A small clear-as-day pain throbbed sharply on Ron's finely freckled forehead. Ouch, he thought, softly, the thought being born out of mind moreso than his usual thoughts, if you know what I mean.
"Hush, Ron, I can barely think with your incessant tapping already. Do you really need to scream, too?" Hermione asked in a harsh whisper. Her hair was bushier than usual, almost as if it was fighting against her skull, the waves more staticy than electricity.
Harry peeked out from behind Hermione's hair to look at his best friends, the two wonderful children he had spent the last two years growing up with. He adjusted his circular spectacles, just as he did before he said anything that was potentially life-changing.
"What are you talking about?"
"Yeah, Hermione," Ron agreed, "that was only in my head, Hermione. What are you doing in there, Hermione? That's private, Hermione." And as if an afterthought, Hermione heard him say in Ron's voice, "Bloody hell, Hermione. This is my head, Hermione. I don't want you in here, Hermione."
"I heard you, Ron, clear as day!" Hermione exasperated.
Bloody hell, that's how I described the pain on my head in my head, Ron thought.
I don't have time to figure out cliche usage; I need to study, Hermione grumbled in her head.
I hate when she uses big words, Ron thought-mumbled.
"You know, you could address me. I'm right here, Ronald."
Ronaldy smonaldy. Who are you, my mother?
"You're lucky I'm not," Hermione snapped at the snappy redhead.
"I'm more confused than usual," Harry sniffled.