Means to an End

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

***

Luna blinked, all tension melting from her shoulders. Her mouth opened as though she was trying to speak, but for several seconds, she failed. Her temples were throbbing with suppressed anger, and she was still flushed from the yelling match she'd been prepared to inflict upon him. "You're trying to do what?" she asked, finally stringing together a few coherent words and determined to make them work.

"Save his life," he elaborated neutrally, lacing his fingers behind his head as he reclined. He glanced around as though the room had been conceived for his convenience and he was mildly pleased with the result. "I think you're familiar with the concept?"

"But... but why?" she asked, utterly nonplussed.

Harry's eyebrows rose, as though this was not the question he was expecting to be asked. "Why am I trying to save his life?"

"No," she shook her head, crossly attempting to organize her thoughts. She sunk into the chair opposite him. "Why is his life in danger?"

The dark-haired man diverted all of his energy towards looking casual, which, she recognized, meant he was absolutely anything but. He entertained an unusual interest in the way that life played off his glass, and for a very brief moment she wanted very much to make it explode, although she knew it was not a feasible possibility. She wished it was. Alas, it was not. "I can't tell you," he offered unhelpfully, sipping his water again.

"Of course you can't," she snapped. "Of course you can't. And why would you? After all, it's not like I'm involved in the situation. It's not like I have a vested interest in whether he lives or dies."

She was slipping into borderline hysterics. She knew that she was, but she was entirely powerless to stop it; this was her ward, these were her patients, and he... so very infuriating...

"You don't have to be involved in the situation."

Luna wondered idly whether this was an attempt to placate her; if so, it had the completely opposite effect. "Ah, yes, that's true enough," she offered in feigned calm, "As I won't be involved in the situation when I'm fired for noncompliance!"

"You won't be fired," he added, not a little irritably.

"Oh?" she asked faintly.

"No, you won't. I didn't say that I'd been here first." He finished his water, setting it upon the desk again. "Although I could have, if I'd wanted."

"So you'll have me fired if I don't help you?" she hissed. Harry was reminded rather strikingly of Ginny, for one reason or another.

"No," he said haltingly, "I am not threatening you. I am trying to get you to see sense. If I was out conspiring to get you thrown out of the hospital, I could have done so - let me finish, Luna - with remarkable ease. But I didn't. And now I'm trying to convince you that this is important, and you're yelling at me, accusing me of trying to get you fired. Well, I'm sorry. I can't tell you why. But I can tell you that this is important, which is probably enough to get me fired." At her raised eyebrow, Harry closed his eyes. "Under normal circumstances, it would be appropriate for me to make some sort of dramatic statement now. Say that I've never lied to you before. Well, I think we both know that I have, and whether or not you blame that on me is really your choice. But this is not a choice. I need you to trust me, and I need you to not ask questions, because my answer will not be different no matter how often you ask."

Luna focused her eyes on the desk. When she spoke, her voice was pinched. "Fine," she said, standing. "Fine." As she saw him exhale, she added her conditions. "But when you ask him the questions, I'm going to be there. And I will be the one to decide when he's had enough."

"You can't be there," he said, looking tired.

"Yes," she said firmly, "I can. Wave your paper all you want- as Head Healer in this ward, I have rights to be anywhere, even in meetings with..." she motioned vaguely, "...family, as I believe that letter allows you to be regarded as. Appeal to whoever you please, you're not going to hear any different, and if you get me fired I will put up a wrongful termination suit that'll make your ears ring for months. I'll..."

"Thank you, Luna," he put up a hand, "I get the picture." He opened his eyes, expression wearily appraising. "You won't like what you're going to hear," he warned. "And you cannot interrupt me. You will be totally silent."

She pursed her lips. "Fine."

"Good, I'm glad we've reached an agreement. Now, shall we?"

Harboring a very ill feeling indeed, Luna followed him out of the room.

***

Draco crossed his arms as they entered, eyeing them both with an air of deep-rooted suspicion. "I see you didn't manage to get rid of him," he sneered, in the irritated tones of someone describing a stain in an expensive carpet.

Luna merely glared at the back of Harry's head, making a rather violent show of saying absolutely nothing in reply.

