A/N: Do not blow into vaginas.
Fred and George know something is wrong when they find Ron crying into his third cup of butterbeer at half past midnight in The Leaky Cauldron. The first round was funny and the second slurred order was hilariously pathetic, but this is just embarrassing. They take a seat on either side of their youngest brother simultaneously, and he bolts upright like he's just woken from a terrible dream.
"Ickle Ronniekins," they chorus. "Still crying over spilt butterbeer?"
Ron wipes his runny nose with the sleeve of his robe. "Shove off," he mutters dejectedly. He leans forward until his forehead brushes the table. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Good!" Fred exclaims. "We don't wanna hear about it."
Ron lifts his head, face pinched and red. He orders another butterbeer but George pilfers it and takes a swig before Ron can open his mouth to complain.
"Alright, let's change the subject," George concedes, passing the heavy mug over Ron's head. Fred swallows and returns the half empty beer to the bar. "Would you rather eat a pound of bricks, or a matter baby?"
Ron frowns into his drink and scrunches his nose. "What's a matter baby?"
George let's loose before Fred can even finish the punchline. "Nothing's the matter with me. What's a matter with you?"
Ron groans into his arms.
"This oughta cheer you up!" George declares, elbowing into his personal space. "What did the penis say to the vagina?" Fred asks, eyes twinkling. Ron shrugs his shoulders and George rolls his eyes. "Don't make me cum in there!"
Ron snorts over the rim of the glass and almost shoots booze out of nose. He wipes his mouth with a heavy sigh and picks at the frayed hem on his shirtsleeve.
"Hermione won't speak to me," he admits miserably.
"What'd you do?" George asks. "She catch you looking at porno again?"
"Nothing like that!" Ron grouses, scrubbing a hand across his face. "It's just…" he takes a deep breath. "Ever since we last shagged..." Ron mumbles, fingers curling into fists. "What if it can't be helped?" Ron complains. "I must be awful."
"Have you tried blowing in it?" Fred asks seriously. "Or going counterclockwise?" George inclines his head. "Personally, I always find a forty-five degree angle works best."
Ron glances up. "Does that really work?"
"What?" they chime.
Ron scowls. "Blowing in it?"
Fred tries to swallow the snicker lodged in his throat. "Well every woman is different," George admits behind a devious smirk. "An individual," Fred continues. "But it can't hurt to try," they say together.
"I suppose it's worth a shot."
"Or you could play hard to get," Fred says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Women love a good chase."
Ron sighs. "And you're certain it'll work?"
"Absolutely," they say simultaneously. "No worries, mate," Fred continues, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "It'll turn out just fine," George assures him.
Ron turns to finish what's left of his cup, only to find that it's empty. George leans down and lowers his voice to a whisper. "If blowing doesn't work, you might try apologizing."
"Fair enough," Ron mutters, cracking a small smile of his own. "Thanks guys."
"No worries," Fred says lightly. He catches Ron's gaze and offers a wink in return. "Let's just say you owe us one."
