Means to an End

"Your full name," Ron probed, checking his watch. He didn't even meet her eyes; he was glancing idly over the panel, looking slightly distracted by the entire situation, as though it were nothing of any real importance. She suspected this was a guise, but was not entirely sure. Her own emotions were more inclined towards "gut-wrenching anxiety". It was not that she'd never attended a plea for competence; she'd witnessed hundreds, even served on the panel itself. It was the first time, however, that she intended to lie. Perjury had seemed much less menacing when it was not written across the furrowed brows of the judge.

"Luna Lavinia Lovegood," she replied, folding her hands on the pedestal before her.

"Excellent," he praised, as though it were difficult. His voice was familiar but coolly condescending. "And how long have you been working for St. Mungo's?"

"In my current position?"

"As a whole," he clarified, nodding.

"I've been working there for four years," she replied, glancing up to the jury, then back down to Ron. He was wearing his lawyer face now. She couldn't read him at all.

"Impressive... the head of a ward, after only four years? I suppose you would say that you know your patients well?"

"I pride myself upon it," she offered, bracing herself for the brunt of the questioning. Weasley, Weasley & Finn had not gotten to its current position because their lawyers were gentle. It had gotten to its current position because their lawyers had a knack for ripping people limb from limb.

The harder questions were a long time coming. Her interrogator paced himself as though he were having a mildly interesting discussion with an old friend in Diagon Alley, not as though he was making a plea for an insane man's sanity: why did she believe that her superiors had chosen her for the job? What was her goal for patient care? How, exactly, did she define "cured"? They were easy questions. They were questions easily answered by the engraved gold plaques in the lobby.

"Why, exactly, was Draco Malfoy taken into St. Mungo's?"

"He was found," she fought the urge to give Malfoy an apologetic glance, "during a raid on the compound of a Slytherin revivalist sect. Pale and emaciated, barely responsive. He was admitted to the Third-and-a-Half for rehabilitation."

"Understandable," Ron drawled. "And the other reason?"

"Other... reason?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, ineffectively attempting to read his expression.

"As I'm sure you're aware," he continued, "during the time in which Mr. Malfoy was admitted, the Ministry was in a state of certain... turmoil."

"Of course I'm aware," she replied, cautiously, "Yet I fail to see what this has to do with..."

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to imply anything of the sort." She was still unsure what Ron was 'not meaning to imply' when he continued, after a breath. "So when you admitted Mr. Malfoy," he rephrased, "What was the general attitude of the ward? Grim? Curious?"

"I was not on the ward at the time," she replied, furrowing her brows. "I was on Spell Damage." He knew that. If he was trying to prove a point, she had no idea what it was. Luna wanted desperately for the questioning to end, having no idea what sort of answers she was supposed to be giving. If she said something wrong...

"But surely you'd heard about this mysterious patient? He is, after all," and here he motioned grandiosely, "A Malfoy. Surely you do not receive many patients who were previously presumed dead? Didn't the news trickle down at all? I don't know about healing institutions, but I know that at most workplaces, gossip is powerful. Come now," he chuckled, "you must have heard something."

"He was on the torture ward. There is no... trickle... off the torture ward. It's very strictly protected."

"And so... Draco Malfoy was transferred, quietly, I am guessing, directly from the place where he was found to a ward unknown to the general public? Isn't there normally some procedure followed when a patient is admitted into a ward? Again, I'm displaying gross inadequacy of knowledge about the way things are run, however..."

Luna frowned. "If you'd seen him..."

"And yet I couldn't, could I? There were no records whatsoever of the transfer, anywhere. It does seem a bit off, does it not?"

"I see nothing wrong with St. Mungo's operating procedure," she replied, kneading her palms. If she had not been absolutely sure that she'd done nothing wrong, she might have begun to believe him. "We saw a patient, and we treated him to the extent that we felt he needed to be treated."

"Tell me," Ron continued, "Who was in charge of the torture ward at the time?"

