Means to an End

"No, no. Stay down. You're going to be slightly dizzy..."

A chain of colorful fireworks exploded an inch or so behind her eyes, ricocheting unpleasantly about her skull. "Yes," she echoed, ceasing her attempts to rise from the unidentifiable--although not entirely uncomfortable--surface upon which she was currently sprawled out upon. She felt a potion pressed against her lips, and she drank, coughing, slightly, at the temperature and texture. Luna inhaled sharply and attempted to open her eyes. It was an attempt she soon regretted; the room rose angrily to meet her, and she slammed her eyelids closed with all due force, coughing again.

"The potion will begin to work in a few minutes," he assured her. "The room will... behave itself... once it has."

She pressed her eyes further closed, inhaling deeply, attempting to force the mild panic out of her system. "Harry," she questioned, quietly, "where am I?"

"You're in the Department of Mysteries," he said blankly. She paused for several seconds, waiting for him to continue, to give some clue as to the reasoning behind his statement. He didn't. She wasn't surprised.

"Alright," she said, inhaling, waving a vague hand, "maybe I'm only... confused... but I've just awoken after presumably passing out for a reason I cannot comprehend, in a place I'm sure I wasn't previously, with things exploding inside my head. Could you please be just a little more descriptive?"

He gave a low whistle, and, although her eyes were closed, she could picture him performing one of the evasively casual gestures peculiar to him; perhaps running a hand through his hair, or picking lint off his jacket, or retracting some trinket or another out of his pocket and analyzing it. The throbbing in her temples was subsiding, but his words did little to cure the headache she was sure would soon reoccur. "It's a bit of a long story, really."

"Humor me," She managed to open her eyes without wincing. The room, fuzzy and spinning slightly, was almost entirely gray. She was aware of a faint buzzing noise, although she could not specifically pinpoint it. She closed them again; it was far easier to act dignified when she did not have to cope with the room pitching and rotating. "It would seem that I've been beaten about the head with a brick, and I should really like to know why."

He sighed. "I was... summoned, actually."

"That's impossible," she sighed.

"It should be impossible, you're quite right," he snorted, "But one of the people I... work with... decided that they needed me in headquarters. Believe me, I'm not too happy about it myself... especially because they didn't know that I was in physical contact with someone, which meant that you'd be summoned, as well. It caught me entirely off guard. Then, you fainted..."

"This," Luna growled, "is not fainting. This is being shoved off the astronomy tower onto a pile of pointy rocks."

"There are a lot of spells protecting the department of mysteries," he pointed out. "The Aurors take potions to become resistant to their effects. You, however, never received any of the potions, and so you received them full force... keep drinking this," he sighed, thrusting the warm bottle into her hands. "You have to admit that it's a pretty effective system."

"Why are there aurors in the Department of Mysteries?" she asked, prying open her eyes and raising an eyebrow. The room had begun to settle, and she was confident in her ability to not pass out again. "And you said... headquarters..."

"I will explain everything. However, for the moment, you just have to trust me on this... finish the potion."

"It tastes horrible," she grimaced, although she drank it anyway.

"You'll get used to it," he smirked, tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves. His shirt was still bloody and torn--he hadn't changed it, apparently--but the wound on his shoulder was entirely healed. She frowned thoughtfully, glancing up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. The room was lit by glowing white orbs that buzzed slightly. Aside from the unmade daybed, there was a table, a metal chair. A single, sickly-looking plant served as the sole decorative object. It reminded her of a muggle apartment, and a dingy one at that. Harry stood and proceeded to glance expectantly at the room, then at her.

"Can you walk?"

"I... yes," she said, incredulously taking inventory of her feet, "although probably not all that well."

"Sobrietus," he said, and waved his wand with such casual intention that she wondered just how frequently he used the spell. This reaction was mixed, however, with purest indignation.

"I am not drunk," she scoffed. "I shall have you know that this was not in any conceivable way my fault, unless you are begrudging me the attempt at healing your shoulder. And..." Her eyes unfocused for a moment, and she looked mildly surprised.

"Worked, didn't it?" he asked, looking more than a little pleased with himself.

"Yes," she scorned, a mild scowl upon her features. "But that isn't the point."

"Can you walk?"

"Yes," said Luna, mildly surprised, and she did not sound pleased about it.