"Miss Lovegood," Harry clarified, "has opted to remain silent through the proceedings." Luna was sorely tempted to turn Harry into a newt.

Draco glared. "So you're going to ask me questions."

"Right," said Harry.

Harry pulled two chairs and sat them on opposite sides of the small dining table. He motioned for Draco to take one; he sat in the other. Draco eyed the chairs for a few seconds, yanked his about a foot away, and then sat in the most mutinous fashion possible.

"Well. It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Draco glared. "Not nearly long enough."

Harry did not seem bothered by this response, or intimidated by the pale man's determined glare. "And why is that?"

"What do you mean, why?" His arms were crossed now, his expression icy. Draco sneered. Luna could now fully appreciate just how much he'd changed since Hogwarts, just how much the ordeal had taken from him; his face had always been angular, but now it looked as though someone had carved all unnecessary curves from his face; his eyes were paler, but far from being watery (as her eyes were often described to be), his were icy. At the spell damage ward they'd thought it was a side effect of the spells cast on him and the malnutrition, but they did not know whether it was reversible. He looked pinched; Harry, on the contrary, looked taller, healthier, and generally browner than at school. She remembered when her fellow Ravenclaws had placed bets on the unavoidable fistfight between the two, when she was in her sixth year... then, the odds had been almost exactly even, but now, there was no contest... and that made her sad, although she did not know exactly why.

"I mean," he said, in an eerily familiar tone, "what happened to you? Why are you here, as opposed to in some expensive mansion in the South of France?"

His eyes darted between Luna and Harry, as though thinking this were a trick. "There was the small matter of my being captured by... well, I'd say who they are, but nobody here will tell me..." he sneered at this, diverting his glare to Luna for a second or two.

"Captured?" Harry asked, as though this was news. "And what happened there?"

"They gave me milk and cookies, and we danced and sung happy songs, made crowns out of daisies..." Draco rolled his eyes, sneering. It was an ugly expression on a face that was once anything but, and it was disorienting. "Honestly, Potter, I have no idea who you think you're trying to help by treating me like I'm eight..."

"Answer the question."

He set his jaw. "I was tortured, if you must know."

Luna closed her eyes.

"Do you know what you were tortured for?" Harry's tone was not at all delicate as he asked the question, and his expression shifted slightly.

The pale man's eyes drifted lazily up to the ceiling and lingered there for quite a while. "No."

"And do you remember being tortured?"

"Most of the time, no," he hissed, addressing the soundproof tiles.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, exhaling. This had not been what he'd come to hear. "Then how do you know that you were..."

He stood, slamming a fist against the table, leaning threateningly forward. His eyes flickered. "Because I'd wake up feeling like my skin had been peeled off, I had scars, bruises, and, oh yes, there was the screaming inside my head. I do not," he spat, "need to justify myself to you, Potter. I know what it was, and if you feel differently, you ought to go to hell." Malfoy turned to his healer, the presence of whom he had previously forgotten. "Get him out of here," he hissed dangerously. "Now."

Luna looked pained. "Harry, I really think..."

He held up a hand, a gesture that was really beginning to irritate her, and, after a purposeful look that she failed to interpret, his eyes returned to Draco. "You do know, of course, that, if you were to help... my word in your favor would go far if you ever decided to protest the courts for your sanity?"

This statement had a rather peculiar effect on Draco Malfoy, as he simultaneously pivoted in unspoken rage and quirked the edges of his lips in a hateful smile. "Bribery, Potter?" he sneered. "Why, I thought you were above that..."

This seemed to strike a very tender chord in Harry, as, momentarily, Luna feared he would leap across the desk and kill him; nonetheless, he gave his default nonchalant smile, and chuckled. "I suppose that depends on just how good your answers are." He motioned. "Sit."

Draco sat. So did Luna, feeling rather faint.

"So." Harry smoothed out his robes, "You were tortured."

"Yes," he replied, with far more civility than before.

"And you don't know why."

"I don't know what your experience in the evil department has been like," Draco snapped, "but, in my experience, they don't often sit you down and explain to you the whole of their plot so that you can screw with it later."

"Why do you think that was?" he asked, a bit louder than was necessary.

He shrugged, then winced. "Possibly a memory spell. They could have done it so that I couldn't work up a consistent lie..."

