A/N: I suck. Yes, I know. On the bright side: because I feel so bad the shortness of this chapter (sorry!) and how long the wait was for it, I promise that the next one will be 2,000 words MINIMUM. Seriously. I won't be able to post it until maybe next week because I have a major project to do this week, along with my driver's test. I love you all, thanks for sticking with me! Now, on to the penultimate (gasp!) chapter!

Lesson Eight: Know Thy Press (Part II)

So there I am, minding my own damn business, pretending to read the Prophet while really just checking out Hermione's new blouse (it's fantastically strappy; Ginny must've had a hand in that), when Harry, the world-saving tosser, once again decides to make my life more complicated.

"Modern Magic owled. They want an interview with you next Wednesday," he says off-handedly, as if he hasn't just completely ruined my morning. He tosses the letter next to the platter of toast. Hermione quickly snatches it up and scans it faster than any human has a right to.

"Pardon?" I ask politely when Harry fails to shout 'got you!' or 'just kidding!' or something else he would never actually yell in real life.

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," I cut him off quickly. "But why'd they want to interview me? I mean, you're the Boy-Who-Insists-On-Staying-Alive and all that rubbish."

He shrugs. "Search me. Merlin knows you're not very interesting."

I flip him off good-naturedly. "Next Wednesday, you say?"

"Yeah, two o'clock at the Leaky Cauldron."

Over the past seven years, I've learned how to deal with a crisis situation. Step one: look for possible ways out (to run as far away as possible).

"Oi, Hermione. Want to go out for a bite next Tuesday? I hear Sweden's lovely this time of year… all those reindeer and dancing queens and whatnot."

I think I do a marvelous job of keeping the desperation out of my voice.

"I am not bailing you out of your interview, Ron."

No dice.

Step two: analyze your options.

I turn to Harry. "Is there any way I could—"

"No."

That's awfully presumptuous of him. For all he knows, I could've been asking him to pass the coffee. I mean, I wasn't, and he was right, but still—where is the trust?

I am still recovering from my last interview (an intensive piece for the Prophet). That time, though, I had my mates suffering with me as that chap with the peculiar nose hairs asked us rubbish questions like "What happened to the dragon you stole?" (We're training him for the circus); "What are your responses to the claims regarding Mr. Potter's role in Dumbledore's demise?" (Are you all out of your bloody minds?); and "Coke or Pepsi?" (I don't speak Muggle).

Step three: find someone to blame for your troubles (ineffective, but it always makes me feel better.)

"I was reading the paper," I inform Harry. "Couldn't you have bothered me at another time?"

He eyes the Prophet with a skeptical eye. "Sorry, mate. I hadn't meant to tear you away from"—he squinted at the headline—"'Belts and Bags for the Working Witch'."

What? I examine my paper roughly. Sure enough, a picture of a witch modeling some sort of handbag is plastered next to the article I was reading on the break up of the Weird Sisters—not that he'll believe that. I resurface after a few seconds of shock, my face no doubt an attractive shade of crimson (I hope Hermione likes tomatoes). Harry's smirking at me in an irritating way.

"I hate you."

He nods. "I know."

TRANSCRIPT OF THE SHORTEST INTERVIEW IN WIZARDING HISTORY, AS RECORDED BY R. WEASLEY:

Interviewer: In your own words, Ronnie—can I call you Ronnie?

What Ron Thought: Only if I can call you Love Bucket, darling. No, you cannot call me Ronnie.

What Ron Said: I—

Psycho Bird: Wonderful [creepy I-like-to-eat-small-children smile] It's so much more… personal this way, don't you think, Ronnie?

What Ron Thought: Not really. Anyone I feel personal with would no sooner call me Ronnie than they would give me a pair of velour trousers.

What Ron Said: Well—

Stupid Bint: Back to the question, at what moment during your journey would you say you genuinely felt fear?

What Ron Thought: 'Genuinely?' Are you implying we were faking it? Who the hell hired you?

What Ron Wanted to Say: I would have to say I felt pretty damn scared when I realized that Hermione had forgotten her razor.

What Ron Really Said: Basically all the bloody time. It's not like hunting Horcruxes is exactly a holiday in the bloody Mediterranean.

Former Boyfriend Stalker: Such emotion! It's fabulous! Tell me, Ronnie, would you say that your illicit romance with Mr. Potter at all distracted the Boy-Who-Lived from his goal?

Ron exits, because some people just aren't worth the energy.

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