Means to an End

Valencia St. Croix was, by all accounts, a thoroughly modern and highly progressive witch. She had cropped brown hair that was messy by design, impressive golden eyes, and lipstick the color of wet sand; she was also in possession of a notable figure that she had never hesitated to press to her advantage. She had a black clutch purse and a sleek, tailored black cloak of fashionable three-quarter length, paired a skirt of expensive and imported suede. Her sweater was crimson, ribbed, and several sizes too small, as losing one's circulation was quite fashionable within the circles she frequented. Her strappy black heels clicked cheerlessly against the concrete sidewalk. This failed to trouble her, as Valencia St. Croix did not approve of cheer.

Her skin was lightly tanned, and, as she walked, she left a light fragrance of oranges and cinnamon in her wake. Heads turned, and she smirked, tossing her hair like someone who knows. Valencia was fully aware that she was attractive. She knew that she could have married any of the most eligible bachelors in the city, and she had, twice. She did not pretend that they had been marriages for love, as she simply did not hold with the entire convention of love. Love was for the naive, fawn-eyed schoolgirls who had yet to experience just how much of a bastard the real world could be. She was not naive; she was progressive. She was a thoroughly modern and highly progressive witch, and had no qualms with writing off the whole ordeal.

She casually and elegantly strolled into the narrow alley that ran between Numbers Thirteen and Fifteen along the abandoned avenue of Mulciber circle. There was only one pair of eyes upon her now- and that was her own, as she surveyed her flawless complexion from her compact mirror, mussing her hair exactly once before replacing the small black case in her purse. She continued on in her signature strut, a mildly seductive tone of transportation that surely would have attracted more attention if there had been anyone to observe it.

If she was suspicious, her mildly bored smirk did little to reflect it; she seemed faintly annoyed, but that was hardly a new development. There was a vast list of things that annoyed Valencia St. Croix, and this meeting was bound to be one of them. Walden had never been an ideal assistant. At times she wondered why she kept him on payroll at all, a question that had intensified after his utterly idiotic rescheduling of the meeting to this evening. She'd had to push back two dinner dates to accommodate it, and was not at all pleased about the entire affair.

Her heels hurt, but this was something that she had grown used to; she was tired, and she wished very much for a cup of coffee. Instead, she fished a cigarette from her clutch and impatiently tapped the end with her finger until it lit. She dangled it expertly from her fingers, although she never really had a chance to do more.

She toyed with the clasp of her purse, lifting the lighted cigarette to her lips. It never reached them. For a moment, she was aware of the icy presence in her chest, but it failed to register... she gasped, an afterthought, and then she crumpled. The cigarette smoldered mutinously against the coldness of the ground. A faint breeze tugged the smoke into measured arabesques, and, in retrospect, the meeting did not seem quite so important anymore.

***

Sandwiched snugly between the third and fourth floors of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies was a ward that is not listed on the hospital directory. The receptionist would neither confirm nor dispel any questioning on the topic, and despite repeated prodding by curious patients and visitors, the lobby elevator buttons yielded no clues. The stairs moved seamlessly from the third to fourth floors. A survey from the outside revealed exactly the number of floors that there ought to be. In fact, there was nothing at all to indicate that the place is anything more than an urban legend.

Nonetheless the general consensus was that the ward existed, and existed in more than just the sense that first-years giggled about sending each other there. It was the home of everyone's aunt's-second-husband's-first-cousin's neighbor, an infamous punchline of several jokes told in bars. Although protocol had grown increasingly tighter over the years, the whispers and gossip had been enough to fuel more whispers and gossip. Adults would speak of it in hushed voices when they were almost positive that their children are not listening.

The nurses on the ward, however, did not speak of the ward in hushed voices; this was quite possibly because they spent a good portion of their time talking in condescendingly loud ones. Despite the patients' many other problems, very few of them were deaf. Most of the patients dismissed it, out of gratitude, tolerance, or utter obliviousness.