There was a long pause. "Alphonius Featherby."

"And where is he now?"

"He's retired."

"At forty-three?"

"He wanted to spend more time with his family," she snapped. "I fail to see what this has to do with... anything..."

He looked thoughtful again, and then shook his head, entirely unreadable. "Again, I am sorry. The topic of conversation keeps slipping, does it not? I apologize. Why, exactly, do you believe that my client..." he motioned absently towards Malfoy "Ought to be freed? You seem to have supported the decisions of your superiors in every other case. What made this change? What," he leaned in for the kill, "was the defining moment in your decision to release him?"

She paused for a moment, frowning softly. "He's... he's sane. He's cured. I cannot, in good conscience, keep a patient for longer than they require."

Ron mulled over this. "And yet, you received this position relatively recently, did you not? And to contradict your superiors... well. Isn't it a bit of a risk?"

"Yes," Luna verified, closing her eyes.

"And you were willing to take this risk?"

"Yes."

"But why is that? Why would you take that risk? There were no records of Mr. Malfoy's stay here. There would be no repercussions if he stayed. And yet you are putting your entire career on the line for just one patient. Why?"

Draco's eyes were cold and judgmental; he met her gaze unflinchingly. The Dominion made regular human sacrifices. They began with an incision just below the solar plexus. The victim was conscious the entire time. Draco pale and unresponsive, Draco who would not respond with words... was wearing Calvin Klein and watching her testify about exactly how sane he actually was not. It hurt her temples. Her Hippocratic Oath stung a little, too.

"Because I believe that I'm doing the right thing," she replied, finally, and Ron actually smiled.

"No further questions," he concluded, turning to face the panel. When she exhaled, it hurt.

"So we're winning this," Draco muttered as his lawyer sauntered back to his table. "But while we're on the topic, I'm thinking, inheritance? That would be even better. Why, I might even thank you for it."

A less practiced attorney might have gaped at the implication that the man whose freedom he had just won would wish for money besides. Ron merely stared. "Are you insane?" he demanded in an undertone.

He smirked bemusedly. "Well, yes. Although I think you'd hurt your case if you used that in your arguments."

Ron rocked thoughtfully back into his seat, playing the odds in his mind. Luna's testimony had worked, whether or not she knew it. Draco's was for pity, Harry's was for authority, and Luna's was for slightly foul play where the paperwork was concerned... it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to swing a full citizenship, although it would be a challenge. Ron liked challenges; he did not, however, like the man to his left, who watched this internal debate with an air of catlike superiority. "I can't risk it," he decided, finally, not so much to honor the odds as to cross someone who desperately needed to be crossed.

"You could risk it, Weasley," he drawled, "you just aren't going to. You never were a big risk-taker. Still, I suppose it's a virtue... when you know that you're incapable of doing something, there's not much point in attempting..."

Ron arched an eyebrow, perfectly aware that he was being manipulated; this knowledge influenced him only in that he sighed before doing exactly what Draco wished him to. He could grin through Percy's business meetings, even his sister's cocktail parties, but when it came to insults from the clinically insane, he was forced to draw the line.

"I want a mansion for this," he hissed, then stood to address the assembly.

***

Luna awoke to a light knock on door. She'd been told that she could leave. The panel was still deliberating. Her plan had been to read the drivel-filled waiting room magazines until their decision was announced, but she'd drifted off. Luna yielded to a few seconds' worth of frantic hair rearrangement and turned to bid the person to enter. He already had, a very amused looking Harry Potter carrying several less amusing scrolls of paperwork.

"We won," he announced, cracking a smile. Harry appeared about five years younger than when he had entered the courtroom.

"And apparently we've written a novel about it," she added, nodding towards the towering stack of forms.

Harry chuckled without the slightest hint of mirth. "These aren't for you. Malfoy's going to have the next few days cut out for him. Apparently he convinced Ron to have him declared a full citizen again, so there's that entire thing about the inheritance..."

