student, why do you dream of me?
“Now, Mister Granger,” Ron purred, leaning against the desk so that her cleavage, already in a precarious position in her shirt, was put into an even more precarious position. “I wanted to talk to you today due to your…failures in the classroom. Really, I’ve never seen worse marks in all my years of teaching. It’s going to take a lot of… hard work to—Hermes, are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Hermes grit out.
It didn’t come off as very convincing when he looked genuinely distraught at the ‘news’ that he was failing Ron’s fake class. Which undoubtedly would’ve been his reaction when he was a real student in a real class that Ron was supposedly teaching, but it wasn’t very sexy.
“You look like you’re about to cry,” Ron said flatly.
“No, I don’t,” he insisted, very much looking like he was about to cry.
She just stared at him.
“Okay, maybe I was.”
“This isn’t working,” she said.
“It really isn’t,” Hermes sighed in agreement.
“I told you adding a bunch of pretenses and rules to shagging is stupid—just like I told you to stop taking notes about our shagging, Hermes.”
Hermes didn’t look up from the small moleskine notebook he had taken from the desk and was indeed marking down notes in about how their attempt with professor role-play had gone. Ron could just barely see some of the previous notes.
“Wait, hold on—is that all color-coded?” she said.
He snapped the notebook shut, saying loudly, “How do you feel about doing something with food next time?”
“I feel like you should show me what the hell you’ve been writing, you absolute weirdo.”
"Er, no," he said. "I feel like we should talk about food."