There was one patient, however, who loudly surmised that the nurses were required to speak loudly so that the healers could distinguish between them and the 'other godforsaken souls locked up in this place'. He did not eat, and rarely slept; he'd made several of his nurses cry, one of whom had promptly quit. He spoke six languages, and delighted in switching mid-sentence, simply to enjoy the look of confusion upon the listener's face.

It was the ones like this that made Luna's life a living hell. She stared blankly down at the thick manila folder in her hands, massaging her temple with one hand while closing it with the other. Her left foot had fallen asleep during the consultation, and the pins and needles were most aggravating, nearly as aggravating as the man in the folder. She glanced down as she walked; his photograph glowered back at her, pale and emaciated; a long scar ran from his ear and tugged the edge of his lips into a disdaining sneer, poisoning the perfect symmetry of a face far too pretty for its own well being. A yellow sticky note from the spell damage ward testified that they were still trying to figure out what had caused it, and that his smirk was unintentional, caused by the scar. She didn't quite believe it. She'd seen his smirk before.

Luna entered her office and closed the door behind her- it was a very nice office, really, given that it was theoretically nonexistent.

"You aren't supposed to be here, you know," she said conversationally to the man in her chair, deigning to offer exactly one glance over the top edge of the folder. Her tone was more conversational than indignant, as though she really did not mind his being there, or was at very least powerless to remove him.

"Now, now, is that any way to greet a friend?"

"It is if his feet are on my desk." She motioned absently towards the shoes in question, a slow smirk winding upon her features. Luna had grown quite used to mildly insane people wandering in and out of her office, but was convinced that he was among the worst. However, in a largely uncharacteristic move, the dark-haired Auror chuckled and shook his head, obediently settling both feet upon the lacquered wooden floor. After standing, he motioned towards the now-empty seat with an extraordinary flourish.

It was with an almost incredulous pause that she lowered herself into her comfortable executive's chair. Harry was a friend, but he took his job seriously; his job often entailed doing unpleasant things, and she had yet to stumble into a circumstance where his current expression was a good omen.

Luna was reasonably sure that she had not grown a second head, though Harry was regarding her as though she had. He seemed to take a cue from her raised eyebrow, for his thoughtful frown melted into the same engaging smile that he always wore. It occurred to her then just how talented an actor he was, which, for one reason or another, failed to cheer her in the slightest.

"So..." she trailed off, glancing down at the photograph on the folder. The occupant seemed to have wandered off, leaving only blank hostility in his wake. "What can I do for you, Harry? I wasn't expecting to see you for a week, at least..." Luna absently ruffled through the papers on her desk, wondering what it was about his manner that was making her so very nervous. If she was not entirely mistaken, there was a certain shiftiness in the way he persisted in studying the various certificates and papers that hung upon her walls.

He squinted one of the frames. "Is that...?"

"Out with it, Harry," she exhaled, a bit more pointedly than she intended.

Harry paused for a moment, then laughed. "Don't kill me."

"I would never kill you," she assured him, silently affixing the statement with an asterisk. "You brought me coffee last Thursday. I don't kill people who give me coffee."

There was a brief bit of silence, in which he watched her with rather the same expression one would use to survey a dubious rope bridge if one had just been informed that they would have to cross it.

"I need... information," he replied, still eying her.

Luna blinked, rather delicately she thought. "What sort of information?"

"Important information."

"Vagueness is not winning you any brownie points, Mr. Potter." She gave a thoughtful smirk, pressing the folder down onto the desk.

"From one of your patients."

Luna paused. Several rather nasty sentiments popped into her mind. Did he simply not realize what the effect of an interrogation could be on a scarred mind? Was he quite that insensitive? Of course he wasn't... and therefore, she did not voice them. Instead, she waited a few moments more, carefully measuring her response; civility was something that she had become very, very good at, even when she very much wanted to dig in her heels and pitch a royal fit. "The Ministry," she noted, levelly, "has absolutely no jurisdiction here. You know that. I cannot have you manhandling my patients."

