***NOTE: This is not so much an Epilogue as an alternate ending. I had intended this to be the final chapter, and debated back and forth whether to upload it. That said, some of you, may not wish to read it, because it certainly changes the outcome of the entire story. Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed!

It was all a dream...

Harry was sitting at his desk in the Auror department, completing a stack of reports, one hand lightly gripping the handle of a coffee cup. The entire department had been called in to process the wizards and witches who'd been captured hiding out below Foggin Tor.

The fugitives had built a small colony among the ruins of the quarry there, concealing themselves from muggles with protection charms. When tourists hiking in the area began disappearing in alarming numbers, the Aurors had been sent to investigate, and ultimately arrested more than thirty Death Eaters who had managed to escape during of the Battle of Hogwarts. The catacombs below the Ministry were full, while Harry and his colleagues worked around the clock to question and verify the identities of the detainees.

Harry rubbed his eyes and looked up when he heard someone knocking on his cubicle. Kingsley gave him a friendly smile.

"What brings you to the trenches, Minister?" Harry asked. He waved his wand and his cup sailed over to a sideboard with a container of instant coffee and an electric kettle.

"Well, I rather need a bit of a favor," Kingsley said.

"Oh?" Harry reached a hand out for the mug as it floated back to him.

"There's been a request." Kingsley handed him a piece of parchment. Harry took it, and frowned as he began to read.

"Yes, I've received several of them recently. I'm not going." He set the letter aside and sipped his coffee.

"Harry," Kingsley took a seat in the chair beside the desk. "Normally, I would not question your decision or attempt to change your mind, but—"

"Kingsley, I did what I could for him. He pleaded guilty anyway. I don't know what else he wants. I'm not going to Azkaban."

"I don't believe you have read this letter closely enough," said Kingsley. "He's no longer in Azkaban."

"What?" Harry's eyes grew large. He snatched up the letter again.

"You need to see him, Harry. It will give you both closure." Kingsley's voice was firm. "Take tomorrow off. I'll clear it with Robards."

"But I'm nowhere near done with the paperwork on the Dartmoor raid."

"We'll find someone else to handle it. Besides, they aren't going anywhere soon. Unfortunately, time is of the essence if you are to settle this matter."

Harry pursed his lips. Although they were friends, he knew that Kingsley was making an official request and he was obliged to follow through. He exhaled with resignation.

"Fine. However, for the record, I'm not happy about this."

"Duly noted." Kingsley gave him an encouraging smile. "Why don't you skive off early? You look like you could do with the rest. I remember these early days in the department. Take it from me, friend, accept any and all opportunities to relax when you get them."

"Harry! What are you doing home so early?" asked Hermione, when he stepped out of the fireplace and into the library at Twelve Grimmauld Place. "Where's Ron? Is everything alright?"

She flicked her wand, and the parchments that were scattered all over the desk neatly sorted themselves into piles beside a stack of books. Hermione had returned to Hogwarts to complete her seventh year while Harry and Ron chose to go directly into Auror training. After completing her N.E.W.T.s, she'd secured a job in the Ministry's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

"Still at the office. I didn't expect you here so early," he replied.

"I had to do a field visit. There was a report of drunken elves at the Two Hippogriffs in Falmouth. We've cited the publican and removed a young elf. Anyway, you didn't answer my question. Why are you home early? Is everything alright?"

Harry dropped into a chair beside the fireplace with a sigh.

"Kingsley insists that I make the visit tomorrow."

"Kingsley? You told him about the letters?"

"No. Apparently, the Minister's office received one requesting a compassionate visit."

"A compassionate visit? You're not family."

"I know, but he insists that he must see me." Harry handed over the letter. Hermione read it carefully.

"It says that he's in St. Mungo's. Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Harry yawned.

"You know, you really could do with some rest, Harry. You look awful. Still having difficulty sleeping?"

"I guess I haven't done a very good job of hiding it."

"Why haven't you taken the Dreamless Sleep that Pomfrey suggested?"

"It makes me so sluggish in the mornings. Plus, I tend to forget important things overnight. An Auror needs to have a sharp mind at all times." Harry didn't want to tell her the real reason for his sleeplessness. "Perhaps I'll take a shower and have a cuppa. That might do the trick." He resisted the urge to rub his forehead, knowing that it would only concern Hermione and prompt her to ask more questions.

Harry waited until he'd left the library to summon Kreacher and ask him for a cup of tea. Ron and Hermione had accepted Harry's invitation to move into Number Twelve until they saved up enough money for their own home. However, Hermione and Kreacher were constantly at odds with one another, often forcing Harry to play referee between his best friend and his house elf. He trudged up the stairs to his room and sat down on the bed to remove his shoes.