Luna could hardly believe that this was the case; she eyed him incredulously. "Ron did a favor for Draco? Entirely on his own? Without threats or physical coercion?"

"So it would seem." The verdict seemed to have taken several years off of Harry; he came off as merely unreadable, as opposed to irritable and abrupt. "I'm not quite sure how it happened, but he did it, and the big men upstairs aren't too happy about it."

"I can't imagine they are," she agreed, frowning thoughtfully. "Exactly how much money was he going to inherit?"

"He's inheriting what would have otherwise paid for the entire new library," he intoned cheerlessly, "and half the international portal building. That's only the money itself, mind. If you figure in three fully furnished mansions, a rather large plot of real estate outside of Cornwall, and the pieces of art currently on loan to museums... he's rich. He is very, very rich, and I'm beginning to think that Ron really ought to have his head examined."

"I'm sure he had his reasons. Maybe he was... on a roll?" She suspected that he'd done it to spite Harry. Draco snobbish and superior was no worse than he deserved. And yet for every ounce of Luna that wished to be cynical, two ounces still cared very much about her patient, and five or so still cared very much about Harry. In school, Draco's scathing insults had been predominantly hollow. Now he had pain enough to line his words. She'd seen it time and time again; patients, after long periods of treatment, had the unfortunate tendency to rebel against the world they'd been so keen to return to. It happened. It would happen now...

Harry exhaled deeply, drawing her gaze from the wooden paneling. "Do you think that it is at all possible that you could take off for a few weeks, until everything's settled with Malfoy? I already submitted your name as a suggestion for a combination research and training program in France. Of course, you wouldn't actually be going, but there will be about four thousand healers there and we could probably forge you some documents..."

"I received an invitation to that," she muttered, reflecting upon the half-packed bag of clothes currently residing on her bed. Momentarily she pondered mentioning this, although she feared that it would merely supply him with more ammunition.

Surely enough, Harry pounced upon this invitation as though it were a message from the heavens. "See? It'll work perfectly. And it will be exactly like you were going to the convention, except that you wouldn't actually go to the convention. You'll be in the compound for a few days... you said you wanted to know more about what was going on. You'd probably figure a lot out..."

She rubbed the palm of her hand against her forehead. It didn't help. "And I won't be getting fired?"

"Definitely not," he assured her. "You wouldn't be paid for the time you were away, but we could match your salary. We could probably match it twice, if you were to fuss and be difficult."

She thought about Draco for a while, then about France, then, rather strangely, about Ron, and then about Draco again. She ground them into powder and weighed them on a scale and found, to her dismay, that good conscience outweighed good bread. She sighed. "Fine. I'll stay... or go... or stay, but pretend to go. Or go and pretend to stay, or perhaps both, or even dance around in a little circle and chirp like a baby bird..."

Harry chuckled. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Not in the slightest," she muttered. "At the moment, I'm pretty much... nerves and coffee... and half a powdered donut."

The black-haired auror laughed quietly, now bearing a striking resemblance to someone she used to know. He was about to say something witty (probably on the matter of powdered donuts) when Ron intruded upon the calm of the waiting-room. He'd had the foresight to bring a distinct air of anxious foreboding with him. His expression seemed unwilling to commit to either surprise or irritation and therefore displayed both emotions in equal parts.

"You said there would be no media coverage," he hissed. "That's the only grounds upon which I agreed to take part in this..."

"Ron," he replied calmly, "nobody knows about this."

"Oh?" He laughed cynically. "Well, I guess all of the reporters are here for a picnic, then. There are about twenty in the lobby. It's a very good turnout for an event that nobody knows about, don't you think? Oh, and there are quills flying about." He plucked one from the air, snapping it with one hand. "So it would probably be best not to talk very loudly about important things..."