"I do not intend to manhandle anyone, Luna," he replied diplomatically, glancing casually at his fingernails. "I merely need to ask a few questions. Then I will leave. That is all."

She scowled. "It isn't like you can take them out for tea. For some reason I'm disinclined to believe that you're going to ask them about sunshine and daisies..."

"I don't think I can get the information anywhere else."

"Then try. I cannot..." she waved a hand, for emphasis, "I cannot simply allow Aurors to march into my office and demand audience with my patients, Harry! It isn't a matter of familiarity... and do not say that it would be a personal favor, you last personal favor nearly got one of my nurses killed..." she dropped her eyes to her papers.

"This is important," he persisted. "Deadly important... and that," he concluded, "is why you ought to switch to a rotating form bed schedule. Really, Ms. Lovegood, change might be good for your patients... and a rotating form bed schedule is ministry standard, you really ought to know that..."

The sudden shift in his demeanor was enough to jerk her eyes upward. A young nurse had entered the room, an unremarkable face with big brown eyes and small wire glasses. She looked about sixteen, although as Head Healer Luna knew that she was older; she was holding a tray (presently trembling) with a cracked mug of coffee and several inches of paperwork. Her deer-like eyes darted in quiet panic between the two occupants of the room. While Luna was fully aware that Harry had abruptly switched topics so as to appear trivial, the poor girl looked nearly epileptic about interrupting the conversation.

Despite her caring nature, Luna was reminded very much of a panicked squirrel.

"I... am I interrupting, Miss Lovegood?" she said, her voice shook as violently as the tray did.

"No," she replied, with a furtive glare towards the Auror.

"Yes," he replied, with a similarly furtive glare in reply.

Years of training had prepared Samantha Fairfax for many things, but choosing between the judgments of her boss and the greatest hero that had ever lived was apparently not one of them. Her eyes widened, if possible. She remained absolutely stationary, silent aside for the clinking of the coffee mug against the metal tray.

Harry shot a glance between her and Luna. "No. You're right, Miss Lovegood, of course not, of course. I'm sure you have a lot to do, Miss Lovegood... you should seriously consider the rotating schedule, really, I'm sure it would help... thank you for your time..."

He flashed both women a winning smile, and a single look toward her nurse confirmed Luna's suspicion that the girl really wanted her eyes to pop out. The Auror cheerfully plucked the coffee mug from the girl's quivering tray, grinning indulgently at its owner. "Thanks, love," he winked. "Right thoughtful of you to bring me coffee. Well, I ought to be going... I'll be back once those plans have been implemented..." Harry spun on his heel and strode cheerfully through Luna's marginally-open office door, which she then glared at until she felt it had been appropriately punished.

The nurse was just now becoming fully aware that he'd made off with Luna's coffee, but did not seem all that concerned to that effect. She stared at the tray for several seconds before exhaling for seemingly the first time since she had entered in the first place. She lowered her load onto her boss's desk, pausing for a few moments afterwards.

"Is he always like that?" Samantha asked, with a lingering glance over her shoulder.

Luna frowned thoughtfully for a moment, glancing up an idle inventory of the papers she'd just received. She sighed deeply, shaking her head. "Yes. Yes, he is."

The girl nodded quietly, turning to leave- presumably to fetch her more coffee, but Luna had suddenly lost interest in caffeine. As the door closed, she lowered her head into her hands, massaging her forehead. She sight at the paperwork before her, less than eager to file through the forms. Despite repeated self-assurances to the contrary, she could not shake the growing conviction that somehow, somewhere, she had been duped.

***

It could be said that Draco Malfoy had been looking for a fight, and whoever had said it would have been perfectly right. He had been in a terrible mood for several weeks now, and, devoid of an outlet, he had been set on unleashing his ill will on passerby. Some might have called it bullying, but Malfoys preferred to call it 'stress relief'... and normally it would have done just that, but it was different now. Because it was not anger directed at nothing in particular. He had known exactly who it was directed at.