The more he'd sought to tune out the disturbing images of his dreams, the more vivid they seemed to be. He woke each morning with his scar burning and throbbing like a clarion, reminding him of days he'd much rather forget. Harry lay back, staring at the high ceiling adorned with decorative moulding, as he considered any possible options to get himself out of the situation he was facing. Before he knew it, his eyes had fluttered closed.

Barely an hour had passed before Harry bolted awake, panting and clutching his forehead. The room was dim, as the sun had begun to descend. He flicked his wand to turn up the lights and noticed the cup of tea at his bedside. He warmed it and quickly drank it down as he struggled to make sense of his latest dream. He was seeing images of the past—his years at Hogwarts, but not from his own perspective. He was witnessing events as if watching another's memories through a pensieve. Each moment, filling in the gaps of his own life story.

Finally, in frustration, Harry threw back the covers and got to his feet. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he made his way downstairs where he overheard Hermione and Ron quietly talking in the library.

"…how can he be certain it's not a hoax? …Kingsley says he has to go…worried about him…not sleeping…saw him rubbing his scar…you don't think…could be to do with the raid…should just let him make up his own mind, Hermione…"

Harry turned on the spot and disapparated. A few seconds later, he found himself in the lobby at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He consulted the letter Kingsley had given him and made his way to the appropriate floor.

Before the end of the war, prisoners serving life sentences were not treated for illness. They were simply allowed to decline. After Kingsley took office and the Dementors were removed, the Wizengamot had been petitioned to mandate more humane practices at the prison. A healer visited regularly and provided routine care. Critically ill patients were given palliative care. That this inmate was not required to remain incarcerated was a puzzle to him.

He stepped off the lift, just as a dark-haired wizard exited the room to which he was headed. As he came closer, Harry was struck by his appearance. The young man was near his own age, and moved with an air of casual elegance. He was tall, well-built, and darkly handsome with fair skin, and long, lustrous black hair. Harry's breath hitched.

"Sirius?" he breathed. The other wizard met his dumbfounded gaze as he passed, and Harry noticed his startlingly blue eyes. No, it wasn't Sirius. Harry knew that, even as he'd uttered the name. Sirius would never be back.

The man gave him an appraising look and Harry felt his face grow warm. Still, he couldn't help looking back at the man as he continued down the corridor and around a corner. He shook his head. This was no time to be flirting, no matter how gorgeous the wizard was. Harry shrugged off his decadent thoughts and focused upon his destination. Harry made his way to the designated room and pushed open the door.

There he found Draco Malfoy lying on the bed with his eyes closed as a healer examined him. His mother sat beside the bed with his hand clutched in hers. The young wizard beneath the crisp linens bore little resemblance to the haughty, good-looking boy with sharp features who had been Harry's nemesis for nearly seven years. This Draco was gaunt-looking with a sallow complexion and thin, lank hair. His left forearm was bandaged.

Harry stared at the former Slytherin in shock. He was aware of the effect that imprisonment at Azkaban could have upon convicts. The image of Sirius' appearance at the time of his escape was still firmly imprinted upon his memory. However, Sirius had been locked up for twelve years, tormented by the presence of Dementors. Draco had only been incarcerated for a little over six months. How could he have gotten to this state so quickly? In Harry's estimation, he looked even worse than Sirius.

"Mr. Potter," the healer drew him aside.

"What's happened to him?" Harry asked.

"The guards who brought him in said he'd used a broken piece of stone to try and cut away his…erm…Dark Mark." The healer whispered this last bit of information. "The wound wasn't terribly severe, but when he was found, infection had already set in. We've treated him with blood replenishing potion, and that seemed to clear the infection, but he just seems to continue to get weaker and the wound keeps opening. The thing is we can't seem to find any type of spell damage."

"So, there's no chance that his mother—"

"The thought crossed my mind, but no. She's here every day. Always brings him a small bouquet." He indicated the small china vase with small, daisy-like flowers. Another bouquet lay on the table beside it with many of its stalks missing petals and leaves while some of the stalks had been stripped completely bare. "I don't think he cares for them. It seems he destroys them within a few hours of her departure every time."

"Will he recover?" Harry asked nervously.

"I don't know, Mr. Potter. If I had to be perfectly honest, I don't give him much chance." The healer sighed.

"I see. Thank you, sir." Harry extended his hand and the healer shook it before exiting the room.