He smiled an infuriatingly self-content little smile, tilting his head just a little bit to the side. "Well. That's certainly nice, then, isn't it?" He offered her his hand to help her stand up, a gesture she grudgingly accepted as she stood and brushed herself off, looking naught the worse for wear.

He watched her for a moment with an expression wedged somewhere between amusement and concern. A great unease settled upon his shoulders, and for a moment the slightest vestiges of doubt flickered in his eyes. It was a brief lapse, however, one that passed too quickly to be credited to any one point, and he strode to the door and opened it. "You've been saying all along that you wanted to know what was going on," he said, motioning that she should follow him outside.

The bland room opened up into an equally bland hallway, which opened into a small, white plaster room that appeared to be a fully operational marsh, complete with a waterfall and several majestic birds she thought to be herons. The stepping-stones shifted under her uncomfortable shoes, although thankfully an innate sense of balance kept her from taking a rather ungraceful swim.

This seemed routine for Harry, whose sole action was to sigh deeply. "You're probably wondering why we're in the Department of Mysteries."

"Yes," she said, as she stepped into a large marble hallway. "I can assure you that the question was foremost on my mind." She felt that she was being a fairly good sport about almost stepping on a frog, but the air of casual confidence that Harry was currently exuding made her feel approximately eight years old. "I thought that aurors had their own department?"

"They do," he said, levelly, keeping his eyes on the hallway, "in a sense."

She raised an eyebrow and glared inquisitively into his back. "And what sense would that be?"

He shrugged. "Aurors..." he sighed. "They received a lot of war-time powers that the ministry is no longer fond of. Acknowledging that aurors still have powers is equivalent to acknowledgement that there are circumstances which require the aurors to have them, which isn't exactly the image that they wish to communicate. I'm sure that they'd like nothing more to put 'evil' into a brown paper bag, so that they could get on with passing legislature and kissing babies." He paused. "Unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way."

Luna could have sworn that she detected a very small shift in his tone during the final statement, but she could not be absolutely sure; her job dictated a certain ability to read things in people, but, then, his job dictated a certain ability to be unreadable. By the time she had formulated a reasonable response, he had stopped, pausing to knock thrice on the blue plaster wall before him. A door appeared, although not by any process that she knew. It was not as though it had blinked into existence, but rather as though it had been there before, and she had simply failed to notice it. "You will get your answers more quickly," he said, "if you ask as few questions as possible."

Before her was a medium-sized room, finished in columns and ancient stones, lined with sconces and torches and aging tapestries. Quite out of place in the décor was a single metal table, around which were seated seven metal chairs. The people there were of motley assortment. The occupants of the table glanced up from what they were doing, some with raised eyebrows, some with incredulously accepting glances. Ron glanced up at her from behind an open briefcase. For a moment, it was silence She felt quite on trial herself.

"Luna Lovegood," he introduced to the crowd, and proceeded to gesture to each in turn. "Halo Hepburn," he said, when motioning towards a man with a dark robe, glasses, and a shaved head.

"Just Hepburn," the man corrected, grinning. "Not to be unfriendly or anything, but it's a hell of a first name."

Harry smirked. "Hepburn. Jacob Merryweather." The golden-haired man shot his glance indifferently upward. He was vaguely familiar, although she couldn't place him.

"I believe you're already acquainted with Ron Weasley..." Ron casually waved a hand.

A grave young man glanced up at her, quite attractive but for a slight overabundance of nose. "Simon Savoy," he interrupted, before Harry could introduce him.

"Tribecca Knowles," Harry finished. The woman made no attempt whatsoever at a civil greeting, rather choosing to glare at the introduction. Harry motioned for Luna to sit. She did so, silently sliding between Ron and the sad-eyed Savoy; neither said anything, although Ron gave her what she thought to be a reassuring glance. Eventually, all eyes drifted back up to Harry, still standing before them.

"Well," he said, swallowing, "I suppose... now that we're all here..."

"Some more willingly than others," leered Jacob Merryweather to the dark-haired witch across from him.

Tribecca glared daggers, pushing away from the table and standing to face the shadowed wall. "It wasn't my fault that they were getting all touchy on the sofa when I summoned him," she said waspishly.

