Your best mate who is sixteen, and if anyone overheard this they'd shake their heads at you and cluck their tongues and generally give you all sorts of looks of deep shame.
If they knew who I was talking to, they'd completely understand. You can't call me Moony and then get upset when I beat you in idiotic competitions. Not on, Pads.
I have loads of brains, loads, great squashy gobs--that how I get high marks. That and copying off of you. Is this the bit where we, er, where we skip off to see wizards?
Moony. Do you perhaps recall fifth year, when you were made a prefect, and you had a sit down with us and more or less cracked down on us and told us you were going to be strict and we weren't allowed to copy from you any longer.
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That's what I thought.
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For shame, Moony.
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Aren't people meant to grow stupider in old age?
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Oh, just shut up, Moony.
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[A week is a while, right?]
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I mean, mostly so those pesky little invisible gnomes would stop hiding your things, but you still gave it over.
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