"Damn." He paused. "One of the aurors--our aurors-- is probably transporting Draco. Find him. Follow. Go wherever the hell they tell you to." He turned to leave.

Ron quickly spotted the area for renegade air-quills. "Do you need me for damage control? Considering that I'm a lawyer, I actually have a credible..." he paused, voice trailing into a muddy little ditch as Harry failed to stop. "...or you could merely walk away without another word. Thank you, Harry. Bloody bastard..."

He quickly gave Luna what she interpreted as a half-wince mixed with a sort of apologetic smirk. It was quite fortuitous that he wasn't her patient. When Draco wished to glare no other word would properly fit it; when he wished to be blank, a cleaner canvas could nary be found. Even Harry's expressions, when genuine, were easily explained by three words or less. She'd known Ron for a long while. See? There was his expression. Now it was a slightly puzzled one. A small part of her was curious. A large part of her was tired, and would have murdered for a comfortable bed.

Someone, while she was not watching, had allowed Ron to become complicated. Her perception of the world had altered, and she didn't like it one bit.

***

Draco was alone. He had spent an indefinite amount of time in a cell in the third-and-a-half. He had just won his freedom, and in response, they had abruptly escorted him to a waiting room and left him there, alone. They hadn't taken him to a bar. They hadn't let him barricade himself in a study. No, he was in a waiting room, and the only magazines in sight were the type with wispy, pearly-lipped witches blowing kisses from the covers. He didn't care if "he, too, could look like this"; in fact, he would have preferred not to, although it was merely general preference, there.

He glanced back to the door, establishing that his incorporeal guard was still standing there. Freedom was supposed to feel different. He was supposed to be empowered now. He was supposed to feel rich again; he didn't. What he felt now was more of a gradual numbing sensation that he felt was partially due to the scrunched-up sleeves of his shirt. He felt light blue, too uninspired to earn even a charcoal gray in the grand scheme of things. It was unpleasant.

"I deplore blue," Draco added aloud for the benefit of no one in particular. The comment received an amused smirk from the Victorian-looking ghost standing guard just outside his door. There was a vague temptation to throw a chair at him, but the inclination passed. He fussed with his sleeves for a while more and made a mental note to burn the shirt just as soon as he'd managed to shed it.

"Mr. Malfoy?" the ghost inquired dryly. "Apparently, we have to move you now..."

"Congrats, Draco," offered Luna as she entered the room. "I heard about the citizenship. I think it'll be good for you."

"Sure," he conceded, suddenly lacking the venom to argue. "I'll be able to buy actual clothes. Weasley, these things smell like muggle."

He rolled his eyes. "They don't smell like muggle. They've never been worn by one."

The pale man shrugged and itched his arm. He looked normal, if not for the aura of fatigue and malnutrition--but even emaciation harmonized nicely with a designer label. He felt a little ill, but that was nothing new. He glanced to the hovering specter that was presently scratching its nose with the corner of its robe.

"Where are we going, exactly?" he asked, or perhaps demanded.

"It's a safe-house... can't tell you much here, too many quills about, but you'll find out soon enough. This looks like as good a spot as any... alright, join hands, everyone." The ghost offered both of his hands, although with such translucency that one could easily make out the marble floor underneath them. Ron looked momentarily incredulous, but 'took' his hand as best he could; Luna maneuvered her hand around the other; Draco seemed thoroughly appalled by the idea, but didn't otherwise resist.

"I hate you all," he muttered, but the words were muffled by a brief profusion of purplish smoke.

***

7 years prior.

Harry slipped--or perhaps 'skulked'--into the restricted section with such force that Luna glanced up even before the cloak came off. She was sitting cross-legged on a wooden chair, one weighty book in her lap and several more on the table nearby. Her eyes, watery by consistency rather than tears, idly appraised the disembodied head before her. She tilted her head; he did the same, squinting at the text printed on her hair-pins, which, far from merely looking like chopsticks, seemed to be the genuine article.