His lips had curled into a smirk, or, at very least, his already present smirk had become slightly more pronounced. Potter. Draco did not like defeat, and self-doubt was not something Malfoys held in high regard. And so in his mind it had not been a matter of if he would beat him in Quidditch, but when; he had been practicing fiercely over the summer, devoid of a father to tell him to work on other things, and, curse it all, he had gotten better. He had always told himself that he had never actually lost to him, that the time had merely not come for him to win. He was tired of waiting for inspiration. His father's analysis had been far less optimistic, but his father was in Azkaban...

He had fingered his quill a few times, attempting to mimic what Harry's writing style would be like; he'd snagged a few dropped papers before in order to keep him from finding them, although the sparse glances he'd cast at the handwriting itself revealed a style far less elegant than his own- simplistic, he's sniffed at the time, but that made it all the much easier to forge. He bit his lip as he wrote, squinting at the low-quality parchment he'd bought expressly for this purpose, ignoring the obscuring light of his candle on the paper, having reflected off the shiny Head Boy patch pinned loftily to the collar of his robe...

"Dear Ginny,"

He'd tried "Dearest Ginny", but feared such familiarity would send the Weasley girl into shock before she reached the good parts. "Dear Gin" sounded idiotic, even for Potter's standards (which Draco fathomed lower than low). And "Dear Virginia" was right out. So it was "Dear Ginny," then...

"It's a bit weird to be writing you like this, on a school owl, but it's important. I... I don't know..."

Draco had assumed Potter stuttered as he wrote. It seemed like Harry, meaning that Draco had found it stupid and common.

"I had to say it, but I couldn't say it in words. It's strange. I know I haven't paid attention to you for years..."

It didn't take a degree in Arithmancy to know that; everyone did. Draco had found it amusing, in the sense that it was really quite pathetic.

"And I expect that you'll hate me for realizing this now... but... you're beautiful. I don't know when I realized that, but something changed... and I feel so very horrible, because I've been blind, blind to what's been here the whole time."

Draco had felt that relating such emotion coherently was rather above Potter, but, as feeling such emotion was below him, he figured it averaged out. He was particularly smug about that part. The old Malfoy charm... it worked every time...

"I wouldn't be surprised if you never want to see me again..."

And face it, thought Draco, who did?

"...but if you do... please don't show this to anyone. I don't think they'd understand. And your brother... I don't want to fight with him. He wouldn't understand. I don't think any of them will. It hurts just thinking about it all... but please, I need to see you. I need to talk about... this... with you. I was thinking... maybe... you know the hedge roses behind the Herbology classroom? It's quiet... nobody goes there... well, I go there to think sometimes..."

Draco thought this part was fitting, as it did not seem that Potter's brain worked anywhere he'd seen him...

"You don't need to write me back... just... please try to be there. I'll understand if you don't... really... and I know you'll be receiving this in the great hall while I'm there, but if I look at you, I don't know what will happen... so just... I don't know... try not to show it to anyone. I know you can take care of yourself where your brothers are concerned, but I can't... I don't know what I'd do if they were angry at me, and your family's the closest thing to family that I have."

I'm sorry... I know you probably like someone else, but if I hadn't told you, I don't think I could take it.

- Harry"

Pathetic, really... but it simply oozed with self-hatred and denial, which seemed to be Potter's style. He regarded the note with a smug expression, folding it quickly- quickly enough that the ink would smudge, even though it was magical. Upon opening it again, it looked hasty, but very deliberately composed... as though there had been several drafts. He smirked, folding it again... and then it was off to the owlry. Yes, Draco thought, as he tucked the letter into his robes. Potter would pay; he would pay in ways that he'd never thought were possible... and as he spun around, surveying his desk as though he were standing atop a dignified pedestal, he wryly pondered just why it felt so very good to be bad...

