyes darting round the room then resting on his twisted hands. She'd come up with some convoluted theory to explain his uncharacteristic behaviour, and without his instruction that head had nodded eagerly, pretending she had a miraculous insight into his soul. Really, Harry had just accepted the fantastic (read fanciful) explanation because if a professional was coming up with it, it must be acceptable. Who knew how much of a freak his true mental patterns would prove him to be?
Of course after that there were the rumours, and questions: was Harry Potter really seeing the mediwitch for counselling? Whispers behind hands, darting looks; the only blessing was he was too tired to guess at their words.

When he'd first started sinking off their radars, Harry had felt momentary relief, quickly followed by despair. The only thing he wanted more than being left alone was someone to persistently try and save him. When whole days went by without any acknowledgement of his existence besides Ginny's smiles, the flame of hope began to flicker. It had been months now, and the teachers and students had finally settled into an acceptance of his new state, content to ignore him. He felt he should rejoice; after all, hadn't that been what he'd always wanted? But the blackness just descended further, smothering him a little more firmly.

Exhausted by this desolate train of thought, Harry returned his attention to his feet; they were safe. If he could get through the walk to his next class, he could just sit; focus on his work and try not to think. A quick dinner, followed by a slow walk back to Gryffindor tower, alone; focus on his homework, and then he could sleep. One day down. Strangely, Harry never contemplated the fact that one day down meant more ahead; maybe his mind wouldn't let him, knew he'd be crushed under the weight of time and life. No, Harry just knew that if he made it to the end of today, he'd be ok.

Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… The noise was repetitive, but not soothing, he noticed. The sound said to him, "I am your feet. See? See how I move? With each step, you bring yourself closer to your goal, to the next moment, to existence and time. Rejoice." And so he did, a little.

His eyes watched his feet: their gaze never drifted as close as his ankles, and rarely travelled further than an inch from his toes; on a good day, he could see half a metre ahead of his feet. And if no one was passing, he may get a good look at the general terrain for several metres up ahead. But mostly, Harry noticed his feet. The detached voice regularly informed him that it wasn't a good thing; a sign of bad self-esteem. He needed to look up, up; and not just to check his surroundings. "One day," he said to himself, "one day I'll stare ahead as I walk. One day I'll be proud, I promise me." Over the weeks he'd tried this, tried to make his vision focus higher and higher, and for longer periods of time. Very recently, he'd managed about the height of a passer-by's lower ribs for a few, long, seconds.

But today he made it further, and that one look would change his life. There was no conscious thought in it, other than the voice disinterestedly whispering, 'Higher, higher… You promised.' His eyes had pushed up, past his toes, moving fast now, just a glance, no more than blurs: Hermione's book bag, bobbing angrily against her hip; Ron's hunched shoulders, neck tinged red above the collar. His eyes roved quickly; he felt nervous, thought he must look shifty. "Quick!" he told his eyes, "You must fix to a point!"

And so they did.

o0o0o0o0o0o

Draco sauntered down one of the many corridors of Hogwarts castle, flanked on either side by his two brainless cronies. They were bickering; again. Crabbe had eaten Goyle's piece of pie. Or had Goyle rubbed Crabbe's nose in his superior nerd-bludgeoning skills? Maybe Crabbe had caught Goyle eyeing off Pansy. Perhaps Goyle felt Crabbe was being too eloquent to maintain the status of thug (Ok, so that was unlikely). To be honest, Draco didn't actually know. He would never exert himself to hazard a guess, as he'd never bothered to pay attention to the idiotic pair's mutterings.

As he walked, he couldn't help but notice A Sound. Of course, there were the two halfwits arguing, but The Sound was only slightly familiar; it pulled at his senses, calling on his memory. The tugging was less than pleasing, and Draco didn't trust uncomfortable feelings; too often they were brought about by his conscience, an unappealing luxury he refused to afford (and couldn't, really, considering his father's line of work). So he ignored the gnawing at the back of his mind, shrugged off the tangy taste of knowledge on the tip of his tongue, and frowned.

Arguing halfwits: the Weasel and his mudblood girlfriend must be around the corner. No, of course Draco didn't mean his goons when he said 'halfwits', and yes, he was sure. Why? Because they didn't have any wits, let alone half. (Anyway, how dare you question the Malfoy heir?) Besides, the sound of the two behind him was as much background noise as his own breathing; his mind didn't even acknowledge the disturbance. No, the only two sounds distinct to his ear were the growling of the Golden Lapdogs, and That Bloody Sound ('Dear Merlin, would someone make it stop?'): Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… Ssshp… The usually rhythmic sound skipped a beat, adding a dramatic, fast-paced 'shp' as its creator stumbled. Stumbling meant feet.

