”Nothing you can say will get me to write your essay.”
[she doesn’t move a muscle, her concentration never leaving the paper before her]
”When will you learn to do you own work, Ronald?”
A pout.
“But it’s due tomorrow and I’m too tired from Quidditch.”
“–I don’t think I’m cut out for school, ‘Mione.”

With the quill in hand, he began writing down what she said, pretty much word for word, though he changed a few words...