Rather suddenly, the world flickered like a candle in a draft, replaced by a building just as cold and foreboding as the Slytherin's common room, but far more familiar... his home... his father's drawing room... he recognized it instantly, the tapestry behind his father's chair... his father's leather chair, the one that swiveled, the one he was never allowed to touch... and all the polished baubles in the cabinets nearby, catching the candle-light, and there were words... and then, knocking. Knocking in the silence, drowning the words... he craned his head upward to see... the room slipped away like sand in an hourglass, as it always did... as it always had... as the comforting stone drifted into white plaster and gray tile, as the mahogany furniture shifted into fiberboard and as ever fiber of his being was jerked into reality.

"Looking in our pensieve, I see," cooed an indulgent voice from the door, like a mother delighted that her infant had just discovered his toes. Draco whipped around to face the plump old woman, who had clasped her hands together and was regarding him a fond smile.

"Perhaps we ought to rot in hell," he sneered, glaring daggers through his dangerously narrowed eyes. "Get out of my room."

The nurse opened her mouth to speak, but was quieted when the woman behind her held up a hand. "Thank you, Midge. That is quite enough." She looked very businesslike with her wavy hair in a bun, and entered the room in her normal fashion, holding a particularly thick folder and keeping the place with a finger. Turning to the seven-chinned nurse, she smiled. "I think they need dinner in room forty-one... thank you..."

The door closed behind her, and Draco glared at the woman beyond it. "I. Want. Another. Nurse." He said sheerest loathing, not looking at her.

"Yes, well," Luna noted casually, "That's what happens when you make all the others scared of you."

He scowled, turning to face the wall, his hands on the back of an uncomfortable chair. "I can't have scared all of them. I haven't had more than eight. Believe me, if there are only eight nurses in this ward, you have bigger problems than just having a few uncooperative patients."

She very carefully resisted the urge to roll her eyes, instead proceeding with her levelest of voices. "It seems as though you've become something of a horror story to them, worse with every retelling. Tell me, why is that?"

He set his jaw, accentuating the scar that ran along the side of his face. Then he laughed, a cold, raspy sort of laugh. "It's because they're ugly, actually."

One eyebrow raised significantly, as she lowered herself into a chair in the corner. "Explain."

"Well, you see," he drawled, "If they weren't ugly, I would seduce them. I really doubt they'd be complaining, then; in fact, I'm sure your employee satisfaction surveys would shoot through the roof..."

Luna did not seem to regard this as an adequate explanation, nor was she at all amused by his suggestion. This did not matter, as she suspected that he had only been half-joking, and didn't see her stern expression anyway.

"When I was first given this position," she pressed, "I was told that you were an average patient. Tell me, when did this hostility towards nurses first surface?"

Draco raised a slender eyebrow, making a show of mock-pondering the subject. "Hmm. You know, I've come to believe it began about when I was beaten, tortured, and detained by crazed cultists, but, you know, that's just an estimate."

She pursed her lips. "I believe you know what I mean, Draco."

"Oh? I don't. You must have forgotten. I'm crazy, apparently. Insane. Cracked. Psychopathic, you see, or at very least you say. And so if you're going to ask me questions, you really ought to spell them out, so that I can understand. Why, if I could figure things like that out, I'd hardly need to be here, would I?"

"You hear voices, Draco," she sighed. "You see things that aren't there. Is that normal?"

He shot a glare over his shoulder. "And you wore radishes in your ears. Is that normal?"

"We've been over this before, Mr. Malfoy. I am not the one being evaluated. And, for the record, yes, attempting to find oneself is normal. I just happened to be a bit... further away than most."

"See," he motioned grandiosely, "that's my problem. I'm trying to find myself." He turned to face her. "Unfortunately, I'm having a bit of trouble doing so, as I highly doubt my 'self' would have anything to do with a dingy hellhole like this. Tell me, Lovegood, can you truly feel good about keeping me from a life of happiness and sanity?"

"I believe I'm to be the judge of where your sanity lies, Draco," she replied, scrawling a few notes on the back of a form. As predicted, he leaned in, attempting to read what she had written. She gave him a blankly inquisitive glance, as though mildly surprised that he would care.

"Whatever are you doing, Draco?"

