Two men sat at the table in the farthest corner of the pub, both sitting with their backs to the crowd and general hubbub, both of them clutching identical leather-bound books.
“This is the most ridiculous thing we’ve ever done.”
“I quite agree, but you have to admit: it was a good idea!”
They laughed, identical grins lighting their faces.
A waitress paused beside their table, set down a tray filled with glasses. The looks she shot them were equally curious and nervous. She’d seen too many drunken escapades to underestimate the two men before her, knowing exactly what they could be capable of with the amount of drinks they’d ordered.
She slunk back to the bar with the empty tray, praying her shift ended before the fun began. The barmaid grinned at her, trying to reassure. The waitress might think she knew what the two at the back might be capable of, but she, the barmaid, knew exactly what they could get up to.
Back at the table the first man cracked his knuckles; his eyes narrowed to mere slits as he stared the book now lying on the table in front of him.
“Are you ready?”
The second man nodded, rocking his chair back onto two legs, waiting for the debacle.
The first flipped his book open to the first page, cleared his throat loudly, several times, and read the first sentence.
“Dearest ambition number one: To snog a girl in a broom closet long enough that she forgets who she went in there with.”
The second man roared with laughter as the first took a glass, raised it, and swallowed the contents in one go.
Then he turned to his partner, eyes glinting.
“Your turn, mate.”
Another flip of the pages, another loud knuckle-cracking and obnoxious throat-clearing.
“Dearest ambition one: To discover what it feels like to be a hairless cat.”
Another roar of laughter, another drained glass.
They traded turns, reading on and on, page after page, drinking, drinking. They lost count of the glasses they’d emptied.
The waitresses refilled glasses as soon as they emptied”there was something to be said for tipping the help before having a few too many Firewhiskies.
“Dearest ambition number seventy-three: To fly a broomstick, starkers, through the Quidditch World Cup.”
They caught each other’s eye, both snorted with laughter, clutching the stitches in their sides, clutching each other to keep from falling out of their chairs.
“Wait, wait: does it have to be through the Cup?”
Grasping the edge of the table in an effort to remain upright, the first man blinked blearily at his mate.
“What?”
“You know. Flying starkers. Any crowded area work?”
They stared at each other for a moment, and then their faces lit with identical mischievous grins.
They staggered to their feet, stumbled out of the pub and into the damp spring air.
The sun was still shining brilliantly down on them, making them squint.
They stood on the path for a moment, considering, and then turned to face the other.
“If I have to do this, you’re going to do it with me. I know you’ve got at least one ambition that involves being starkers in a public place.”
“Fine, fine.”
They both raised wands, took breaths.
“Accio Rosmerta’s brooms!”
A pair of rather weathered-looking broomsticks burst out of a ratty shed behind the pub, came hurtling toward them.
They each caught one, darted into the shadows.
Cloaks, robes, shoes, all lay discarded in a matter of mere seconds. Shivering slightly in the cool air, feeling absurdly ridiculous and trying desperately not to laugh at each other, they mounted the brooms.
“Count of three.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Three!”
They kicked off simultaneously, rose unsteadily into the air, hidden still for just an instant under the eaves, and then, as though reading each other’s mind, they darted out into the sunlight.
Someone below screamed, someone else burst into laughter, and the two on the brooms both blushed a brilliant red.
They soared through the air, the wind rushing at their faces and other certain...parts...
Once....twice....three loops around the village, and they disappeared once more into the shadows.
Dressing hastily, dreading someone finding them, half-naked, beside the Three Broomsticks.
They snuck around the building, tucked the brooms securely back into their shed, pointed wands at the lock that had broken, putting everything back to normal.
Satisfied that nothing was out of place, they strode confidently back into the pub.
They’d made it almost to their table when the first chuckle sounded.
One by one, more patrons joined in, until the entire building was shaking with laughter.
Their ears flushed an impossibly dark shade of red as they slid into their seats, sinking low until only eyes showed above the table.
Neither of them was much in a mood now to continue reading, though the books still lay open on the tabletop.
Behind them, someone coughed impatiently.
Glancing round, they were met with the smiling face of the barmaid.
“Next time you boys decide to do something like that, you go starkers on someone else’s brooms, alright?”
Both nodded sheepishly.
“Yes, Rosmerta.”
“Of course, Rosmerta. Anything for you.”
As she turned and weaved her way back through the tables to the bar, the men cast each other dark looks.
“Next time, Georgie-boy, you can fly starkers by yourself.”
“Next time? Who said there’d be a next time, my dear Fred?”
Of Journals by Darkness Enshrouds
Chapter Notes: Men. Bars. Too much whiskey. What happens when you put the three together?
Chapter Endnotes: I love the twins. I always have. It's too much fun dreaming up new things for them to get themselves into. :D