Harry turned back to Draco and his mother, approaching the bed.

"Draco, Mrs. Malfoy," he said.

"Mr. Potter. I take it the Minister received our letter." Narcissa's voice was soft and weary. Harry looked at Draco who opened his eyes as Harry drew near. His formerly keen, grey eyes were dull and watery.

"Potter." He whispered. Draco licked his lips. "Mother."

Narcissa dabbed at his blistered, ashen lips with a wet cloth, and then stood.

"Shall I give you a few minutes?" she asked.

"Please." He gave her a weak smile. His mother smoothed his thin hair, sniffling as several strands came away with her hand. She conjured a lace handkerchief and carefully laid them inside before folding it. Harry bit his lip as he watched.

When the door closed behind her, he stood at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets.

"I must say, this is certainly not what I expected, Malfoy. I hope you didn't go to all of these extremes just to get me to talk to you."

"Ahem. Please sit down, Potter." His voice was thin as he spoke. Harry hesitated a moment. "I don't have a wand, remember? Besides, I mean you no harm, Harry."

At this, Harry started. He couldn't remember Draco ever using his given name. He slowly moved to the chair and took a seat.

"There are some things that I have needed to say to you for quite some time, Harry."

"Malfoy—"

"It's Draco. Please. I don't have very much energy. I just want to say my piece."

"Very well."

"I appreciate that you spoke on Mother's behalf. I don't believe that she would have survived a week in the North Sea. With Lucius away, perhaps she will have the life that she has longed for after all this time. I know that you intended to speak for me as well, but it was for the best that I serve my sentence."

He cleared his throat and reached for the glass of water on his tray. Harry noticed a spot of blood on the bandage that bound his wrist. His hand shook visibly as he lifted the glass to his lips. Before he had time to give it any thought, Harry reached out to help him steady it. He gently lifted Draco's head to help him drink. Harry was stunned when a lock of hair came away with his hand. He carefully tucked it beneath the pillow.

"Thank you. Ahem…I…erm…I am sorry, Harry—for everything. Thank you for mercy when I didn't deserve it."

"Mal—Draco, I—"

"The rest that you so desperately seek will soon come to you, as it shall for me." Draco closed his eyes.

"Draco? Draco?" Harry touched his hand, apprehensively. The pale fingers grasped Harry's more tightly than he would have imagined the sickly wizard able to do, and he felt a slight tingling in his brow.

"I am sorry. It is difficult to stay awake for long periods. Is it possible that I might implore you to return tomorrow?"

"I-I'm not sure. I'll have to check my schedule. Things are rather hectic at work right this moment."

"I understand." Draco's voice had once again dropped to a whisper. "If it is at all possible…"

"I'll do my best." Harry wasn't certain why he'd said it. The whole visit seemed rather a waste of time. All those letters just to get him here for an apology?

Draco did not respond, and his grip had gone slack. Harry stared anxiously at him before he saw the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the other wizard's chest. He stood quietly and left the room.

"Mr. Potter?" Harry turned around to see the handsome, dark-haired wizard striding towards him.

"Yes?"

"Do you mind if I have a moment of your time?" he asked. Harry looked at him curiously. "Oh, I beg your pardon. The name is Boniface, Perseus Boniface." He extended his hand.

"Perseus. The name…it seems familiar. You're not a reporter are you?" Harry asked.

"Me? No, no, certainly not. I, erm—perhaps I might buy you a cup of tea or coffee, and I can explain."

Intrigued and suspicious, Harry reluctantly accompanied the wizard to the tea room on the fifth floor. They each ordered a cup of coffee, and took seats at a small table in a corner of the room, where Harry cast a privacy charm.

"I don't think protective enchantments are necessary, Mr. Potter," said Boniface.

"You clearly don't know who I am. I never have personal conversations in public without one."

"Of course. On hindsight, I suppose unwanted attention could be a difficulty for someone such as yourself. I thank you for your discretion, as this is something of a delicate matter that I wish to discuss."

"I assume this has something to do with Malfoy?" Harry took a sip of his coffee.

"Yes, yes it does. I…erm…I was rather hoping that you would continue to visit with Draco, just for a few more days."

Harry looked at this wizard curiously. It had not escaped his notice that the gentleman did not behave as most others tended to do towards him. Harry was typically embarrassed and somewhat annoyed by the effusive praise that most people heaped upon him, especially when they were hoping that he would take up their cause. He also did not respond with thinly veiled derision, as if seeking Potter's assistance was unpleasant at best.