"Stretching," he muttered guiltily, turning back to his wall. "Horrible beds. Back hurts." There was a pause. "And don't call me Draco."

"Well, what should I call you, then? When I called you 'Mr. Malfoy', you grimaced."

He snorted. "I'm not a gentleman, either. Malfoy will do fine. Not like there are any to confuse me with, after all."

She frowned thoughtfully, hoping he would elaborate; when he didn't, she merely shook her head. "Very well... Malfoy... I'll make a note of it in your profile..." it was some headway, at least, and she took the fact that he hadn't thrown furniture at her head to be a very good sign. "And I will see what I can do about getting you another nurse. Not," she clarified quickly, before he could speak, "Because I think your attitude or your actions warrant it, but because I think your current one is doing you more harm than good- no fault of hers, but that is how it goes." Luna stood. "Do not expect these sort of favors to come often, however, and unless this one threatens you with bodily harm, I highly suggest you play nice. And, furthermore..."

The door opened, and her sentence was cut off. Her train of thought, too, was wrecked on the rocks, and any words were plucked from her mouth before she could even consider voicing them.

"Get out of here," she demanded, fighting to keep a civil tone.

Draco raised an eyebrow and looked towards the entrant; his response was striking an instantaneous. His head whipped back as though he had been hit, he took a step backwards, sneering in distaste. "What," he growled, "Is he doing here?"

"Actually," she said, swallowing, "I was wondering the same thing."

Harry gave a brief smile, but, upon judging his audience not to be receptive to such, he cleared his throat, closing the door behind him. "As we discussed earlier, Luna... I have a few questions."

The pale-haired man's eyes narrowed as he turned to the healer in angry disbelief. "You... you planned this?"

"No. I didn't." Something inside her mind was making little tinkly noises, like someone hitting a champagne glass with a block of wood; she drew a sharp intake of breath, closing her eyes for a moment, before standing, addressing Harry in as authoritarian a tone as she could muster.

"You need to leave," she ground out. "Now. And don't think I won't have you thrown out, because I will."

"Au contraire, Luna. You had everything to do with it. You see, you said that you could not allow me to do so... 'barge in', I seem to recall you saying. And so, I took it to someone who could, so to speak. Mortimer Fields. Very kind man... he understood, you see. It's important." He very nonchalantly retracted a parchment from his robe, unfolding it and handing it to her. Forcing her hands not to shake, she pried off the seal with her thumbnail. A notice of allowance was emblazoned on the inside, written in black ink; a sprawling gold signature at the bottom showed that it was genuine.

"I see," she said, shortly, folding the paper. Luna felt a swelling of inexplicable rage somewhere below her consciousness, but her expression was blank. She opened her mouth, said nothing, and then turned to her patient.

"Will you excuse us for a moment?" she asked to Draco, who nodded suspiciously. Harry frowned, but she no longer cared; her teeth were clenched, and it was all she could do to keep herself from telling him off in the middle of the ward.

"We talk," she hissed. "We go to the conference rooms, and we have a little chat. Now."

Harry might have been about to say something about her slipping tenses, but his sense for self-preservation begged otherwise, and he left obediently in front of her. She closed the door. Several nurses looked up as she marched him off, including the squirrelly one, but she did not care. She opened to the door into conference room three, then closed it, sealing it with several spells intended to keep sounds from penetrating either way. This done, she pivoted on her heel, turning to face him.

"Higher authority," she stated, livid. "Higher authority?" her voice was dangerously close to a yell. "Fields is merely the chief benefactor- he knows nothing about patient care! Nothing at all! This is my patient, my ward, my judgment call- where do you get off? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The Boy Who Lived had quietly lowered himself into the executive chair at the end of the table. He had summoned himself a glass of water while she ranted, and taken a sip of it. For a few seconds after she stopped, he regarded the glass as though it were the most interesting thing in the world; when he glanced up at her, he looked tired, more tired than she had seen him look for a very long time.

"I'm trying to save his life," he said, finally, setting his glass on the table. "But if you're going to try and stop me, Luna, go right ahead."