"Zeng Hai Buffet," he read off their edges, with what might have been disbelief if he hadn't known her quite as well as he did.

"You really shouldn't be back here, you know," she cheerfully informed him. This statement was made with the knowledge that he wouldn't listen; it was made without any expectation that he would conceivably do so. There was also a benign, almost motherly quality to her voice. He was being an irritable brat. That was not entirely unusual.

"I do," he replied. "Did you find anything?"

"Oh, yes," she nodded, "I've found lots of things... but nothing you could really use, no. Did find a note Hermione left in one of the books, though. It says... let me see... 'twelve inches to go on essay' and then 'showers'. Does that mean anything to you?"

"That's last bit's in Ron's handwriting." He paused, wrinkling his nose. "And not if I try really, really hard not to think about it."

She smiled airily and returned to her reading, seemingly unperturbed as Harry read over her shoulder. She was humming, and it irritated him, but he said nothing, instead settling darkly in a chair on the opposite side of the table.

"Ooo!" she pointed out. "Arganthar's veil... oh, but it's pink."

"Damn," he swore, inflicting his aggressions upon an unlucky leaf of parchment. Anyone else might have been startled by the image of a floating hand crumbling a piece of paper. She was not. "how many mystical, power-wielding veils are there?"

She shrugged. "Why does someone named "Arganthar" need a pink veil?" He opened his mouth to respond--perhaps to snap a little at her--but upon the receipt of her words couldn't fashion a reply. Luna smiled smugly. "I win."

He chuckled despite himself. "If you don't very well mind," he joked, "I'm trying to brood here."

"Thus the dark expression and the air of inherent superiority," she observed cheerfully. The ring of bells around her neck jingled as she nodded towards the entrance. "And you should probably put the hood on now, as she's coming."

Harry had long held that Luna had an unfairly keen sense of these things, though now was not the time to argue. His disembodied head disappeared a moment before the hawk like and suspicious librarian turned the corner.

"Miss Love good," she began in an unnecessarily accusatory tone, "who were you speaking to?"

"Henry David Thoreau," Luna replied, just as crisply.

Madam Pince had heard many excuses in her lifetime, and few surprised her anymore; this one seemed to do just that. "You're speaking," she repeated nasally, "to a long-dead muggle poet and existentialist?"

She nodded. The bells jingled again.

"I see," came the librarian's incredulous reply. "This is the library, not the great hall. You'd do well to take your conversations elsewhere." It was obvious, however, that her heart was not in the admonishment. She shook her head and muttered to herself, possibly (assumed Harry) about why long-dead muggle poets and existentialists never spoke to her.

"That," he laughed, "was bloody brilliant. But why Thoreau?"

"Why not Thoreau?" she asked rhetorically, and smiled such a brilliant smile that his attempt at brooding was wholly negated.

***

"Professor Lupin?" Luna asked in surprise. The hand she was holding had solidified in transport, and was now attached to a professor she'd certainly not expected to see; she recognized him immediately, though with more than a little confusion. He smiled warmly. She chuckled. Hermione had not been the only second-year student with an inordinate crush on her DADA professor.

"So it would seem," he replied cheerfully, glancing over the three new arrivals with a sort of measured relief. He looked younger than when he'd taught at Hogwarts, though his hair was still peppered with gray; he retained his tea-drinker's smile and threadbare tweeds, but was otherwise no worse for wear.

"Is that quite enough, master?" intoned the ghost in a monotone. Remus nodded briefly and sent him off to perform some task or another, although Luna did not notice what, exactly; she'd followed Draco's gaze to the high, vaulted ceilings of the room in which they were currently standing. Intricate grapevine patterns creased the wood. It was ornamented with peeling gold paint. The overall effect was rather stunning. They appeared to be standing in the middle of a large parlor with comfortable tapestry furniture and a massive fireplace along the far end; it was lined with bookshelves, some of which were full to beyond capacity, and several rusty suits of armor that looked as though they'd seen far better days.