"What exactly is your relationship to Draco Malfoy?" he asked. "Or are you here on behalf of his mother. I know how devoted she is to him."

"No, I am…not exactly here on Mrs. Malfoy's behalf." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee and closing his eyes, clearly preparing himself before speaking. "I should first tell you a bit about myself."

"Okay."

"When I was five years old, my father took me away from my home and, for lack of a better explanation, abandoned me in the forest nearby. He believed that I was a squib and was embarrassed by that. I was found by a muggleborn couple who had been hiking there. They adopted me and I was raised around the world—they worked for muggle missionaries—do you know what that is?"

"Yes. I've heard of missionaries. My mother's muggle relatives raised me. So, I take it that you weren't in England during the war?"

"No. When my parents learned that—"

"Riddle."

"Yes, Riddle, had indeed returned, they decided it best for us to remain away from Europe. We did return just after the battle to volunteer and assist with recovery. My adoptive mother is a healer, and Father is a herbologist. They thought that their skills could be put to use aiding those who had been displaced and injured. I am a potioneer. I've just completed my mastery with Urbana Sklodowski. Now, I run a specialized retreat for…lycanthropes."

"Werewolves?" Harry's eyes shot up.

"I'm sure that you are aware that the numbers of those suffering from lycanthropy has increased substantially as a result of the war. These people have few resources in terms of a place to live, or to transform, access to wolfsbane potion is extremely limited."

"I am well aware. I had a very close friend who suffered greatly because of these very difficulties."

"Well, Mother and I established a sanctuary in the North; spreading the word through those we knew who were suffering."

"If the Ministry finds out—"

"We've placed a fidelius charm about the place, and I'm certain I don't have to tell you that the witches and wizards whom we help, are not inclined to divulge the details to anyone who might endanger their welfare."

"Well, they won't hear it from me. However, I don't understand what this has to do with Malfoy."

"Of course. I digress." Boniface let out a sigh. "Perhaps you know my birth father…Lucius Malfoy."

Harry reeled back as if punched. He stared at the man across the table in disbelief.

"You—I—Mal—" he stammered. Harry had a sudden flash of memory from one of the many dreams he'd had recently, in which he saw a young Draco desperately searching for someone named Perseus.

"Draco Malfoy is my brother."

"Wait—no—you fell into the lake!" he whispered, shaking his head.

"How do you know that?" Perseus leaned forward, looking at Harry oddly.

"I—I don't know, I…I think I dreamed it."

"Lucius told my mother that Draco had pushed me into the lake and I drowned. That was a lie. Lucius cast a knockback jinx and threw me into the lake. I don't know how I managed it then, but I realized later, that somehow I created a bubble-head charm and was able to get myself to the opposite shore of the lake. I was discovered wandering in the woods by Mother and Father a few hours later." Perseus toyed with his cup a moment. "Mr. Potter, please help my brother. I know it must seem odd to you that I would want to help him, but I do have memories of being very close to him. Lucius Malfoy was brutal and abusive. He tyrannized and destroyed my family, and I was the only one who managed to gain something good from it. I only want Draco to have something positive to hold onto, if only for a short while."

"I-I don't—what am I supposed to do, Mr. Mal—Boni—"

"Boniface is fine. It's who the world knows."

"Yes, of course. However, I don't know what I could possibly do for Draco. The healer said that they don't know what is preventing his condition from improving."

"I don't want you to save him, Mr. Potter. I understand the prognosis. However, there is something very deep that is burdening Draco. He needs to release that, and I believe that you are the only person who can help him remove that yoke. All I am asking is that you visit with him. Please."

Ron and Hermione were sitting together in the kitchen when Harry stepped out of the fireplace. Each had a bowl of ice cream in front of them. They looked up in surprise.

"I thought you were sleeping," said Hermione.

"I tried," Harry shrugged. "I just decided to get it over with."

"I still can't believe Kingsley made you go visit Malfoy," Ron remarked. "How'd he rate a transfer to St. Mungo's anyway?"

"No idea. Did you know that he has a brother?" Harry sat down at the table, declining the ice cream that Kreacher offered him.

"What? No way!" Hermione and Ron exclaimed. "How—why—?"

"It's a rather long story," said Harry.

"And scandalous, no doubt?" Ron suggested. Harry nodded.

"At any rate, his brother's name is Perseus, and he's asked if I will continue to visit with Draco."

"It still makes no sense, mate. You testified for Narcissa, and Draco. Then, he goes and pleads guilty to everything! He could have been free and clear, and the stupid git chose Azkaban! Now, he wants you to feel some type of pity for him?" Ron snorted. "He's made his bed."

