A/N: I'm really quite sorry for the wait. You see, I'm a subscriber of a phenomenon called 'Real Life' and it always seems to get in the way. Anywho, muchos gracias for all the wonderful support (59 reviews as well as a grand number of fav's and alerts, eee)!

Happy reading!

Lesson Three: He Might Suddenly Get Good-Looking (and what to do when and if he does)

I, Ron Weasley, am the picture of brilliance. I ought to have have my portrait hung in the Ministry or something. Why? I've outwitted them all - a number that include Hermione Granger, Girl Genius. How? I've locked myself in the attic, that's how! Ha! They can't possibly pester me now.

... OK, with all the hindsight that two minutes allows me, I'll admit that this isn't one of my cleverer schemes. For starters, I'm none too fond of the ghoul (who's still got my pajamas; I think he likes them), and then there's the fact that Harry and Hermione could very easily follow me up here, owing to the fact that they're bleeding magical.

Which leads me to my next point. Life has a habit of being remarkably unfair, as well as having more than a bit of an anti-Ron Weasley agenda going on.

If you weren't already aware, ours (meaning me, Harry, and Hermione, and not that I have multiple personalities or something) is a thrilling tale; one of action, adventure, triumph, tragedy, bravery, betrayal, romance, experimental vegetarian cuisine, and an unprecedented amount of homework.

But also, romance.

... Or did I mention that already?

Whatever.

Perhaps 'romance' is too broad a description. That word conjures images of flowers, cuddling, wooing, and a bunch of other stuff that scares the shit out of me. (Luckily, I managed to get my girl on natural charm alone...)

You can stop snorting now, Harry; you're no better.

Oh, and while you're at it, get your girlfriend to stop snickering as well, would you?

Well, that was certainly effective. Can't say I appreciate your method though.

The concept I'm really getting at is girls. More specifically: pretty girls.

Of course, those tend to scare the shit out of me as well — but that's beside the point.

The fact of the matter is (and you've probably heard this all before, unless you spent puberty in some sort of single-sex underground cave colony), pretty girls have a frustrating habit of lusting after good-looking blokes — an exceptionally maddening practice, if you ask me.

Well I didn't ask you, did I?

Actually, mate, you did, during that awkward stage of yours — you remember, back in fourth year? You were a scrawny midget (no changes there) and in the throes of unrequited mooning over Cho— shut up.

That was awfully satisfying. Allow me a moment to bask in that, would you?

Alright, I've successfully chronicled that moment in my mental 'Exceedingly Excellent Memories' file, so I'll continue on, now.

Well, that was actually a superb transition to my next point — don't let this go to your specky head, mate — he (your hero-type mate) might suddenly, Merlin knows how, get good-looking. I would like to mention that I'm acknowledging this transformation in a thoroughly heterosexual manner (Good, I don't think I'd be able to handle it if you went after Harry... Neither would I, Ginny, neither would I).

It's an unnerving change. I mean, one moment he's a scrappy little shrimp, and the next he's... not. All the birds suddenly want him (even Hermione went into raptures about how "dishy" he is— I did no such thing, Ron, don't exaggerate), and will go to disturbing (and pretty damn hilarious) lengths to get him.

I didn't think you getting poisoned was a barrel of laughs.

I was referring to the love potion bit.

Right, that part was effing hysterical, I—

—will never speak of it again.

If you're like me, then you probably spent most of your adolescence being fawned over by those of the female sex (in this instance 'fawned over' having the meaning 'rejected' or 'ignored'), but probably aren't used to girls swooning over your mate.

I mean, sure, by this time you're probably used to hearing people whispering about him in the corridor; but now, instead of stuff like "D'you reckon he's the Chosen One?" and similar comments, you hear oddities like "He's such a dish!", "Oh, Merlin, I think he just looked at me!" (stop the owls!), and, most alarmingly: "Would you check out the bum on that one!" (verbatim).

You should become accustomed to various adjectives being associated with your (somehow oblivious) best mate, including 'gorgeous', 'smoking', 'handsome as hell', and (ugh, I shudder writing this) 'shagalicious'.

But you just can't bring yourself to hate him for it. That's the thing about Harry: he doesn't seem to realize it at all.

November, 1998

"Mail's here," Ginny announces, flouncing into the kitchen like a flouncing... thing. My darling sister dumps a half-conscious Errol next to my plate (narrowly missing the marmalade) and begins to sift through the newly-arrived post with tactless disregard for my breakfast, which she barely avoided ruining.