Ron's eyebrows quickly rose, but before Luna could humiliate herself in an indignant struggle for words, Harry spoke. "There was nothing like that. I was hit with a chair, and it was bleeding, and it hurt, and, you see, she's a healer. Where I got the absolutely insane idea that maybe a healer could be of use in healing something, I have no idea."

"Chalk it up to that good old aurial genius," muttered Ron.

Luna's shock was short-lived, but her curiosity remained unhindered. "You were hit by a chair?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. "Who hit you with a chair?" She'd been puzzled by the wound, but the possibility that Harry had been hit by a piece of furniture had never occurred to her. Bitten by a piece of furniture, perhaps, as such was known to happen; but aurors usually dealt with people who used magic, and people who used magic didn't often need to use furniture as a weapon.

"How much does she know?" asked Halo.

"Not much," Harry replied. "About the ministry..."

"Figures," drawled the dark-haired witch, "he'd grope the girl before he'd tell her anything of use..."

"There was no groping," Luna pointed out.

"Of course," snorted Tribecca.

"Of course," replied Luna, entirely businesslike. "How were you hit by a chair, Harry?"

He sighed deeply. "Didn't I tell you not to ask a lot of questions?"

"Perhaps," Ron countered, "She wouldn't need to ask quite so many if someone answered any of them."

Jacob sneered and glanced at his nails--apparently, the ploy was universally used amongst aurors--then addressed the red-headed lawyer with an expression of utter dislike. "Now, pray tell me, where on earth would you get an idea like that?"

Ron glared dangerously. "I don't know. Perhaps your startling intellect is catching, Merryweather."

"Explains how you've suddenly grasped the concept of sitting upright, Weasley."

"Enough," commanded Harry. The men, now standing, exchanged poisonous glares, Ron squaring his shoulders in righteous indignation, Merryweather knitting his brows in loathing. "We don't have time to argue. Feel free to engage in purposeless displays of bravado when you're outside, but while we're in this room, kindly keep your wounded pride to yourselves." Neither party argued, although the glares continued unabated. Hepburn saw the opportunity for a change in subject and embraced it.

"You said that you wanted to get a specific style of clothing for Malfoy to wear to the trial?" he asked, producing a scroll with a wave of his hand.

"Yes," Ron pronounced clearly, eventually allowing his eyes to wander from Merryweather. "He needs to look--and this is no small order--harmless. We need to focus on making him seem totally and undeniably sane, as though this entire thing were absurd, that there was no reason whatsoever that he ought to be locked up. Rather like he'd been on his way to tea at the country club when a team of rabid healers had leapt upon him for no easily discernable reason. No offense, of course," he added hastily.

"None taken," she muttered.

"Muggle clothes?" Halo asked.

Ron looked thoughtful. "I think so. Probably a nice button-up shirt..."

"With the sleeves rolled up," added Tribecca, absently tracing circles in the stainless steel tabletop. "Don't just show that he doesn't have the mark; scream it. Can't make much more of a statement than that..."

"You know," Luna said exasperatedly, "I think the idea of the muggle clothes is a great idea, provided, of course, that you lend me a couple of armed guards to enforce it. He isn't the most compliant fellow. I think he'll respond to the idea of 'harmless' muggle clothes about as well as if we suggested he wear a bikini. In fact, dare I say, worse."

"He's not the most agreeable fellow," Ron allowed, in a tone of knowledgeable understatement, "but if he stalks into the courtroom, dressed in Slytherin colors, my life is going to be a hell of a lot harder... which would be saying something, considering what I'm currently undertaking."

"And exactly what is it that you're doing?" sneered Jacob, head tilted to the side.

"Pulling the strings that you're too high-and-mighty to pull. You're the secretary of interior security, for gods' sake. If you wanted to swing the release, I'm sure you could. But you won't. So here I am, risking my reputation for the good of the known world. I hope you are quite pleased, Merryweather..."

Harry glowered. "I've seen more maturity in eight-year-old children."

"If they don't keep their god forsaken opinions to themselves," glared Tribecca, "children will be out of the question, and we'll just chalk two up for the gene pool."

This rendered them quiet again, just long enough for Harry to regain control of the conversation. "Savoy, you're working on the werewolves and vampires?"

The mournful young man glanced up from inspecting the lines of his palm. He shrugged. "They're not happy, vampires especially. The dry-biting legislation hasn't done much to endear you to their cause. The giants are sitting on a fence..."

