Fait Accompli

Chapter 8: No Dearth Of Private Thoughts

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound. ~ William Shakespeare

The surprising thing was that people were actually in the library. One would think that two weeks after the near-destruction of Hogwarts, studying would not be high on the list of things to do. Harry spotted sleek red hair, a welcome familiarity, and veered away with a word to Ron. Ron waved him off and was promptly lost in the Legal section.

"Hey, Ginny."

Bright brown eyes met his; eyes in a face too pale and underscored by dark shadows. "Hey."

"Mind if I ask why you're reading?" He sat down next to her.

"Because it's a damned good book." She turned the page to illustrate the point.

"Religious Practices Among Muggles: Eighteenth Century to Present Times," Harry read from the spine. "I call dibs on borrowing it when you're done."

"No good, because I plan to re-read it endlessly. Humour like this is hard to come by."

They were silent a moment and she turned another page. That did it; she was faking. Harry took the book away.

"Ginny, you don't look all right."

"I think the phrase I'm looking for is 'bugger off'. Feel free to do so at any time."

"Sure, just as soon as you tell me why you're in the library reading the dullest book ever, and looking as if you hadn't slept in weeks."

"Probably because I haven't." No further information was offered, and Harry wasn't certain if he should push the matter. Feeling uncomfortable, he put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. He was fairly sure this had something to do with Snape having died for her- maybe some sense of guilt, or perhaps she was having trouble coming to grips with how close she had come to dying. Either way he was at a loss and offered the first thing that came to mind.

"You know, we'd have the pitch all to ourselves if we wanted to take a spin later. What do you say? Practise a bit, let off some steam; I'll get rusty if I don't get on a broom eventually, and you might even offer a challenge."

"Not right now, Harry." Ginny not rising to the bait? Oh yeah, something was bothering her, all right. "But thanks anyway. Just let me have my book back."

Harry raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't have to think when you're reading," she explained rather lamely.

"Sure. But find a better book, okay? Ron's got some good Quidditch magazines up in our room."

Ron popped up at their table. "You need my magazines? Just don't crease them, okay? That last issue of Quidditch Weekly had an entire section on the Cannons."

"Back so soon?" Harry noted that Ron had no books with him.

"Bugger if I can find any of them. I know I'm looking in the right place, but they're not there."

"Madam Pince has been dusting," Ginny mentioned casually, opening her book at random. "Check behind the desk."

Madam Pince- lord of her domain, master of all she surveyed- was currently surrounded by stacks of books, as if she were barricading herself and her precious tomes behind parchment walls. She was not pleased at being disturbed and glared at Ron; it would have been more effective if her eyebrows hadn't been singed away, and if it weren't for the thick coating of dust on her eyelashes.

"Seriously, they're not there. Can't you see if you've got them among this lot? I need Legalities: A Muggle and Wizarding Comparison; Tamsin's Counters For Every Need; Butter's Guide to Legal Arguments; Magical Contracts Throughout History; Magical Contracts and Their Uses; and The Official Compendium of Legal Contracts."

She waved a hand at him, annoyed, as if he was a bug in need of shooing. "They're in use already."

"In use! By who?"

Lips pursed, eyes glinted. This was not a happy woman. She flipped through a notebook and read an entry. "Draco Malfoy checked out all the books you requested, about ten days ago."

Hermione was not to be stopped, and no small detail such as the unavailability of the books would get in her way. She remained in bed, resting, content to bark orders at Ron and Harry to get those books at any cost. They took to lurking in the dungeons near the Slytherin common room. That did not go over well with the Slytherin parents. Suspicions still ran high, especially against the Slytherins. Neither was Malfoy to be found in the Great Hall at mealtimes. That was only to be expected; his father had killed students and been killed by a student. His mother was a convicted felon awaiting execution within days. The atmosphere at Hogwarts wasn't precisely that of a lynch mob, but it wasn't far from it.

Draco Malfoy was blithely unconcerned with public sentiment at the moment. This was terribly out of character for him; much of his short life had thus far been devoted to getting as much attention as possible, and what the public thought of him (and how often) had rarely been far from his mind. At the moment he was oblivious to everything except his writing desk, at which he spent all of his time. This was also out of character. Draco had scraped some very good grades in his day, but study was not his favourite occupation. He preferred a more slapdash method, namely to read the text once and brag that studying was for the unwashed masses. Studying was suddenly of vital importance, though. His mother's life and his own literally hinged upon his facility with books, pen and parchment.

So it was that the residents of Slytherin house became accustomed, in a surreal sort of way, to the sight of Draco Malfoy bent earnestly over one dusty tome or another. He paused frequently to scribble notes, otherwise they might have begun to check him for moss on his damp underside. Every night he would bend low over his desk and painstakingly write one long letter after another; offering financial compensation, bribes and blandishments, calling in favours, cajoling, demanding and outright begging. Malfoy pride be damned; he knew what they had in store for his Mum. Nott still got the Daily Prophet and he had filched it a week ago after everyone went to bed.

Dragons. The sick buggers at the Ministry had gloated to the newspaper that they had imported three Hungarian Horntails for the purpose of the executions. Making a damned festive occasion of it, they were. Advertising the brutal end awaiting Death Eaters and those convicted of collaborating against the Ministry.

They were going to feed his Mum to a dragon.

He shuddered and concentrated once more on his letter to the Italian chancellor. Italy had outlawed public execution by dragon back in 1732. Surely they could be made to see reason.

The torches were guttering, candles merely small points of light amid puddles of sickly green wax, when Draco set the last letter aside. He had bribed a third year to post his mail by owl, having no idea where his owl was and more sense than to leave the common room. He scrubbed his grainy eyes with ink-stained fingers and momentarily thought of his bed- his warm, lovely bed, with the soft down pillows and clean-smelling sheets. He could draw the hangings, create his own little private world that smelled of lavender and potion herbs, and just-

Absolutely not. Far too much to do yet. He spotted a plate of sandwiches left for him by Nott earlier in the day, now crusty and cuddling up to a flagon of lukewarm pumpkin juice. Next to the plate was a stack of library books, crucial to procuring his release from his own prison. His stomach growled with astonishing volume and his hand twitched guiltily towards the sandwiches. With a sigh, he reached past the plate and selected a book. There was a passage in here about how a contract could not legally bid its subjects engage in any despicable act. He couldn't think of anything more despicable right offhand than copulating with the Mudblood to get his bloody heir. The Wizengamot might not go for that, though, let alone some ethereal whatever controlling the contract's enforcement, but perhaps if there was one loophole, then there would be another.

Sure. Of course.