"Anything for me?" I ask. Only, because my mouth is full of toast, it comes out more like 'Enfing fomee?' (though any person with a decently sized brain should be able to work that one out). Hermione throws me a repulsed look from across the table, but I'm used to that.

"Actually, yes, Ron," says Ginny. I sit up straighter and she tosses something into my lap. "Knock yourself out."

It's a colorful and sparkling advertisement for women's dress robes. Thanks, Gin.

I open my mouth to say something witty in response, but Ginny rudely interrupts my sarcasm with a screech.

"WHAT IS IT?" cries Mum, rushing out of the kitchen, armed with a spatula (very threatening...not). Ginny (most unusually) is silent. She is simply gaping at something she has clenched in her hands as her face turns an impressive shade of scarlet. What the hell could be making her act so weird? I stand up as well, and deftly maneuver my head so I'm peering over her shoulder at the offending object.

Merlin, she's such a drama queen. She's going spare over the new issue of Witch Weekly. I roll my eyes and sit down to return to my (slightly feathered) breakfast. This season's color probably clashes with her hair or something equally daft.

"Wha—... who do they... what the... damn them!" she splutters indignantly. This outburst draws me (unwillingly) away from my breakfast yet again; even for Ginny, this is a bit of an overreaction (especially to something as sensationally trivial as fashion).

Mum's reprimanding of Ginny for 'swearing' (ha) is effectively cut off by the site of Harry stumbling into the room, brandishing his wand, and looking very much like he had just suffered from an electrocution. His eyes dart around the table until they land on my sister who, with her brilliantly red face, furious eyes, and banshee hair, is a vision of madness (but what else is new?).

"Ginny!" he gasps, plainly thrown off by the distinct absence of Death Eaters in the room. "What happened?"

My sister is still incapable of speech (whatever she's gone berserk over, it's working bloody miracles), but she looks up at Harry's anxious voice. Instantly, her eyes narrow dangerously. She stalks over to his rigid form (probably resulting from a brutal combination of terror and confusion) and unceremoniously shoves the magazine into his stomach. This seems to be enough to pull Harry back into the world of mobility, for he, rubbing his abdomen, picks up the fallen issue from the floor and begins to sweep the cover. What does she expect him to find there? Holiday recipes? The best type of robe for his body type?

His jaw falls open, giving him the attractive expression of one recently Stupefied. He looks at Ginny, who glowers back at him (pretty scary sight, that is).

I'm starting to get annoyed; what in hell is so effing amazing?

In a concerned voice (I can hardly blame her, I'm undergoing shock about my sister's apparent passion for fashion, which she alarmingly seems to share with my best mate), Hermione inquires hesitantly, "What is it, Harry?"

Harry, too, seems stunned into silence. Instead of responding, he merely hands her the magazine (what is this, bloody pass the parcel?). Hermione eyes widen and her mouth twitches as though she trying to contain giggles.

"Lemme see." I pry the magazine from Hermione's giggle-loosened hands and take another gander at the cover.

Oh sweet Merlin.

Instead of the usual model-witch, on the front of Witch Weekly is a full-color portrait of Harry, with the caption 'Desirable Number One' emblazoned across the bottom.

I give my mate a sidelong glance. He looks like he's just received instructions to turn over his first-born son to Umbridge for her to raise as her own. Harry meets my glance in a daze and shrugs bemusedly. I immediately know he had nothing to do with this (besides, you know, existing). Out of the corner of my eye I see Mum, satisfied that no one's life is in any immediate danger (she obviously missed Ginny's death-glare), return into the kitchen.

"Ginny?" starts Hermione tentatively. I switch my attention to Ginny, who's been silent for an inordinate period of time. Hermione snatches the magazine from me and flips it open to the article in question. She begins to read aloud:

"'Harry Potter has been selected by readers as the 'Chosen One' for this year's hottest wizard bachelor. The sexy single-who-lived...'"

Hermione pauses (thank Godric — I was starting to feel ill), and a look of comprehension passes over her features. A figurative ekeltric bulb (I dunno; ask Harry) lights up over my head, swiftly followed by a feeling of immense smugness: I figured it out almost as fast as Hermione. I feel clever. Ginny's brassed off that they called Harry 'single' and is projecting her anger (as she does) onto him. Poor bloke (... eh, not really, he's just been named 'sexiest bachelor' by Witch bleeding Weekly, the hallowed text of Witch-kind, after all. He'll live.)