Merryweather muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'damned strong fence'.

"...and don't even get me started about the Veelas. In short, we've got about... sixty percent of the werewolves for us and about ten percent very much against us. The rest, I could work with. The vampires are too self-absorbed to care much... except Antoine, of course," he smirked, "and I'd put the Veelas on our side, providing that we sign Viktor Krum over as a sex slave." After a brief pause, he added, "we're still in negotiation."

Harry smirked. "Keep me updated on the vampires ... apathy concerns me, although I can't say that I'm surprised. And as appealing as the idea is, we can't barter civilians. Keep working on them."

"That's right," Auburn deadpanned, cracking a grin. "Keep working on the gorgeous women. We know it's hard, but we all have our cross to bear."

Luna had to admit that she would have been amused by the turn of events, if she weren't so vehemently fighting the urge to scream. Harry looked so perfectly composed, and Ron and Jacob would doubtlessly been tearing at each other's throats in different circumstances. Everyone knew things that she did not know. Above it all, something felt very definitely wrong. She couldn't pinpoint it, but it was there, just beneath the skin, and it would have made her shiver, but they would notice that--and damned if she would let them notice that.

"So the trial's tomorrow?" she asked, rubbing her forehead.

"Yes," Ron answered, "at three... is that late enough?"

She glanced up at him, then at Harry, and then at the table at large. Tribecca had already apparated away, Halo had folded his fingers idly on the table, Simon was glowering at the ceiling, and Jacob was impatiently checking his watch, an action he had repeated every twenty seconds since the topic of conversation had wandered away from him.

"This trial will never be late enough," Harry interjected, before she had a chance to speak. "But if it's going to happen, then I see no reason why it shouldn't happen tomorrow."

***

8 years prior.

The halls were decked, the ornaments hung, the gifts papered, tied, and tucked; it was four days before Christmas, and Hogwarts certainly looked the part. It was an unusually warm winter, and the only snow to be found was scattered magically upon the massive tree in the great hall. The percentage of students staying the holiday was the highest that Harry remembered. He didn't wonder why.

"Binns is trying to kill me," he commented by way of greeting as he heaved two monstrous tomes onto the table.

Hermione, who might otherwise have defended the merits of studying the founders, was quite asleep, and merely murmured unintelligibly from Ron's shoulder. It was more in response to her murmur than to Harry's complaint that the red-haired boy responded. "It can't be too difficult," Ron dismissed, perusing his Quidditch magazine. "Just write something. Merlin," he added, "it's not like you're too unfamiliar with Gryffindor. You are Gryffindor."

Hermione opened an eye and regarded Ron with what might have been a warning glare. He kissed her nose. She forgave him.

Harry was unsurprised by this, and surveyed the table around them. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, in the sincere hope that engaging conversation would somehow distract them.

Ron shrugged, momentarily displacing Hermione. "She scampered off right after the post arrived... Why?"

"No reason," he muttered, honestly enough.

There were a few minutes in which none of them spoke, although the Great Hall was by no means silent. The conversational air was punctuated by giggles and gossiping; under the various tables, three isolated games of footsies were played. Harry was keenly aware of this. His train of thought could well have lapsed into unrequited brooding, had Ron not interrupted. "Listen... because most of the team is here, I was thinking that we'd perhaps have a practice this afternoon... the only one we're missing is Beverley, and she wasn't one of the ones we were worried about."

"Your concern is appreciated, Ron. The team is tired."

"Hufflepuff put in two practices this week," he pointed out. "And they're good."

"I'm captain. I'd prefer not to face a mutiny. It's winter holiday. We cannot hold it against them that they've decided to stay."

"Just make absolutely sure to dismiss me early from the locker-room lecture after we lose," he muttered.

"Yes, Ron," Harry glowered, "if we go into the game with attitudes like that one, we're absolutely sure to vanquish our foes."

"Providing, of course, we can still remember how to fly."

"That is quite definitely enough," Hermione crossly interrupted. "The team will not rot if a practice is postponed until after Christmas. The team will not improve if a practice is postponed until after Christmas, either, but it is not liable to atrophy into a sniveling heap."