"Harry," said Luna, in a very strained voice, "Perhaps that's enough for today?"

"No," he said, shooting her a glare. She swallowed and returned to reading the lines she'd written in her folder. They were not nearly as interesting as her intent gaze would have one believe.

"I need a glass of water," Draco said, swallowing, fixing his eyes upward again.

Harry conjured him one, and he took a sip, sputtered a bit, and set it back down again. Luna winced visibly, but Harry did not seem to be watching. "Now, I need you to tell me everything you remember about when you were captured."

He glared darkly at his point on the ceiling. "I don't remember that, either."

The Auror frowned. "What was the last thing you remember, then?"

The pale man shook his head, pushing his chair out. "I don't. I remember I was going to meet an Auror... he wanted names... and I was going to give them to him..."

He glanced up at Harry's expressionless face and interpreted it as disbelief. "I was, damnit. I was tired... tired of running, tired... of seeing everything ... I didn't want that anymore, not anymore... I wanted things to be right again, and I'd be damned if you would have done better!" He was yelling now, and Luna very gently put a hand on his shoulder. He took a very deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was more measured, but he continued on with mild surprise, as though he were seeing the things for the first time himself. "I went to the place that he said... I would have told him, I swear... but he was dead... they'd killed him... he had blue eyes, and they were open..."

He was talking very fast now, yelling at the table; Luna stepped towards him again, but Harry stopped her. "...and I didn't want to be found, because I knew what they'd say... I'd seen death before, but I didn't kill him, damnit, I didn't! They said I did, said I did, but I didn't! I didn't! I felt something around my throat... my wrists... I heard... I heard horrible things..."

He was standing now, backing up, very slowly, yelling to himself, waving the glass as he motioned... she tried to get to him, but Harry was holding her wrist, and Quidditch had given him a very firm grip... "And I woke up... and I was alone... and I didn't kill him... they said I did... I did... not... and I didn't know! No, I don't know! He never mentioned it, never said it... I didn't know it existed! I don't know..."

Suddenly the cold, pale man backed against the wall, shaking his head, murmuring. He was shaking now, and he pressed the side of his face against the coolness of the wall. He lifted the palms of his hands to his eyes; In doing so he dropped the glass of water, and it fell and exploded into shards of light against on the cold tile; the crash snapped him out of the malicious reverie, and for a very long time, he stood, still shaking, staring at what was left of his drink as though gravity were a new development. His eyes were half-closed, and he weakly shook his head before closing them, sinking to the ground. Luna clawed her way out of Harry's grasp and gave him a glare of purest rage. "Get out of here," she snapped.

He hesitated, and she spun around. "Get out of here!" she snarled, pointing forcibly towards the door as she rushed to her patient's side. He lingered after she spoke, watching the wreckage for a few seconds with a raised chin and a strangely determined expression. When Nurse Fairfax hurried in to help her, he was gone.

***

She laid idly on her sofa for quite some time, propped up by an ever-so-comfortable pillow, a glass of champagne in her left hand, a battered-looking poetry book in her right. A music box was open on the coffee table, not the clinky muggle kind, but the enchanted sort that had harps and flutes and violins... she'd just taken a very long bath, and the smell of lavender always made her sleepy. She curled the afghan tightly around her, closing her eyes, sighing deeply. There was a knock at a door. Slowly, grudgingly, her eyes opened; she hadn't been asleep, but she hadn't been especially keen on having company, either. She stretched, carefully closed the music box, and slipped on a cloak from the rack by the door before opening it.

"Hi," said Harry.

Luna very emphatically slammed the door in his face.

Fuming, she tossed the cloak roughly at the rack, not only failing to hang it there, but also managing to knock the entire thing over. This, too, earned a scowl, as all hope for relaxation curled up and died. She jerked the blanket from the couch and wrapped herself in it, snorting furiously as she did; she toyed with the idea of opening the music box again, but was now of the opinion that it would be more irritating than helpful. Reaching for her champagne glass, she had a deep sip, then set it on the coffee table again. She'd had it since she graduated Hogwarts, along with the rest of her furniture... old and wooden. Her furniture had personality, although it was not a personality she particularly liked.

