A/N: Zooey's Fun Fact of the Day: Czechoslovakia is no longer a country (for more info on it's new state of being-two separate countries-please refer to a handy atlas), and hasn't been since they actually made new episodes of Full House and everything was 'rad'. But try telling that to my dad.

I'd like to thank y'all oodles kaboodles for the reviews (my goal is to reach at minimum 200 with this chappie, and that's all I'm going to say on the matter).This didn't come out as soon as expected, mostly because I had a crapload of final exams, APs, and a two-week trip. All of that swallowed up most of my writing time. But the good news? School's out! I'm back from France, and now I'm good to go writing-wise. Updates will be much quicker now.

Lesson Seven: Not Getting the Girl, and Other Clichés (Part II)

January, 1997

If you think asking out a girl is tricky, picture asking out a girl who makes you look like you've all the cleverness and sex appeal of bat shit. Now, in addition to that, whenever you're around this girl you inexplicably always manage to say exactly the wrong thing.

Example: "Don't feel too rotten about losing the chess match, Hermione. I mean, you're dead awful at plenty of other things too—take Quidditch, for example…"

Of course, I only ever realize that I've gone and been an insensitive twat when she's in a mood with me the next day—(something she does with all the subtlety of a pissed dragon, might I add: "Could you please pass the jam, Harry? It's next to his elbow")—and I've not done anything else marvelously idiotic to deserve it. Usually it only lasts a day or two; my marks slip a bit, Harry's more awkward than usual, and then everything's spick and span again.

It's been two months.

I'll probably fail Charms at this rate.

But that's not the point.

This is not how it's supposed to happen. Believe me, I'm a romance expert—not by my own doing. Lavender had me take a look at some of her lovey-dovey novels with her once (she called it "bonding", I called it "inhumane"—not to her face, of course, but quite loudly in my head to the tune of an old Scottish drinking song.) She laps that shit up like it's custard tart. (Side thought: There was an unusually muscular Wizard on the front. I've not yet worked out if she's trying to make a point. I'm lousy at these mad bird things.) Anyway, according to these books (Hermione likes books—SHUT UP, BRAIN!), a bloke—often heavily muscled (I'm sure there's a way to work around that)—and a girl fight an awful lot (check), but despite that, are incredibly attracted to each other (check for me, and because I'm an optimist, I'll check for Hermione as well), and go through a lot of pointless drama (check? I think yes) before snogging like hell in front of a sunset, in a castle, in the stable (don't ask), or some other clichéd spot of romantic mischief.

This is where it all goes wrong. I've got the first two; more pointless drama than a Hagrid-sized bowl of porridge; I even have a damn castle! What I just don't get is why Hermione hasn't grabbed me in the corridors and begun snogging the snot out of me yet.

I explained all of this to Harry (with the aid of a heavy metaphor that he saw through right off the mark) and he said, "It's that sort of thinking that's got you making a mess of things—well that, and the fact that you've got a girlfriend."

So not the point. Fat load of help he is.

"This isn't about me!" I say quickly—no doubt completely fooling him. Harry rolls his eyes.

"Oh, sorry, how stupid of me. It's Seán's thinking that's effed up his chances with Hermia. The fact that his face is more or less always attached to Lilac's doesn't help much either, though."

My brow furrows. "… I still don't get it."

"Fighting plus attraction plus castle doesn't equal heavy snogging, mate."

Well that's hardly fair. "You forgot the pointless drama—there's loads of that, too!"

"Oh, well that changes everything," Harry says, rolling his eyes.

Honestly, I don't even know why I bothered asking him for advice—he's not exactly the Casanova of the castle (even he's got a castle! Did everyone else already know about the castle thing?) He's more pathetic than I am! I mean, after the Cho Fiasco of '95, he's done nothing of the romantic sort, unless he's been seeing Neville in secret or something… bad mental images. I'm not even sure who he fancies at this point.

… And what kind of best mate would I be if I don't invade his privacy and find out? It'll distract me from the god-awful mess that is my love life.

"Harry?"

"Mmm?"

He's reading again. He does that an awful lot nowadays—that, and stalk Malfoy. And that's just bloody unnatural, that is (the reading, though I s'pose the stalking is a fair bit bizarre, as well, but that's closer to Typical Harry Behavior). I've got to tell him to kick that habit soon—as a concerned friend, of course.

"Who do you fancy?"

"That's nice, Ron."

Why do I bother?

"I thought you'd like to know that I'm a closet transvestite, and every night I dance the macarena as a part of an ceremony in honor of the Giant Squid—starkers."

Harry says nothing, but turns a page. Some fifth year I'm certain I've seen around before, however, gets up and yells, "I KNEW IT!" before scampering out of the room. Fantastic.

Another go: "HARRY!"

This time he looks up from his stupid Potions book. "This isn't about your off socks again, is it?" he asks in a weary, nervous sort of voice.

What is he on ab—oh, that. I thought I told him that that was strictly a Topic for the Dormitory Only (TDO).

In a whisper (so hopefully he'll recognize that we really ought not to be speaking of this... ever), I say: "No, I got that all sorted out—Fred and George jinxed them. Listen mate, d'you fancy anyone?"

"…"

He's not meeting my eyes. His cheeks look a bit pinkish, too.

... This is kind of fun.

"You do!" It's all I can do to not stand up and do an ad hoc Triumphant Ron Dance. "Please tell me it's Lavender—if it is, feel free to 'lure her away from me' with your masculine wiles."

Harry's giving me one of his maddening you've-completely-lost-it-haven't-you looks again. "No, you can keep her, mate."

Damn.

"Guess who!" A falsely high-pitched voice cries as someone clamps their hands over my eyes. They're not Lavender's: hers are all smooth with that weird smelling lotion she uses. These ones are rough with calluses.

"Ginny."

She laughs and plops down across from me, next to Harry. He's reading again (Merlin, he got back to that quickly)… or at least staring at his book. He's an odd one, that one.

"So, Ron," starts Ginny, and I can hear a smile in her voice. This can't be good. "What's this I hear about dancing starkers?"

OK, so Harry and I were both fairly pathetic then. But the point is I was less pathetic; I mean, at least I had a girlfriend. All right, she was clingy, jealous, and I didn't actually fancy her all that much, but it was something.

And for the record: Hermione did end up snogging the hell out of me. In a castle.

I am so the man.

Ginny and I started snogging, too, Ron.

Ugh, don't remind me.

—In a castle.

Damn you.

The fact remains that you had to grab her—and everyone knows that's desperation incarnate.

You sound like Witch Weekly.

How would you know? Do you read it?

To my readers: I think I've made my point.

To the Boy-Who-Had-a-Wussy-Name: Four-eyes.

A/N: I can just see 'in a castle' being the new 'in bed'. i.e. Fortune cookie: Someone important is waiting for you. Me: —In a castle! *cracks up*

(To the whoms who may be concerned: I actually love the name Harry.)