And suddenly it all clicked into place: Potter. Draco had been hearing that irritating noise all over the castle, and it was always followed by the appearance of his rival. Past rival, he corrected himself; the two hadn't argued in months, and even if he were to attempt starting one, he sincerely doubted the other boy would have the energy (insofar as a Malfoy could do anything sincerely).

Now that he understood the source, Draco allowed himself to give in to the thoughts that were no longer nagging but flooding his mind. So, Perfect Potter was dragging his feet; Draco derisively noted that it wasn't a good sign, channelling all his annoyance into the sneer that accompanied this thought.

But wait, "all his annoyance"? Why was he so annoyed? It's not like Potter had done anything to him personally, not in a long time; and for several weeks now the rest of the world had been treating him distinctly less like a God in human form. (Draco almost snorted at the thought; what kind of God couldn't control his own hair?) So now that everyone had joined Draco's own opinion – that there was nothing whatsoever special about the boy – why was he filled with frustration, and itching to punch someone?

Hang on, that was new. He was frustrated? Why for Merlin's sake? Draco was unused to such in-depth thought about his own feelings, but allowed the musings to continue; he was curious. Well first of all there was the noise itself: it was enough to drive anyone mad. But surely it shouldn't create this level of frustration, not when he'd regularly been taking it out on the Quidditch pitch (another strange symptom: Potter had given up his position on the Gryffindor team). So what possible reason was there for Draco to be frustrated more than was appropriate for a Malfoy? What usually had the power of getting to him? Let's see: Gryffindors, Weasley's, idiots like Pansy fawning all over him, idiots like the entire world fawning all over Potter, and people failing to notice the obvious. Oh, right.

Months ago, the repetitive noise of dragging feet had begun to echo around the castle and Draco had recognised it instantly for what it was: Potter was depressed. Accustomed to the teachers and little Gryffs fawning all over the miracle boy, Draco had waited for them to start making a fuss, mocking taunts already forming in his mind (of which 'Not-So-Golden-Now-More-Like-A-Dull-Bronze Boy' was not his best effort). But it didn't happen.

Oh sure, people had begun to tiptoe around him, anxious not to disturb the boy's thoughts or delicate mental state; people had tiptoed, and some teachers had kicked up a very, very, small fuss and shipped him off to Madam Pomfrey. Whispers had echoed through the school, curious eyes boring into Potter as he dragged himself through the halls, and then… they just stopped. People got used to the Hero of the Wizarding World slinking around like a shadow, and the echo of his footsteps became as much a part of Hogwarts life as the wailing of the Bloody Baron or the gossiping of the portraits.

So the sound continued; people stopped noticing the noise, no one interfered, and with every repetitive, grating step Draco wanted to scream all the more (Not that he ever would; Malfoys did not lose their composure), partly because it was really irritating, but mostly because he didn't know why; why was everyone so cavalier about Potter's obvious depression? Why had such proof of his vulnerability and imperfection rendered the boy invisible? Were they really that shallow? Well, yes, they were, but how did they not realise it, and hate themselves? After all, it went against every one of their oh-so-high standards. Why was no one trying to help the boy? Draco just did not understand… and it was driving him mental!

Throughout this unusual and lengthy introspection the raised voices of Weasel and Granger had been getting louder, as had that infernal dragging of feet, window to so much more. Both sounds served to aggravate the annoyance created by his thoughts, and by the time he and his shadows rounded a corner and came face to face with the Gryffindor Three, Draco was itching for a fight.

The twin sounds of bickering died away as four of the six students settled into glaring at their house rivals, momentarily united against a common enemy. This was the usual way things began, a moment of calm before the storm; all it took now was one comment from either side, and the battle would begin. Draco had been fully prepared to make that comment, but the all-encompassing glare he'd meant to direct at the Gryffindors had been unexpectedly intercepted, altering both his expression, and his impression.

Ron and Hermione may have found it unusual that Draco was no longer sneering or glaring, but his effeminate features were now marred by a frown as he regarded the subject of his earlier musings, and they considered this aggressive enough, considering the distinct lack of head-to-head battles lately. Crabbe and Goyle, however, wouldn't have found Harry's vacant (though in this case, slightly surprised) expression unusual for two reasons: firstly, they were unlikely to notice, one of several side-effects of such a distinct lack of intelligence; and secondly, it had been a long time since those famous features had portrayed anything else.