"I have a key, you know," he remarked, mildly, earning him an impassioned glare from the woman on the sofa.

"When someone slams the door in your face," she informed him, "that generally means that they do not want to speak with you."

"Ah, yes. About that..."

"You nearly killed him!" she exploded, and then reconsidered her logic. "Well, not really, but you know full well what I mean! It took us two hours to get him to stop shaking! And even then he refused to eat, which is probably good, because in the state he was, he wouldn't have been able to keep it down anyway! I had to switch the entire nurses' rotation to keep someone monitoring him, which he noticed, and now he's blaming me for the entire ordeal! It took me three months to get him to the point where he'd talk, and now he's..."

Harry cleared his throat. "I've come to apologize."

"You want to apologize?" Luna glared. "Well, Harry, I want a million galleons, a pony, and a back massage, but you don't see me kicking down people's doors to do it!"

He sighed, shaking his head. "I hardly kicked it down. I told you. I have a key, you gave it to me last year," he paused, shrugging, "and if you really want a back massage..."

Luna looked scandalized.

"...or not. Anyway, I'm sorry." He sighed, shaking his head. To the best of Luna's knowledge, he looked sincere, but Luna had recently had reason to find the best of her knowledge highly inadequate. "Really. I didn't want it to turn out this way..."

"I should hope not!" she exclaimed indignantly, her argument picking up momentum now that she had concretely ascertained that she was not in fact being hit on.

"Well, in my defense," he said, shortly, "I didn't know that it would hurt him that much... mind, I would have done it anyway, because perhaps I ought to remind you that his life is in danger... but I really had no way of knowing that he'd go into spasms..."

"Harry," she said darkly, running a line of trim through her thumb and forefinger, "If he was a stable, happy person, he wouldn't be there. Do you at least see why you shouldn't try to bribe him with promises of getting him out if he helps? It's never going to happen, and lying to him..."

"On the contrary," he said resignedly, "I have every intention of getting him out of there."

Luna stared at him as though he had suggested lighting her sofa on fire. "You cannot be serious," she said finally, eyeing him in a very wary fashion.

"Oh, but I am."

She spluttered a few times, an action Harry was by this point quite used to and immune from, and then began to reason an argument against it. "Ignoring the moral and psychological effects this would have, the courts would never... they aren't exactly prone to pity him! His father... the Malfoy name doesn't exactly scream 'good and wholesome'! And you can't tell me that you thought he was fine..."

He shrugged. "Well, if we prevent him from reliving any traumatic memories..."

"They're going to question him!" she shook her head, then, scowling, brushed several strands of sporadically curly hair from her eyes, reminding her why she normally wore it up. "Even if we managed to get him stable enough to testify... Harry, there's not a lawyer in a world who could convince them to let him go."

"Actually," Harry said, picking a nonexistent bit of lint off the stark blackness of his immaculate traveling robe, "there is."

Luna thought blankly about the place where she sat. She was tempted to take another sip of champagne, but felt that it would be a bit too obvious; she was sitting in her couch, wrapped in a blanket, devoid of her poetry book, while the most famous man in the wizarding world stood about four feet away, attempting to convince her that it was a good idea to set loose a man who was not only hallucinating but was a shameless sociopath besides. Her back hurt, and her bare toes peeked out from the edge of the tattered burgundy afghan. She had knocked over, if not broken, a piece of furniture. Luna quietly mourned the death of her peaceful evening at home.

"Ronald Weasley," he said finally.

Luna stared at him as though he had suggested lighting her sofa on fire while they were sitting on it.

"Ron," she replied, in varying tones of static disbelief.

"Ron," he affirmed.

She blinked, staring at him for a very long time. "I mean, it's a lovely thought, Harry..." she said, incredulously, "But... well... he thinks you're a bit of a..." Luna made a show of giving something long and lengthy consideration. "Now, wait. What was that he called you a few years back? Right before he punched you in the jaw?"

"A traitorous, self-serving, arrogant prat?" he asked, with a mirthless laugh. He tucked his hands into his cloak pockets, shrugging almost dismissively.

