February had brought with it that extra bit of misery and wretchedness nobody needed in particular. That dampness that clings to your clothes and frizzles your hair, that crisp, chilly air that nestles in your joints and brings suffering for many years to come upon he who wanders outside.
It's after a full rounded Saturday of Quidditch practice in such weather conditions that Harry and Ron both drag their feet towards the lockers with the last possible bit of energy left in their overly tired bodies, more than ready to call it a day.
"Bloody weather, eh?" Jimmy Peakes unnecessarily comments as he peels off his Quidditch gear.
Ron grumbles back, throwing Peakes a filthy look. As for Harry, well, he'd like to add a bit of value to the conversation by sarcastically remarking that, oh, he had not properly noticed the disgusting weather they've all sweated in until now and thank Jimmy for his kind and unprecedented observations. However, he finds it rather hard to jibe with his face currently scrunched into a towel, head lolling upside down off the bench he'd plopped his person onto immediately upon entering.
The towel also has the nifty purpose of allowing him to peek at a certain redhead, Chaser extraordinaire, as she floats out of the shower smelling like wildflowers and works her socks, boots, and jacket back on. But that's really only for Harry to know and Ron to hopefully never find out.
"Oi," Ron lightly shoves his shin into Harry's idling head three billion years later, when the rest of the team have shuffled out, after having showered like proper human beings. How they found the power within to actually do that too, Harry has no idea. "Should I leave you here to rot or?"
Harry briefly shows Ron what he can do by raising two tired fingers, then grumpily removes his body from the bench and proceeds to do the quickest maths he's ever done.
"Bloody hell you think you're doing?"
Harry doesn't even balk under Ron's incredulous stare but continues to disrobe himself with great suffering. "Too tired. Change here."
"You're my best mate and all but did I ever let slip that I want to see your hairy bum?" Ron huffs, makes a great show of covering his eyes.
Harry's afraid some unknown muscle in his body will hurt if he rolls his eyes so he smacks his lips and replies dryly, "Don't care. If you haven't got some food, dry clothes or a bed hidden somewhere round here, I'm not interested."
Ron eyes him suspiciously as Harry tugs the last of his trousers off, jiggling his leg a little so they finally fall off his ankle. "You're not showering?"
"Nope," Harry grunts as he bends a bit to peel off his soggy pants, aware that Ron's suddenly grinning. "Mate, you're smiling at my penis. Stop."
"Ew, no," Ron wrinkles his nose and starts undressing too. "If anything, I'd smile because little Harry is not much of a man, is he?" He grins wider and easily avoids the damp pair of pants Harry pelts at his head. "Frankly, I'm happy because I just realised I don't have to shower either."
Harry blinks twice at the proud smirk on Ron's face before he presses his lips into a thin line and turns a naked back at his best mate to search for fresh, dry clothes in his bag. He grabs a roll he knows would be his socks, boxers, uniform and turns around -
"Fuck, warn me first, alright?" Harry shuts his eyes tightly to block the image of a completely starkers Ron materialising before him.
"What, so you can prance around with everything dangling loose over there and I can't, eh, sweetcheeks?" Ron pouts, hands on freckled hips and Harry tries very, very hard not to follow the freckles further down south.
"Sweetcheeks? Really?"
"Would you rather I called you silly willy?"
"Oi, leave my penis out of this!"
"Not much to include there anyway."
They're both scowling now, hands crossed over chests, neither taking a step back in spite of the ever increasing ridiculousness of the situation.
And thus it suddenly dawns on Harry that Ron is officially the first Weasley whose naked forms he gets a chance to enjoy. Not that there's much enjoyment here, just a weird kind of challenge neither is prepared to fail.
So Harry gives up, making a mental note to be more specific in his wishes moving forward, drops the clothes he'd been holding onto the bench behind him, unrolls his socks and shoves them on one by one, then pulls his pants up and wiggles his hips just enough so everything inside falls comfortably into its rightful place.
With a grin worthy of a victor, Ron too clothes himself, a new-found spring in his step.
They pack their damp things in silence and just as quietly they trot out the door, braving the impossible weather with the promise of a warm meal in mind.
"Why are you still grinning?" Harry raises a dark, wet eyebrow and immediately regrets asking.
"Oh, nothing much. Just that I won," Ron flashes a shining grin back at him.
"What are you on about? There was nothing to win and no, you didn't, actually! I simply gave up."
"I won."
"You didn't."
"Did. And now that we know who's got the most powerful wand -"
"Size is just a number, Ron."
They continue undeterred through the rain and cold, past the ancient doors, inside the Great Hall, claiming a seat at the Gryffindor table next to Hermione, who's currently engrossed in yet another brick of a tome propped up by a half empty mug of hot chocolate.
"What are you two raving about?" Hermione asks, nose still glued to her book.
Harry smirks evilly and, without sparing Ron a glance, says "We're discussing the direct proportionality between wand length and power."
"That's silly," Hermione drawls, bored. "Everyone knows wand power is only ever proportional to the carrier's skill and experience."
"In other words," Harry plows on with a badly concealed grin, "You could cast a very powerful, very efficient spell with a moderately sized wand, yes?"
"Absolutely. There was a scholar who even insisted small wands are more powerful because they concentrate the wizard's magic better. But why the sudden interest in wand length?" Hermione finally removes her eyes from her light reading to look at the pair of them inquisitively.
"No reason," Harry shrugs, eyes glinting happily behind round glasses, and quickly proceeds to stuff his mouth with all the food within his reach. Ron, on the other hand, simply stares dejectedly at his plate, fork lifelessly spinning a couple of peas about.