She glanced at the ghost as he drifted slowly off. "How...?"

"Telecorporeality," he explained dismissively, grinning.

"Y'know," added Ron in a stage whisper, "if you concentrate real hard, you can almost imagine that he's using real words."

The werewolf laughed and shook Ron's hand; Draco sneered disdainfully, clearly regarding their fellowship as contagious. Luna merely blinked a little--by no means a rare response--and waited hopefully for someone to explain.

"If you even think a hug in my direction..." Malfoy growled in warning.

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied Remus, quite a bit too cheerfully for Draco's taste. He motioned towards a large wooden staircase. "Your room is up the stairs... on the left, at the end of the hallway. There are soundproofing charms, so it'll be quiet there."

He narrowed his eyes. "I want wine. And... newspapers."

"They're already up there." A touch of smugness infiltrated Remus' otherwise neutral smile.

The well-dressed, ill-mannered Malfoy muttered unintelligibly and dragged his feet up the stairs. Luna paused and watched him go. His posture had concaved, and his hand sought the railing more often than a healthy man's would have. He was not okay. He was weak, he needed help, he needed food... he needed his life back, and she could not give that to him. He would have improved with time. This was not the way to solve his problems. They killed her, the instances where she couldn't help...

"So how did you know that was what he wanted?" she asked, a bit quickly, banishing the thought from her mind. Of course she was helping; she was here, was she not? She was not going to France. She was staying. Staying for him... to insulate him against the demons in the drink and in the newspapers he was currently about to read...

"It's what they all ask for," he shrugged, rearranging several books on a heavily ornamented shelf. "There's the occasional variation, mostly of the drink. I've learned to stop throwing the papers away. Although it's condemnably hard to get them delivered here..."

Ron looked over from the ancient tapestry he'd passively been appraising. "Where's here, exactly?"

"High-haven," he replied, fully aware that the name by itself would answer no questions. "An old converted fort. The ministry calls it a retreat. Everyone else calls it a safehouse, although the general idea is really the same." He shrugged. "Lots of quiet time. Chocolate?"

"No thanks," she demurred. Luna made her way to a window, parting a pair of heavily embroidered curtains to survey the scene below. "Very quiet time," she murmured, allowing her eyes to wander the craggy abyss upon which High-Haven was perched. The remains of a vineyard were blanketed by snow; it clung to the seams of the walls and hemmed the edges of the cliffs. She frowned. "What mountains are we in?"

"Alps," he explained, settling in a comfortable chair by a fireplace. "There used to be spells on it... they controlled the environment around the fort. There used to be a garden in the courtyard. It took some very powerful magic. I don't know if it's even possible anymore."

She nodded thoughtfully, involuntarily pulling her sweater a little closer around her. "Are we sure that he's safe?" she asked, a little suddenly, as though it were negligent of her to dream of a nice warm bed, nice warm sleep... the solution to this guilt was to ask a series of inane, inconsequential questions that answered nothing but made her feel far better. Worry had become a second language as of late. She still had paperwork to finish before she left. Draco was not the only patient; they needed detailed plans, and whoever was taking her place would need to be briefed.

"He's as safe here as he was at St. Mungo's," Remus assured her. He, for his part, seemed used to such questions, and barely looked up from the books he was now rearranging on the shelf. "In fact, he's safer here than he was before. You don't have to worry." He smiled, paused, then glanced back at them. "Oh, and Harry mentioned--he'll be here once he gets everything straightened out with the media. That might be a few hours. It might be wise to choose your rooms before then. There are ten of them upstairs... all pretty much the same, but some have larger baths and the one in the center gets a draft."

"Which one's yours?" Ron asked, as he picked up a crystal goblet and idly surveyed the handiwork, an apparent expert on any convenient decoration or artifact. Luna felt like the only one in the room who was entirely focused on the conversation; the increasingly familiar feeling of exclusion washed over her, and she wondered exactly what it was that she did not know.

