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Their Hogwarts Express compartment is more crowded and noisy than Harry can remember: he, Ron, and Hermione are joined by Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ginny, Fred, George, and Lee. Filibuster’s Wet-Start Fireworks ricochet off the windows and ceiling, and numerous sweets litter the seats and floor—Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Licorice Wands, Jelly Slugs, Fizzing Whizbees, and Chocolate Frogs. The occasional fork of lightning, clang of thunder, and torrential onslaught of the storm outside cannot compete with the bouncing, multicolored stars and raucous peals of laughter. After a summer spent chiefly with the Dursleys, Harry can think of no better place to be. That is until they reach Hogsmeade Station, and the storm punishes them for ignoring its previous efforts. Soaked and freezing in moments, the hundreds of children run to the waiting stagecoaches.
The Weasley twins stumble into the same musty carriage as Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Cursing softly, Fred shakes out his ginger hair and lifts his shirt to wring it out. For the briefest second, Harry glimpses a sliver of Fred’s taut, creamy, goose-pimpled abdomen. Suddenly, Harry isn’t feeling quite so cold; he’s sure Ron and Hermione, seated on either side of him, can feel the heat rising in his body. He tears his gaze away from the flat belly tanned and toned deliciously from Quidditch only to meet warm blue eyes. But Fred merely grins and arranges his clothes, hiding the view once more.
“I hope you're not catching a cold, Harry,” Hermione says. “You look feverish.”
Fred’s grin morphs from one of amusement to downright impishness. Harry clears his throat and turns to her, smiling to hide his embarrassment.
“I’m fine, Hermione.”
The remainder of the ride is silent, apart from the endless drumming of rain and creaking of the coach’s wheels. But they all share a groan when the parade of stagecoaches stops on the castle lawn, dreading reentering the rain and longing to be fed and bedded. Ron kicks open the door and dashes to the steps without waiting for the rest. Harry steps out, prepared for the frigid downpour, but it doesn’t come. Turning, he sees Fred standing over him and stretching his school robes above Harry’s head. Fred beams down at him.
“Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, Harry.”
Harry peers back into the carriage; Hermione looks innocently bemused, while George throws him a withering glare.
“C’mon, Harry. This umbrella won’t last forever.”
Losing his willpower, Harry allows himself to be escorted to the giant oak doors, distinctly flushed in the face and neck. He chances a glance at the taller boy sloshing through the mud beside him. The act of raising his arms has exposed more skin, now golden in the light spilling from the castle, and, Merlin’s pants, Fred’s trousers have slipped off his hips, revealing obscenely clingy, clover-covered boxer briefs. Harry’s breath catches in his throat, and he continues to stare until his foot sinks ankle-deep in a puddle. Hearing Harry’s rather unmanly squawk, Fred laughs deeply. Though Fred surely can’t see his burning cheeks, Harry forces himself to focus instead on the brightly lit entrance hall.
Sooner than Harry wanted, they take the steps and pass through the doors. Both boys sigh contentedly as the warmth immediately sweeps over them, and Fred lowers his robe to squeeze it dry. Harry notices that the older Gryffindor is dripping profusely; of course, Fred had been covering only Harry. Fred sees his concern and draws his wand, pointing it at Harry to cast a steaming charm. Harry dries from his hair to his socks and can only give thanks with a sheepish grin as Fred casts the charm on himself. Harry watches in fascination as Fred lifts his now-dry shirt and turns his wand to the bared stomach. Fred traces the wand tip along his skin in a strange pattern then looks back at Harry, sporting a blush himself. Harry looks at Fred’s stomach and gasps, flushing for what feels like the umpteenth time that night. Below Fred’s navel are painted letters as black as his hair:
HARRY POTTER'S
A heartbeat of silence passes before they both burst out laughing.
“I thought you might like it,” Fred says, his eyes shining.
Harry nods, sad to see the shirt pulled back down. Fred tilts his head in the direction of the Great Hall, and Harry nods again before leading the way to dinner. Putting his hand into his own robes, Harry grasps something in his pocket and withdraws the item: the last Chocolate Frog. He stops mid-step and turns to face Fred. The older boy looks curiously at the trembling outstretched hand and his grin widens. He takes the offered sweet and leans forward.
Placing a soft, dry kiss to the lightning-shaped scar, he murmurs, “Welcome home, Harry.”