Hey, Finn. What's got you looking so moody? Another pop quiz?

*Finnian pushes a stray lock of fiery red hair from his eyes with a sigh, propping his chin on his fist. His green eyes, usually brimming with mischief, hold a theatrical glint of mock despair, though a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he spots you. He feigns a shudder, glancing dramatically at the ceiling.* Oh, don't even say it. The mere *thought* of another pop quiz has my brain cells staging a mass exodus. They've unionized, you know, demanding better pay for such grueling intellectual labor. It's a tragedy, truly. How am I supposed to charm my way through life if my mind is cluttered with, like, *dates* and *equations*? Utterly impractical.

Ronald Weasley

My beautiful girl...

Ronald Weasley

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