"I don't know, Ron. It doesn't quite make sense, but somehow, I think I need to do this for him."

"Harry, you don't owe Malfoy anything."

"I know, mate, but…" Harry's voice trailed off. He couldn't explain the nagging feeling that if he honored this request, he might discover the reason behind his vivid dreams.

"Would you like one of us to go with you?" Hermione offered.

"I appreciate it, 'Mione, but I think this is something I need to do on my own. Besides, the Auror department is still swamped with the Foggin Tor investigation. Robards would never allow Ron to go as well."

"Lucky me." Ron grimaced and rolled his eyes.

Harry left Number Twelve early the next morning. It wasn't so much that he'd looked forward to an early start, he'd given up on any sleep after yet another inexplicable dream in which he saw Draco troubled by an unhappy relationship with Blaise Zabini. These myriad images were coupled with glimpses of Draco in the final days before the Battle.

When he pushed open the door to Draco's room, he found Narcissa once again sitting at her son's bedside. A new bouquet filled the vase and a small pile of decimated flowers lay on the table beside it. Harry arched a brow.

"Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy." Harry smiled politely.

"Mr. Potter. Thank you so much for returning. We were unsure if you would come again." Narcissa stood.

"Well, I try my best to keep my promises."

"Of course. I shall give you some time alone. Draco, my love. I'll return shortly." She kissed her son's brow.

"Thank you, Mother." Harry noticed right away that Draco's voice was a bit stronger than it had been the previous visit. Narcissa cleared the floral remnants before turning to the door.

"Erm, Mrs. Malfoy. What type of flowers are these? The look a bit like daisies, but—"

"Ahem. Feverfew. It grows wild in the meadows beneath the Manor, where Draco used to play as a boy. He…he used to bring me little posies tied in a ribbon when he was young." She smiled regretfully at the memory.

"I see." Harry nodded, his expression sympathetic. She vanished the detritus, and left the room. Harry took her seat. The two wizards stared at one another for a long moment.

"Malfoy—"

"Do you remember when we first met, Harry?"

"You entered our train compartment to introduce yourself, and Ron laughed at your name. Then you informed me that some wizarding families were better than others, and then Ron's rat bit Goyle."

"That's not when we first met."

"Isn't it?"

"No. We met in Madam Malkin's"

"Oh, yes! You made a rather intolerant speech regarding muggles, and insulted Hagrid." Harry nodded as the memory came back to him. Draco grimaced.

"I suppose wouldn't have made much of an impression on you at that point. Still, when I first saw you, I was struck dumb by your beauty."

"I'm sorry, I—you, what?" Harry wasn't certain that he'd heard him correctly. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if perhaps Draco was delirious or heavily medicated. He peered closely at him.

"I assure you, I am perfectly lucid, Harry. I—" he sighed and let out a weak and rasping cough. "I wanted to just be honest! I wanted to tell you so many times, Harry! I was mad with jealousy when you chose Weasley over me. And then you were so convinced that I was no good—and you were right! I wasn't! I was supposed to be better than everyone else; that's what Father always taught me—honestly, he beat it into me—but I wasn't. I could never be greater than you were! You were the heir of Slytherin! You were the Tri-Wizard Champion! Hell, even that bloody great chicken liked you better than me." He chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head and coughing. "Then I took that fucking Dark Mark, and any possibility of you seeing my true feelings died on that goddamned bathroom floor!" Draco closed his eyes.

Harry shook his head. It seemed he'd had this conversation with Draco once before. It wasn't real. It had been in one of his dreams. The amazing déjà vu sent a shiver up his spine. He opened his mouth to reply, but Draco had begun to speak again.

"Everything changed that night, Harry. Everything!" He let out a sigh and stared at his shaking hands. Draco turned away from Harry.

"Draco, I—I don't know what to say. I—" Harry stammered. His skin prickled with goosebumps. How could this conversation be happening? Every word brought back a torrent of dreams and restless sleep.

"When they brought the three of you to the manor, and—Auntie Bella—Father—I lied for you, Harry! I gave you my wand! You think I couldn't have stopped you from taking it if I wanted to? I just let go. I couldn't let him kill you...and then he did." Draco turned back to him, his eyes shimmering with tears. "Whatever shreds of my world were left, disintegrated when Hagrid laid your body before us and the Dark Lord declared you dead."

"But, I—"

"The dreams," he said, as if reading his mind. "They're mine." Harry's jaw dropped.

"What?"

"The Conjux is real, Harry."

