Howling through the air, the wind tore through the foliage, tossing tattered leaves about in a torrential storm.

Pincers dripping with venom, the deadly Acromantula cowered in shelter, beady eyes darting about in fear.

Above the forest, a crumbling castle ominously perched, surveying all that succumbs to its inky shadow.

In a spindly parapet, a light sliced through the dismal gloom, illuminating the profiles of two men deep in conversation.

. . . . . .

"All I'm saying is that quality hair potions are exceedingly underrated and difficult to come by!" complained the shorter of the two, the glittering crown on his head sparkling in the candlelight.

"I agree completely, sire," his companion responded, "I know that my colleagues have great responsibilities to uphold, but would it kill McGonagall to let her hair down once in a while? And don't even get me started on Severus. He looks like he's never even heard of conditioner!"

"Exactly," Arthur agreed, "I didn't get to be king by letting my hair become an untamed rat's nest like Merlin's, or shaving it all off like Percival,"

"I concur," proclaimed Lockhart, "fame is a fickle friend after all, and fabulous hair is a necessity to retain it,"

Nodding in agreement, Arthur sat back in his chair, pondering the likelihood of his friends' hair improving, and decided that it was minute to nil.

The two friends sat in contemplative silence for a moment, before turning the topic to how fortunate their subordinates and students were to study under them, with their vast knowledge and good looks.

Outside, the storm raged on.