In two days a conflict would come to blows; priceless silverware would be overturned, candles knocked carelessly down the table, screams peppering the pine-scented air. In two days, the silence would be broken, but for the moment, if only for the moment, all was well at the Gryffindor table. Ron snorted and kissed Hermione's nose again; this time she was not so easily appeased.

Ron returned to his magazine; Hermione returned to his shoulder, frowning in concern once her gaze fell upon the seat directly across from them. Harry had slipped away, melting into the hallways in a manner he no longer required an invisibility cloak to perfect.

***

"So," Luna probed as they left the room, "Simon's a..."

"Only half," Harry abruptly corrected her. "No symptoms."

She raised an eyebrow, an indignant expression that he conveniently failed to notice. "Harry," she pointed out, "he did the bat thing. That would be a symptom."

"I stand corrected. He has no symptoms that involve ripping peoples' throats out and drinking their blood." His back was turned to her, although she could picture the very expression on his face. "If the bat thing bothers you so much, perhaps you ought to get yourself a therapist... I have it on good authority that they have the answers to every conceivable question."

Luna stopped. For several seconds, Harry continued, before realizing that she was not following him. He spun to face her. "Are you coming?"

She shook her head. "No."

This was not the answer that he had been expecting to hear; he blinked in genuine surprise, a response that was thoroughly satisfying to her. "No?"

"I am staying right here," she declared, "until you explain to me exactly why you do that."

There followed several seconds of elaborately composed silence, as he raised an eyebrow, not in indignation or genuine anger, but in confusion. "You heard me perfectly well," she continued, "So you can just tell me, right now, exactly how this is my fault."

"Luna," he sighed, "what are you talking about?"

"You did it just now," she motioned, as though the moment were still standing there. "I asked you a question, and you responded with the least affirmative answer possible; in fact, you also managed to insult me and my job, which doubtless took quite a bit of talent to do. If you're going to take seemingly random stabs at my soul, I think I at least deserve to know why."

"You have..." he gave a sort of dry, mirthless chuckle that chilled the marrow of her bones. "You have no idea what we're dealing with."

"And, by that logic, I am unqualified to know about it because I do not know about it. Yes, I can see now. It is all so clear. I..." she caught herself, and she glanced away, attempting to wrench the antagonism from her voice. "I am not going to be anyone's pawn," she said calmly. "I cannot be. Give me a reason. Give me... give me some reason, any reason, and I will. But until I get that reason, that infuriatingly inadequate shred of a reason, I cannot do it."

"I can't." After a moment's pause, he turned to the door before them and strode purposefully through it. "If you do not win me this trial, Draco is going to die. And it isn't going to end there. You're so concerned about his mental health? Try his mortal health. If that argument isn't convincing enough, feel free to take your chances. Just remember..." he cast a final glance over his shoulder, "it's not your life."

"Harry..."

"Get a good night's sleep," the auror added, quite casually, as he continued walking. "Take care."

Luna had already come to terms with the fact that she would be doing neither.

***

Draco looked murderous; he was slouched in his chair with (now exposed) arms crossed, picking disgustedly at the expensive Muggle attire that Ron had somehow convinced him to wear. After several stinging comments about "this new sort of therapy in which they surround you with people that you don't like", he'd fallen pointedly silent. Draco did not merely mope. Draco moped with knives.

"Are you listening?" Ron asked, for the thousandth time.

"No," he drawled.

Ron exhaled heavily. "Just tell them that you're sane. And harmless. Totally, utterly harmless."

He glowered poisonously at his red-haired lawyer, sighing deeply. "Do I really need to say the 'harmless' bit? I'm wearing light blue. It's a classic victim color. Imposing as a tea cup. I'm sure they'll gather that I've been domesticated..."

Luna rolled her eyes. "You haven't been domesticated. You've been cured."

"Cured, domesticated..." He gestured airily. "Pick your terminology."

She cast an almost concerned glance at Ron; Luna had little confidence in his ability to refrain from punching people who irritated him. He remained composed, however, perhaps even amused. "I'd prefer that you use 'cured' in court, really, although feel free to refer to yourself however you want once I've won."

"A bit confident, aren't we?" Draco asked. "I may have to start thrashing and foaming at the mouth, just to make your life that much more difficult."

He rolled his eyes, glancing over at the blonde woman at his elbow. "And we're absolutely sure there's nothing we can do about the scar?"

