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to get one's just deserts: to receive the appropriate reward or (more usually) punishment for one's actions.
The door to the car opened with a whine, followed by the coughing of a pathetic old man.
Barty walked to him, the pavement as light beneath his trainers as a cloud. He was skipping. He was laughing. He was crying. He was God and the Devil and Man. He was cutting the umbilical cord as he was born.
Abraxas Malfoy was crawling, and that was so fitting. On the side of his face where the airbag had impacted, there were small cuts like a dusting of weeping freckles. The skin looked raw and burned. The eye socket was swelling and the whites of the eye were spiderwebbed red.
Barty had never seen anything so beautiful.
Malfoy didn’t cry or beg for his life. He was spitting profanities, assuring Barty of his power and how Barty would suffer for this. He didn’t apologise. He didn’t repent. He didn’t revert to a quivering mass of tears and call out for his own mother.
He didn’t believe.
So, Barty stood above him, and he aimed the gun.
The Order is dead. The rich must pay. The city will burn. Evan and Barty fall in love.
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(Need to read)