"A traitorous, self-serving, arrogant prat. Ah, yes, that's it," Luna said as she fixed him with another cautious frown. "If you're expecting Ron to do a favor for Draco Malfoy, Harry, you're being a bit... optimistic, in the way that it's a totally and utterly delusional expectation to have. The pair of you," she motioned inclusively, and it felt so very strange to refer to Draco and Harry as a pair, "are not his favorite people. But it does not seem that you are listening to me, and will probably go with your original idea anyway, because you are stubborn, and will you at least make eye contact when I'm talking? Perhaps it's just my own illusions of adequacy, but it's really quite irritating when you stare at my coffee table, and... Harry!" she sighed exasperatedly, "Pay attention."

"You're drinking," Harry nodded towards the open bottle of champagne.

Luna sunk scornfully against the back of the sofa. "That's the great thing about the Auror program," she muttered, "they only let the keen, really observant ones in."

He smiled at that, although it had not been intended to cheer him up. He lifted the champagne bottle, giving an almost appraising glance, and then raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Can I have a glass?"

"No."

He paused, as though unsure that she had heard him correctly. "Please?"

She'd closed her eyes in the feeble hope that he'd leave, but he hadn't; now, she opened them again, for the express purpose of rolling them at his attempt at politeness. "No. You have tormented, manipulated, tricked, and otherwise royally screwed up my day. You have burst in uninvited on several different occasions. You have been cryptic and vague when it comes to your answers and you have practically beaten mine out of me. No, Harry. You most certainly cannot have a glass." Her tone was more casual than angry, as though she were discussing a mildly engaging topic of no particular effect.

Harry frowned. "Luna, you know that I had to..."

"No," she interrupted, voice more than a touch bitter, "No, I don't know that you had to, because you won't tell me why. But that's fine. Be cryptic. Be vague. It isn't like you need my consent to do whatever you're doing, so go right ahead." She was making herself angry, but she felt entitled; he'd crossed his arms, as though this bored him, and that in itself was enough to infuriate her on several different levels. She lowered herself deeper into her seat, fixing her gaze upon the blanket, eyes slightly narrowed, shaking her head in an absent sort of way. "Because, after all, it's not like I've ever kept your secrets before, even when you were being stupid and stubborn about keeping them from other people. It's not like I've ever lost friends because I knew something that they didn't. Just..." she shook her head. "You know what? Just leave. I couldn't throw you out there, but I can throw you out here. This is my house. Get out."

"You didn't exactly make this easy..."

"I'm sorry," she hissed, "that I didn't make it easy enough for you to disregard my authority. I'm sorry I tried to keep you from harming one of my patients, which, might I add, you did. You know, if someone else had done this to me, and I'd told you about it, you'd probably tell me to stand up to them, but, because it's you, I'm expected to smile vacantly and stand aside, without any explanation whatsoever? It doesn't work that way, Harry. It never has."

There was a long time in which he just stared at her, as if appraising the truth of her words. Luna glared unrepentantly, lifting her chin.

"Very well," he said darkly, turning towards the door. "Good night, Luna."

"Good night, Harry." A door slammed somewhere behind her, and she winced momentarily. She took a rather deep sip of champagne and fished her poetry book from the place where it had fallen, but the words were swimming uncooperatively and she felt the beginnings of a headache growing just inside her skull; she frowned and buried her head in the pillow. It had never worked before, and it wouldn't work now... but she'd been under the impression that letting him know how she felt would be more fulfilling than this. As it happened, she only felt very ill, very heavy, and very, very tired.

***

Several hundred miles away there was a small, trendy coffee shop, wedged indiscriminately between a book store and a hair salon. It was called Molten Java and it purported to have the best caramel cream double-latte anywhere. There were small tables scattered around in a rather random fashion, each with two uncomfortable wire-backed chairs, although those, too, were distributed with little rhyme or reason; the front windows were large and faced the busy street. It was through one of these windows that a woman peered with more than marginal curiosity, slowly swirling her coffee ("black, no sugar, yes I'm quite sure miss, your concern is appreciated") with the reedy wooden stirrer so often provided at muggle coffee joints.

Her hair was sugary blonde with theatrical neon-pink highlights that brought out the faux crystal sparkles along the neckline of her cropped white shirt. She lifted the coffee, now somewhat cold, to her lips, causing countless plastic dollar-store quality rings to shimmer in the light. Her nose ring was pink, too, a small but nonetheless pointedly sparkly stud. Her appearance was light and airy, but her eyes were dark and brooding and seemed several times too old for their tanned, manicured, and otherwise absently twinkling surroundings.