The pale man narrowed his eyes. "You do know the meaning of the word 'scar', correct?"

Luna tactfully intercepted Ron's response. "We can't, Ron... if it was a conventional scar, probably, but apparently it was magically-inflicted... repels glamours..." At Draco's curious glance, she continued, "Although we don't know how quite yet."

"Scars. Lovely, aren't they?"

"How did you get in here?" Draco sneered, as Harry casually strode over to them; Luna was fairly sure that the door hadn't opened, or at least that she hadn't heard it. She'd given up attempting to stop him or demand courtesy. It was rather frustrating to disagree with a man who was among the most powerful wizards of his time.

He ignored the question, addressing Ron as though he were the only one in the room. "Is he ready?" he asked, coolly glancing the patient in question. Ron shrugged. "I assume so."

"Wow," deadpanned Malfoy, "It's kind of like people talking about me when I'm not here, except that I am."

"In a few minutes," Ron said as he glanced down at his watch (now pointed towards "judge growing impatient"),"you'll have the undivided attention of an entire assembly. I think you can deal with a few minutes of relative anonymity... foreign as it may be. And if you could even pretend to know what posture is, that would be great, too. But, hey, Malfoy, it's your capacity to go out and buy vast quantities of alcohol that you're risking, not mine." Luna was rather pleased to note that Harry looked nearly as surprised by Ron's civility as Draco did. The latter coughed, but the concept seemed to warm up to him. When the attending nurses (and their respective enforcement wizards) came to escort the patient to the hearing, he seemed slightly less mutinous than usual.

"Damned bastard," Ron swore, with feeling, as soon as the door swung shut. He straightened his robes, glowering purposefully at the door. "I hate him. Don't care what he's been through."

"And yet you were remarkably civil," she replied, sounding impressed.

"Yes, well." He shrugged. "You sit through a few cocktail parties, and suddenly, pain, anguish, and suffering are redefined." Ron glared at the door for several seconds longer, then stood. "I should probably be getting down there... if he has a change of heart and indiscriminately slaughters the staff, I'll have a bit of a problem." He cast another glance down at his watch, then up at his main witnesses. "I'll need you in about forty-five minutes. Be there in ten. Good luck."

Luna moved to follow him as he left, but Harry blocked her way, shoulders squared and chin lifted. She knitted her brows and attempted the ill-conceived notion of sidestepping the man who was both an auror and a revolutionary seeker. She scowled. "What, exactly, are you trying to pull?"

In response, he plucked a folder out of the thinnest air, casually holding it before her. "I thought that this might interest you," he drawled. "Try not to spill coffee on it, or misplace it, or anything of the sort. I think the Institute would be rather cross if I lost it. In fact, I think they'd be rather cross if they knew that I'd swiped it in the first place, so perhaps you ought to be as careful with it as is humanly possible. In fact..."

"The dominion?" she interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't that the cult that..."

"...fried our good friend Malfoy? Yes. I'd let you know how many "tops" proceed this particular secret, but, as we have to leave in a few minutes, I figure that I shouldn't even try..."

"Could you even pretend to be sensitive about this? Your word choices are worse than Malfoy's... " She was only absently exasperated, however, as she ruffled through the papers. She'd known of similar things happening, after all... but there was a chilling frankness about the observations that alarmed her nearly as much as the content.

"Forgive me. They 'deeply scarred' him." He glanced back to the door. "Have... fun."

She blinked back a sudden wave of nausea. "They ate them?" Luna asked faintly, squinting at the cramped text.

"Well," he admitted, "perhaps not that much fun."

Luna could not help but crack a cynical smile at his comment, although it was shaded still by the sickening reality of all three sentences that she'd read that far. Her eyes diverted to the door that Draco had exited. He was alive, if only in the most literal sense. Why? A knot settled determinedly in the pit of her stomach. Harry was saving his life... he'd given her the information... it had to be important...

"You won't have time to read it all before the trial," Harry reminded her. "I just thought it would be good for you to know that I was giving it to you..."

"Thanks," she replied, temporarily setting the thick pile of papers atop Draco's table.

"Don't mention it." He lent her exactly one backward glance. "It's not for you, after all."

He was a dreadfully irritating man. She sincerely hoped that he rotted.

Just once, she thought, ruffling through the papers a final time. Just a little.