"It’s too late for that now," Hermione lamented in a tone just as deadpan as Minerva’s. She rubbed at the side of her calf where the pattern of the couch cushions had imprinted into her skin. "I’ll just have to accept my fate. I’ll go next year." The last two words were stretched out into a yawn, becoming nearly unintelligible and ruining the credibility of her impression of solemnity.