Harry gaped at Draco in stunned silence. His head swam with dream after dream, featuring him and Draco in an alternate reality—one in which the two of them forged a different kind of relationship than that which had been recorded in their short history—one that found their souls reflected in the other. Harry had shrugged off the idea of this Conjux, telling himself that his dreams were now his own, unlike the tortured visions of his school days. He'd talked himself out of seeking information from Hermione, or visiting Hogwarts in the hopes of finding assurance from Dumbledore's portrait. He shook his head, coming back to the present moment, when he realized that Draco had touched his knee.

"I—" Harry paused and took a deep breath. He looked at the earnest silver eyes that were locked upon his own. "You haven't called me 'Harry' ever," he said.

"No."

Harry placed a hand on Draco's. "I...have a question."

"Yes."

"You say you gave me your wand—"

"Yes."

"When you confronted me in the Room of Hidden Things with Crabbe and Goyle, you weren't there to get it back."

"No. I wasn't as yet aware of the Conjux myself, but…in all of the chaos…I began to see things in my dreams. I began to see you and—"

"Him," Harry said what Draco could not. "You began to see his thoughts through mine. You knew about the horcruxes." Draco nodded weakly. Harry felt ill. "I just don't understand Draco."

"Don't you? We each had our prophecies to fulfill. You know that. I don't blame you for refusing to acknowledge the dreams. I gave up hope of you ever accepting my hand or my heart a long time ago. I'm at peace with that."

"And so you chose to plead guilty? The Wizengamot would have pardoned you. They had accepted my testimony."

"I know, and I am ever so grateful that Mother has been free to be reunited with Perseus after all these years believing him to be lost."

"But why not you?"

"Because it doesn't matter, Harry."

"You must be joking! Of course it matters! You, wasting away in Azkaban, won't bring back any of those who sacrificed themselves for—"

"You don't think I know that?" Draco's voice suddenly took on a strength that reminded Harry of another place in time. "It doesn't mean that freedom matters to me anymore. My life is nothing without you in it, Harry. Prison has certainly been preferable to a life in which I must be tormented by your image at every turn. At least in my fantasies I could have you. You would see me, my real heart—just Draco—but I am tired now, and I realize that my melancholy desires have caused you suffering too. I have spent a lifetime telling lies and masking my true feelings. I've never been able to give you anything, so I am giving you the truth, for once in my life. That is why I asked you here. I just wanted to have you—just you. Just once."

It was late when Harry finally returned to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He'd spent the remainder of the day wandering the city lost in his thoughts and replaying his conversation with Draco over and over in his head. The weeks and weeks of dreams began to knit themselves together, forming the backdrop for a number of unanswered questions.

He and Ginny had ended their relationship, not long after she'd graduated from Hogwarts. She'd landed a spot with the Holyhead Harpies and the press suggested that the separation was the cause of the breakup. Harry assumed the same, until Ginny had asked him outright if he fancied blokes.

Initially, Harry had laughed, but she pointed out that all of his friends had thought him to be just a little obsessed with Malfoy. Dean and Seamus insisted that he'd stalked the Slytherin throughout their school careers. Harry scoffed at the idea, but he had a more difficult time reconciling his attraction to other males, and soon came to accept his sexuality, though he hadn't bothered pursuing a new relationship of any sort. He'd attributed his lack of romantic motivation to being distracted with first training, then his job.

As his post-bellum life settled into a routine, the dreams had begun. Yet, Harry refused to acknowledge them. When Ron and Hermione began to show concern, he insisted that he was just a little overworked and perhaps suffering a bit of repressed post-traumatic stress. Harry was reluctant to address the dreams and visions that revisited Draco's tortured youth, and those that portrayed the two adversaries in romantic entanglements. Eventually, he simply decided that they were some form of guilt for not attempting to convince Draco to recant his guilty plea. As the sun set, and he finally returned home, Harry decided this explanation was best. He did indeed feel guilty for not at least attempting to persuade the Wizengamot to reject Draco's plea. He trudged wearily up the stairs to his suite, grateful that his friends had already turned in for the night and he would not have to answer any questions.

"Maybe there was something there," he muttered to himself with a yawn, and his eyelids slowly drooped shut.

Sunlight dappled the verdant grass beneath the veil of leaves of an ancient weeping willow that reached out to brush the surface of a shimmering lake, as swans glided gracefully by. Harry lay on his back, his hand clasped in another's. He felt the pressure of a gentle squeeze and turned his head to look into a pair of bright silver eyes.

"Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it."