"You're late," she said.

He looked slightly shifty. "I was... detained," he said cryptically.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't care if you're detained, restrained, sustained or god damned ordained. I'm embedded, Potter, it's a bit obvious if I sit here and read the same magazine article forty times, and if he notices that I'm out here meeting with a tall, dark, and... well, tall and dark at least, stranger, there's going to be a bit of a fit going on."

The dark-haired man raised an eyebrow as she spoke the words aloud. In response, she reached up and wiggled one particularly ring-spangled finger. "A levis charm. Quite ingenious, really, they think we're making trivial small talk. It doesn't, however, mask meaningful and imploring looks, so stop looking at me as though you're attempting to send me an urgent message telepathically. It doesn't work. Occlumency is a one-way street. You aren't a telepath. Sit down already, they're beginning to stare..." she frowned darkly.

Harry did as he was instructed, albeit grudgingly. He folded his hands on the table. "So, how's it going?"

She narrowed her eyes. "It's absolutely swell. I like nothing more than to be dressed up like the sugar plum fairy's Christmas tree."

Admittedly, he did smirk a bit at this, although he quickly returned to the task at hand; her glare was no less powerful as it bore into his skull, but he was used to it and it didn't affect him quite so much as it could have. Her glares had been known to make things melt. He, however, was as cool as her partially congealed coffee. "He doesn't suspect anything, then?"

"I doubt it," she snorted. "If I told him that I was a Cornish pixie, he'd probably smile, and nod, and go back to whatever Quidditch magazine he was reading. All worked up about the match at Falmouth... quite nauseating, really, I hate Quidditch... it's a horrible game... and they're going to lose anyway, Ritten's out on a dragon bite, stupid prat did it on a dare..."

"Half of Britain would kill for that knowledge, you know," he said.

"If he doesn't stop babbling about it," she glowered pointedly, "Half of Britain will be killed in the explosion."

Harry laughed, although she didn't seem to find it terribly amusing. As a matter of fact, she looked particularly murderous, and he stopped when he realized who he was speaking with and realized that she was probably not joking. The woman looked smug, but the expression (which had bordered dangerously close to mirth) slipped off her features almost as quickly as it had appeared there. "You wanted an update?" she angrily swirled her coffee. "He's totally oblivious. I haven't noticed anything at all out of the ordinary. You said that it would take an afternoon to pick up your half of the mission. It has been three weeks. If I see any more pink, there will be blood. Am I perfectly clear?"

"If I can't convince her..."

"If you can't convince her," she pronounced clearly, as though explaining a very difficult concept to a young child, "we'll pull strings and have her promoted to a do-nothing position in management, therefore making everyone's lives easier. You're being needlessly difficult. It's really very irritating. If I were in charge-"

"Alas," he shook his head in mock dismay, "you're not, and therefore you cannot pass regulations declaring that everything I do is wrong..."

Her eyes narrowed again, now thin black slits against a pale, thin face. "Don't be flip, Potter. You know what's at stake here."

The man's eyes were unfocused as he watched the pedestrians wind their way down the cold concrete sidewalk, toting grocery bags, briefcases, children; cars passed, as it was a muggle street, reflecting the passerby in the brief flashes of chrome. It was drizzling. The crowds were thinning, although some continued to walk regardless. Without magic, they had no choice. They would be affected. They wouldn't know, at first, these strangers, but eventually things would change...

"Yes," he said, very quietly, "I do." There was a long time in which he closed his eyes and then glanced out onto the street again, but whatever he had seen was gone, and he turned back to her. "Three days," he said, finally. "Give me three days."

She swallowed, pursing her pearly pink lips, lifting her chin about half an inch. "If you insist," she said. "Three days to get the case to court. But on your head be it if things go wrong." Momentarily, their eyes met. There were very few things that Harry Potter and Tribecca Knowles could reach an agreement on, but one was made in the span of that moment, a simultaneous acknowledgement of a fact they'd both long known to be true.

If things went wrong, it probably would be.