"But that's ridiculous," remarks Harry, master of all things obvious (even I know the Seeker for the Hornets is far more fit), "I'm not single or sexy."

Ginny snorts skeptically (I pretend not to notice this) and begins muttering obscenities under her breath. I hope she realizes (on her own; there's no way I'm speaking to her while she's in this state) that Harry is not the one responsible for this. In all honesty, he's a rather private sort of bloke. He doesn't exactly go parading around with Ginny on his arm, yelling, "Hail, earthlings! I'm Harry Potter and this here's my girlfriend!"

... Come to think of it, perhaps he should. I mean, it would silence any contradicting false proclamations of his alleged single-dom.

The point is, he would never go to the giggly editors of some magazine to have a photo-shoot and submit his name for some ridiculous contest.

Even if she does register this, Ginny is continuing to seethe, to Harry's obvious and utter... 'delight' just doesn't seem to fit here, for some reason.

"Er... I'm sorry?" he tries, staring at my sister in abject fright.

"Merlin, Harry, try not to be so sexy, will you?" says George, who's peering over Hermione's shoulder at the 'article' in question. He shakes his head and grins.

Ginny's eyes flash and a smirk plays on her lips. I'm suddenly afraid for my life... Harry better get his hero-boy act together soon or he may become best mate-less.

"Promise you won't do anything rash," pleads Hermione desperately. Fat chance. 'Rash' is Ginny's second middle name (after 'Molly', of course) and she's bloody dating He-Who-Does-Not-Think-Before-He-Acts.

The next week, when the latest issue arrived (you've probably been scarred by— I mean, seen it, as well), I paged through it (just to check to see if there were any new developments, not because I secretly harbor a fixation with women's clothing, thanks) and was met with the sickening sight of my sister and my best mate snogging — in a full-motion photograph, mind you — under the caption 'Sizzling Savior No Longer Single'.

Ginny didn't bother correcting the editors about the misconceived length of their relationship, but I wrote them a very pointed memo regarding the cheesiness of their galling abuse of literary devices in their headlines. Honestly, who does that?

Basically, when it comes to your mate and the opposite sex, my advice for dealing with this crime against the natural course of things is to simply ignore it (or, the more aggressive option: curse him into ugliness, but I'm trying to stick with counsel that won't make you a social pariah... or land you in Azkaban, for that matter).

Oh, yeah, and make sure you snag your own future girlfriend early (in a fully respectful, non-literal manner of course! — dammit, she's not paying attention)... before she too is in the clutches of his agonizing attractiveness.

I understand that it's completely illogical (the first bit, of course; the second piece makes perfect sense), but Life's just like that: the weedy shrimp suddenly fills out (still pretty a fairly scrawny fellow, though — just to clear up any false impressions) and grows a bit (very much necessary, I was going to have to have him pay for my chiropractic healing, seeing as it was his fault I'd to crane my neck downwards constantly and all that), which all in all abruptly leads to him being the dreamboat of every witch's... er, dreams... and maybe boats (I don't pretend to know Legilimency).

I'm going to assume there was a compliment hidden in there somewhere.

Assume all you like, mate.

A/N: I hope that was as entertaining and enjoyable as before :)

Shameless plug: review! (I love constructive feedback)

Important Note About This Chapter: I've gotten some comments about this chapter complaining that I describe Harry as some sort of foxy sexgod. This fic is told through Ron's POV, and as such, his insecurities are incorporated into the telling of the narrative. Ron has been shown to harbor a deep-seated inferiority complex, which often leads him to subconsciously amplify and skew the reactions of others towards Harry. (Re-read the first half of GoF for further evidence of this). So while while Harry is never described as supermegaspicyhot in the books, he does receive a fair bit of attention from members of the female sex (particularly in HBP) - though arguably more because of his fame and the allure of being the "Chosen One" then his looks. But Ron wouldn't see it quite that way. What Ron sees is him and Harry having to divert into secret passageways to dodge hordes of girls and Hermione calling Harry "more fanciable than ever". Especially at a point in adolescence where such attention is craved, Ron, who has never really gotten such interest, would probably exaggerate it in his mind.

(I'd also thought I'd point out both the canonical evidence of Lily being 'very pretty' and the tendency of many fan fiction writers to assume the same level of attractiveness with James. As Harry is described as being nearly identical to James, save for a few of Lily's features, it can be conjectured that he's not a complete eyesore.)