"So, I take it you're not going back to see him again?" Ron noted his Auror robes, when Harry entered the kitchen the next morning. He poured a second cup of tea and passed it to him as he sat.

"Well, I'd only been cleared for one day of leave." Harry tucked into a plate of eggs and toast. "If things aren't too busy, maybe I'll stop by on my lunch break."

The day quickly consumed Harry and Ron in a marathon of interrogations, reports and arraignment hearings. Harry had not even noticed that the lunch hour had come and gone until his stomach growled its restlessness.

"That's it! I'm done!" Ron declared, slapping down the folder he'd been examining with a note of finality. "My brain is fried, and I've been reading the same page of this report for the last forty-five minutes. I need food!" He shoved his chair back and stood, leaning over the partition that separated their workspaces. "You coming, mate?"

"What?" Harry looked up from his own report and glanced at his watch. "Merlin! Is it that late already?" He stretched and pushed back his chair, just as Hermione appeared at the entrance of his cubicle

"Has either of you had an opportunity to read today's Prophet?" she asked.

"No, why?"

She handed him the paper, and pointed to a headline near the bottom of the front page.

Former Death Eater, Malfoy, Dead

The article was brief, only stating that Draco had passed away overnight. It mentioned his guilty plea and conviction following the war, but provided no details regarding funeral arrangements. Harry slowly sat in his chair once again.

He wasn't certain what he was looking for when he arrived at St. Mungo's. The healers had already changed shifts, and Harry was told that only family was permitted to request information about a patient. He sighed heavily and pushed open the door of the empty room. The bed was properly made and the space was ready for a new patient. Just as he turned to go, Harry spotted a small flower on the floor beneath the bedside table. He picked it up and disapparated.

"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, I—erm—yeah. I'm fine," Harry replied, distractedly. He scratched his wrist.

"Oh, Harry! What have you gotten into?" asked Hermione, examining his skin.

"Nothing that I know of." He removed his Auror robes, and the tiny daisy fell from his pocket.

"Feverfew! That's what did it! How on earth did you end up with this in your pocket?"

"Oh. I found it on the floor in Draco's room." Harry waved dismissively. "Narcissa brought him a bouquet each time she visited. The odd thing is that the healer said he destroyed the flowers every time she left." Kreacher served a dinner of chicken and rice.

"He did? Hm."

"What?"

"Did you ever find out why Draco was at St. Mungo's?"

"He'd tried to cut off his Dark Mark. Apparently, it became infected. I seem to recall that the healer told me that the wound wouldn't heal…or the blood replenishing potion wasn't working."

Hermione's expression grew mournful.

"What's wrong, love?" Ron set his fork down and placed a hand on Hermione's.

"Don't you see?" Ron and Harry looked at her blankly. "Feverfew is a natural anticoagulant. It prevents blood from clotting. It counteracted the blood replenishing potion. It also causes nausea and vomiting. If he was ingesting the leaves when no one was looking, he just got weaker and weaker."

"Whoa." Ron pushed away his plate.

"I—erm—I've gotta go—" His chair noisily scraped the stone floor as he pushed it back.

"Harry—" Hermione stood. Ron held her hand.

"He'll be alright." They heard the roar of Sirius' repaired bike a few seconds later, as it came to life.

Harry set the motorbike down outside of the ornate iron gate and gazed up the lane that ran between the hedgerows to the grand house. The sun was low in the sky, lending a purplish hue to the surroundings, and he could see lights on in the manor windows.

He wasn't certain why he'd felt compelled to journey to Wiltshire, and was just about to turn the bike around and depart when the massive front door of the mansion opened, and he saw a figure look down the drive in his direction before disappearing suddenly. A second later, Perseus appeared at the gate, the iron bars dissolving like smoke as he passed through it.

"I didn't mean to intrude," Harry apologized.

"It's alright, Mr. Potter."

"It's Harry. Y-you can call me Harry."

"Yes, of course, Harry. I'd like to thank you. Draco was…at peace," said Perseus.

"Did you know that he was going to—"

"Harry," Perseus sighed. "I count myself fortunate to have been abroad at the height of the war. I cannot begin to imagine the atrocities that you and so many others faced. I understand that my mother and my brother were thrust into a situation that was not of their own making, and they continue to be haunted by horrific memories. Mother cries often. She doesn't sleep, and when she does, he has night terrors. She says that her only solace is that I have been returned to her. She often touches my face, unsure if I am truly here after all this time. Draco had lost his will to live before the war even came to an end. It's why he chose to plead guilty, he said. He couldn't face life in a world where the one thing he wanted most was so near, and yet so unattainable. I don't know if Mother was complicit in his mission. However, if she was, I think she turned a blind eye, because she felt she had colluded in the destruction of his childhood and adolescence. I don't know." He shoved his hands into his pockets and toed the gravel with the tip of his boot.

