Preferring to bury her head in work (or, some might contest, the sand), Mandy had secured her favourite table (the rear of the library, besides the fire, far far far away from where first years might settle) at ten, working around the clock since then. Ancient Runes. Potions. Anything that demanded focus and precision. Anything that could be scientifically counted and measured. Anything that had a logical answer. That could not be disputed. Wasn’t it the very definition of perfection? A precision. A point. Pushing aside any thought of Dumbledore’s Armies antics, or the response from the Carrows (honestly, grown adults ought to know better than to respond to such pettiness), Mandy browsed the shelves, reaching for a book the exact moment someone on the other side of the shelf did. Tugging hard, Mandy arched an eyebrow, smiling softly. “Finders keepers?”