As he'd heard the trio's rapid approach, Draco had deliberately sought out the face of the boy he'd just been considering; consciously, he'd simply meant to begin his assault without delay, but perhaps his subconscious had been hoping to find some answers written there, maybe even something to relieve a little of this strange tension. No matter his intention, the result was the same: all thoughts ebbed away, and Draco could do nothing but stare. Harry, on the other hand, had raised his eyes at the urging of that detached voice, looked into the face of another for the first time in many months, and found himself caught. The end result was that both boys froze there, gazes locked and somehow withstanding the confusing flood of emotions, while their companions stood tense and oblivious, distracted from the Moment by their own Mexican stand-off.

If he was totally honest, Draco would struggle in hindsight to explain why he'd been unable to look away. Perhaps it had something to do with the look of wonder spreading over Potter's face; or maybe it was those startling green eyes, cold with despair, as his own had been long ago. Whatever the reason, Draco wasn't honest, even with himself, and would later rationalize it as some semblance of the great staring contests of old.

Harry, though, he knew exactly why his gaze was so transfixed, and it had everything to do with those equally startling grey eyes, and the depth of emotion and meaning conveyed by them. They were creased by frown lines, and he absently noted that the stormy depths seemed troubled, regarding him with something he'd describe as worry if it had been evident in anyone else's face. He'd tried to push his progress further forward, tried to hold his head high as he walked, and in doing so had shifted his eyes from their contemplation of his feet, straight to the face of Draco Malfoy – and Malfoy had seen him. Some spark of light seemed to pierce the darkness, and Harry was lit up with wonder. For the first time in his memory, here was someone looking at him – really looking, staring at his face as if trying to divine the secrets of the universe; someone who was looking at him, and meaning to see.

And just like that, it was over. The classroom door opened, the six students jumped, the professor beckoned them in, and the moment had ended.

AN: This is my first chapter fic, so I'm very excited. A lot of the experiences with depression were based on my own, though I've hammed up the dragging of feet to give a bit more symbolism to the story. However, I do have one strong memory of kind of absently taking note of my body language while walking to class one day, and I did really set myself goals of looking up more when I was walking. Five years on, I still catch myself forcing my eyes up if I'm surrounded by people I don't know, or having a bad day.

Ginny's reaction I personally find vastly irritating. In fact this may explain her getting the reaction of anger: my friends didn't want to see that I was depressed, so they would try and make me smile. Every day, every recess and lunch, at least twice, I would hear, "Eeeeriiin, smiiiiiiiiiiile!" Yeah, irritating much? So eventually they did get a reaction out of me: I blew up. Lots of ranting about feeling like shit, and having a crap life, and no, I wasn't going to smile just because they told me to. A few seconds of awkward silence… "Erin?" I look up to see the biggest grin on her face. I'm pretty sure I got up and left.

Oh my goodness, the awkward conversations with teachers, and that inevitable day they ship you off to the counsellor. What is with those chairs? They really are ridiculous – they are SO reclined you're basically Freudian, and so vulnerable, but if you sit forward you feel hunched and awkward. Stupid stupid invention.

Writing this story has really helped me come to terms with my depression, and has taken away some of the power of the memories; it really, really does help to talk about it. That being said, you're more than welcome to share your own experiences, I'm happy to be a listening ear for anyone who needs one.

Not that this is relevant, but I thought someone reading this might like an explanation of the title; I always like to understand them. 'More than anyone could ever know' comes from 'I Need You' by 3T – yes, they are Michael Jackson's nephews, yes he sings background vocal, yes the video clip is TERRIFYING – yes it is still one of my favourite songs in the world. It happened to be playing when I felt like writing something new; I wrote that as the title, and just started typing… Somehow it worked. So the actual lyrics go "I need you, and I couldn't live a day without you. I need you, more than anyone could ever know." That applies to the eventual relationship between Draco and Harry, plus the actual title fits their unlikely friendship – there is (or will be) more between them than is good for anyone to find out about.

One last thing (I never write a short AN when I can write a long one), the timeline. I don't have a specific place that it fits – I wanted this to be up to you, whenever you think the events are likely to occur, hence, no mention of Voldie. However, references to the war have crept in at points. Feel free to ignore them or not, at your discretion.