Getting the Point

The main difference between boys and girls will always be, I think, that boys never, never get the point.

I mean, of course there's the fact that physically, blokes in general are stronger, bigger and taller - don't think about him, Hermione, I repeat, do not think about him, even though he's tall and so handsome, and your head would probably rest nicely on his shoulders - than girls in general. Also, research has shown that girls tend to talk more than guys, and are likely to ask for directions when lost, rather than drive around in circles relentlessly - though this isn't a suitable application as everyone here just apparates or uses Floo powder, but then remember that time when Ron refused to listen about the Wingardium Leviosa? - as blokes would. Having believed myself to be a Muggle for about ten years of my life, of course I have learnt in Science class about the biological differences between the male homosapiens and their female counterparts, and would be glad to list them, if not for the unfortunate lack of time.

The point is - and I am getting to it, it's just that being a well-educated female, and Hermione Granger on top of that, I think I am entitled to speak much more than the average human being - that guys are, in a word, clueless.

They do not seem to get it at all.

Take right now, for example.

Harry is telling me all about what happened in Madam Puddifoot's teashop, and I am trying to keep my chortling to a minimum. Granted, from what he is telling me, Cho seems a little melodramatic, but then aren't all typical adolescent girls like that at some point or other?

"... so then, she jumps up, right, and says, 'I'll see you around, Harry,' and runs out of the place!'" He pauses and looks at me with righteously, as if daring me to argue with him. "I mean, what was that all about? What was going on?"

Honestly.

I sometimes think that boys never grow up. They just become bigger boys, who look like men and eat like men but who are, in reality, still the clueless little seven-year-olds they've always been.

I'm glad that I'm not Cho. But at least Harry's taken that first step. Ron, on the other hand, has done absolutely nothing at all to prove Fred, George and Ginny's teasing valid. I sigh, in true Agony-Aunt fashion. "Oh, Harry. Well, I'm sorry, but you were a bit tactless."

"Me, tactless?" Harry yells. I can practically see the incredulity oozing from his pores. He begins ranting, his shoulders heaving with indignation.

I proceed to tell him exactly what he should have done. "... And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too," I say.

"But I don't think you're ugly," Harry tells me, bafflement etching his features.

I laugh. He is so typically male. "Harry, you're worse than Ron..." My words trail off as at that precise moment, I see Ron trudging into the hall. Quidditch practice is apparently over. Despite the fact that he is splattered with mud and sporting his signature Ron grumpiness, I have to admit that he looks good. So good, in fact, that my heart quickens its pace of its own will. "... well, no, you're not," I add, sighing as I realize the truth of my words. I try to explain to Harry, from a girl's point of view, how Cho must have felt.

"... Well, wouldn't it have been easier if she'd just asked me whether I liked her better than you?"

... I don't think he gets it.

"Girls don't often ask questions like that," I tell him, trying to ignore the fact that Ron has just sat down on the bench opposite us without a single word of greeting and is currently stuffing his face with food.

I feel so loved.

... Not.

Harry continues ranting, and I'm glad that Ginny has come over to sit with us - at least I'll have someone to chat with besides Harry-the-clueless and Ron-the-even-more-clueless - till I realize that Ginny doesn't exactly look in the mood to chat.

"You should write a book," Ron says suddenly joining in the conversation, scarcely taking his eyes off his potatoes, which he is currently mutilating with his knife and fork, "translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them."

Patience is a virtue, I repeat in my head like a mantra, resisting the urge not to smack him on the head with my soup spoon. If - when - he comes around and finally gets the point, I try to console myself, I'll be so euphoric that a few days won't matter a bit.

I try not to think about the fact that Ron's so thick that it would probably take him a few months to get it. What is wrong with him? He's smart, I know he is; if only he'd apply himself he'd be doing wonderfully academically. But then he honestly doesn't seem to be able to get it into his head that he likes me, and vice versa.

Not to sound arrogant or anything, but I'm almost positive that Ron likes me. Besides the fact that everyone else in Gryffindor Tower seems to know it [besides the Clueless Boy himself and his other, nearly-as-clueless friend] and never hide the fact that they do, there are also the incredibly obvious clues, such as that Ron is always demanding to know about my [non-existent] relationship with Victor, whom I have very politely turned down [but will not give Ron the satisfaction of knowing what I did], etc.

After dinner, Ron and Ginny go off to bathe, and Harry and I head back to the Gryffindor Common Room. Over the past few weeks, the Common Room has come to resemble a study room, what with all the books piled on the tables and rolls of parchment stacked in corners.

Fred and George come in, and begin talking Quidditch with Harry.

"Has Ron saved a goal yet?" I ask, putting off my studying of the Study of Ancient Runes for a moment.

"Well, he can do it if he doesn't think anyone's watching, so all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday," Fred says.

Aah. Poor Ron. I suddenly feel quite terrible, selfishly badgering - well, selfishly mentally badgering - him to get the point when all of Gryffindor is also pressuring him to win the match for Gryffindor.

Ron doesn't work well under pressure. If he thought it was just a game, he would play and Gryffindor would have an excellent Keeper, but if it was important to him, he would buckle under the pressure and mess it up, especially with those Slytherin idiots singing 'Weasley is our king'. If Quidditch causes Ron so much torture [okay, I'm exaggerating here, but still], why go through it willingly?

I absently remark that the trouble with Quidditch is that it creates rifts between houses, and look up to find Harry and the twins staring at me as if they can't believe I actually said what I just said. "Well, it does! It's only a game, isn't it?" I retort in defence.

"Hermione, you're good on feelings and stuff, but you just don't understand about Quidditch," Harry tells me, shaking his head as if all hope for me is lost.

"Maybe not, but at least my happiness doesn't depend on Ron's goalkeeping ability," I say darkly.

It's ironic that all our happiness, in some way, depends on Ron. Theirs depend on Ron's ability as Keeper, mine depends on Ron himself who, for the one hour and thirty six minutes I have been telling you about this, has still not come around.

I mean, is it that hard? Maybe all Ron needs is one hard THUNK! on the head and he'll wake up to the fact that 'Oh, yeah, I think I might like Hermione! In that way! Maybe I'll go and tell her!'

For a moment, I am tempted to do it, to go up to Ron and poke him in the chest and tell him all he needs to know about us.

Sighing wistfully, I trudge up to the girls dormitories. I decide to give Ron one more day before I take Drastic Action.

*