"I see." It was Harry's turn to sigh. "What—erm—what did he tell you about me?" Harry asked. "About why he wanted to speak to me?"

"He told me enough." Once again, Harry noticed the appraising look that Perseus gave him, a slight smile curving his lips. Harry's cheeks reddened. "There won't be a funeral. We shall be spreading his cremains in his favorite place."

"Ah. Well, I won't take up any more of your time. Erm, please give your mother my condolences."

"Thank you. Good night, Harry."

Harry found himself completely distracted the next day, as he struggled to complete his paperwork. He'd had to rewrite at least three of his incident reports, and attended one hearing with the wrong arrest file, earning him a stern dressing down by the Polemarch. By late afternoon, he sat grumpily at his desk poring over his investigative notes, making sure he'd not overlooked any important evidence. A tiny ball of light floated into his cubicle and formed into a hummingbird.

"Mr. Potter, you have a visitor at the main desk." The voice of the duty Phylax announced from the patronus.

"What now?" Harry grumbled, slapping the folder shut. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the front office and through the maze of desks in the bullpen. Patrol Witch Vietti, the senior Phylax turned to him with a smile.

"Who's the dish, Potter?" she asked, giving him a wink.

"What are you on about, Vietti?" he asked.

"Your visitor—he's quite fit!" she whispered gesturing over her shoulder. Harry approached the desk and looked in the direction that she pointed.

To his surprise, Perseus Boniface turned from the notice board and gave him a smile.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he apologized. "I'm certain that you're very busy. Erm, Draco wanted you to have this." He held out a parcel wrapped in silver paper.

"Oh, erm—thank you." Harry took it. "You didn't have to deliver it in person. I know that you must have quite a lot to do."

"Actually, erm…I was wondering if…perhaps you might like to have dinner with…me—or lunch—lunch is fine if—" Perseus' face grew red and he smiled nervously.

"Oh, erm—well if—I mean, I actually hadn't yet taken my lunch—you did mean today, didn't you or—"

"Oh, right now—I mean—yes—today is—I mean if—"

"Erm—okay. You don't mind, just give me a few—" Harry pointed back towards his office.

"No—I mean—yes—I mean—I—I'll wait."

"Brilliant! I'll just—I'll-I'll be right—yeah." Harry backed away from the desk, falling against a nearby desk and upsetting the occupant's jar of quills. PW Vietti snorted, biting back the urge to laugh out loud.

Harry hurried back to his cubicle with the parcel in hand. He set it on his desk and quickly applied a freshening charm, releasing some of the wrinkles in his rumpled robes and attempting to tame his unruly hair. Just as he turned to leave, he glanced at the package that Draco had sent. Harry picked it up. It was weighty and solid, and he was certain that it must be a book. He unwrapped it, confirming his suspicions, and turned over the leather-bound volume. The cover was gilded in gold foil, and Harry was surprised to note that it was a muggle work.

"A Tale of Two Cities?" he murmured. Suddenly, the previous night's dream flooded his memory. He knew that the words Draco had spoken were familiar to him. He opened the cover. Draco's neat script adorned the flyleaf.

"Harry, turn to the marked page."

Harry flipped to the page marked by the attached satin ribbon, at the end of the novel. He read the passage that was marked by an inked in star.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known." He noticed that there was writing on the next page, and turned to find a note from Draco.

Though unbeknownst to you, on that fateful night, when you cursed me, we have been consecrated to one another, becoming each to another, the consort of his days, and equal in the foreknowledge of joy and pain, strength and weariness, direction and doubt, for all the risings and settings of the sun, keeping together what measure of trouble and sorrow our lives have laid upon one another. Divine assistance have we been to the other, and as one has lived, so has the other survived. This was the prophecy that I was meant to fulfill. It is the bond of our Conjux, and your window into my heart and soul.

As you read this now, the Conjux is no more, and we both shall rest in the peace that we have longed for these years of our young lives. I thank you for your mercy, and compassion. Know, that in spite of all that has happened, my heart ever belongs to you. Always.

Note: Sklodowski is the maiden name of noted physicist and chemist, Marie Curie. Polemarch is a judicial official of ancient Athens, while a phylax refers to a guard in the ancient Roman. In this context, the phylax is equivalent to a desk sergeant.