"It's downstairs, by the library," he replied. "The previous owner, the ghost you met briefly, was quite partial to his studies--a man after my own heart, I might say."

Ron grinned. "Well, I'm going to whip by my house, get some clothes, but I'll be right back..." he motioned to wave, but paused, mouth still open, his careless wave shifting into a flick of his pointer finger as he backed across the room. He grimaced. "If anyone related to me shows up, just... kind of... shoot me, I guess."

The werewolf snorted appreciatively and waved him off. Ron Vanished, leaving Remus to finish rearranging books and Luna to dwell uncomfortably in a state of absent self-disdain. Luna was chilly. Her sweater was thin, her medical robes were thinner, and the air--which she'd originally deemed 'crisp'-- was rapidly becoming 'cold'. She sighed, unable to contrive any mode of conversation, and had fairly well resolved herself to brooding about Draco's plight when Remus spoke.

"I read your paper about werewolf psychology," he said, not without a slightly teasing grin. "It was very informative."

She blushed a little, brushed a renegade strand of hair from her eyes. "Well. I had to do with the sources that I could find, and there weren't many. I'm sure that there were many, many gaping flaws, but with the budget that we had, and I don't even specialize in the..."

"...it was very informative," he repeated, though this time with sincerity.

"I'm... glad that you enjoyed it," she replied, incredulously now, "But I didn't know that the paper was in general circulation. It wasn't even approved to be published."

He snorted. "Ah, yes... doesn't surprise me that they wouldn't openly publish something on werewolves, although I assure you that the sentiment was appreciated. No, no, I have access to the libraries... I have to use an alias, of course, yet another nod to lycanthropy, but I publish the occasional article. Mortimer Fields, perhaps you've heard of him?"

She blinked. "Yes, I have." It made a twisted sort of sense. Fields never attended meetings, after all, but she'd always attributed it to apathy; the few papers that were published under the moniker were brilliant. It'd certainly explain why he always seemed to be in Harry's corner and his disinclination to appear at the annual galas. "But... the money it would take.... I mean, Fields bankrolls three percent of our operations. Those aren't exactly small figures, there."

Her old professor shrugged and gave a modest chuckle. It was incomprehensible to her that he could be Mortimer Fields; rich, rude, decrepit old benefactors did not typically hum 'greensleeves' while debating the alphabetical order of books written predominantly in Gaelic. "I actually don't have much to spend my salary on. The ministry, you see, pays an inordinate amount for me to live in a breathtaking mountain vista and essentially not exist. Nice work if you can get it. So I donate quite a bit of it. St. Mungo's seemed as good a cause as any."

"I see."

He frowned, glancing over his shoulder at her. "Are you all right? You look a tired."

"I am," she admitted, forging a smile. "You know, I think I'll go look at the rooms."

"That sounds like an excellent idea," he affirmed, nodding. "If you need anything, I'll probably be in the library... or the kitchen. You'll find them if you wander around a bit."

Neither of them had noticed the cloaked figure that strode purposefully from the fireplace, the click of her high stiletto heels muffled against the expensive Persian rug. Luna first noticed the cloak out of the corner of her eye--expensive and expansive, black velvet with a silver dragon-shaped clasp--and could identify he wearer even before she drew back the hood from her face. She was wearing a small silken dress that, Luna supposed, was probably soluble in alcohol. Her hair was drawn up in a meticulous bun, though a single red tendril kissed the left side of her face. There were very few women who could, with a glance, make Luna feel homely and awkward.

She was one of them.

"I despise the entire floo system, all of it," she snapped, whilst brushing invisible ashes from the hem of her dress. Remus glanced up, an expression of idle surprise playing across his features.

"Why, hello, Ginny," he greeted, and Luna was so numbed by this latest series of highly improbable events that the flashy engagement ring on her Ginny's finger actually failed to phase her.