[fic] Harry Potter And The Camping Weekend With Ron That Will Never Be Spoken Of Again
"Did you remember the Sterno?" Harry yelled over his shoulder impatiently.
"I don't see why we need any bloody Sterno. Or any of this---this stuff," Ron pouted. "It's not as though we haven't got our wands. It's not as though we need any of it."
"You're missing the point, Ron. We're meant to be communing with the wilderness. We're meant to become one with nature!" Harry's eyes gleamed as he turned around after rustling around fruitlessly in his rucksack.
"You're clearly meant to develop a nasty case of poison oak. I at least remembered to bring the bog roll," Ron laughed as Harry lunged forward trying to grab the roll. Ron was able to hold it handily out of reach ever since his amazing growth spurt.
"Are we not men?" Harry posed like a muscle man. "Men have no need of bog roll!"
Ron raised an eyebrow. "I've never had your cooking, mate, but I wouldn't be so sure if I were you."
Harry hissed through his teeth but said nothing. And continued to say nothing for quite some time whilst throwing pointed glares in Ron's general direction every chance he got.
"So that's what I've got to do to get you to shut up?" Ron grinned. "I wish I'd've figured that out ages ago!"
Harry said nothing, stewing quietly for a fraction of a second before throwing a wild punch at Ron with his right fist.
"No, no, mate, you've got to take your thumb out of your fist. Like this. Otherwise you'll break your thumb." Ron said, in between fits of hysterical giggling.
******
As the weekend wore on, Ron proved more and more useful at many and various sorts of things. It got to the point Harry couldn't look at Ron without glaring jealously at all the amazing things Ron was able to do. These feats included but were not limited to: building a hammock out of pandanus leaves and twine, brewing a perfectly delightful tea out of naught but various bits of tree bark, baking beautiful breakfast scones using only a magnifying glass for heat, and swordfighting a wild boar using only a few weeping willow branches woven together. So talented did Ron prove himself, in fact, that Harry took to calling him "MacGyver" after some old goofy show Aunt Petunia used to watch secretly whenever Uncle Vernon wasn't home because she thought the main star was quite the thing. Ron, of course, didn't understand a word of it but chalked this curious naming convention up to another of Harry's unfortunate peculiarities.
Harry was utterly miserable. He'd never, ever been second to Ron in anything, and he didn't like it one bit. Worse still, he was sure once they got back he'd never hear the end of it because Ron, of course, was overjoyed he was for once better at something than Harry. Better at several somethings, actually, and all of them much more useful in the real world than he ever could have hoped.
"I'll make you a deal," Harry said at last on Sunday afternoon as they were packing up their kit.
"Oh?" Ron waited a moment. This should be good.
"If you don't tell anyone what happened this weekend, I'll..." Harry paused, unable to quite spit out what he was going to say.
"...you'll what?" Ron grinned evilly.
"I'll make sure you get some quality time with Hermione." Harry stammered.
"Too late, mate, I can do that on my own if you haven't noticed." Ron smiled smugly.
Harry's eyes widened. "Something you're not telling me, Ron? Something your mum would give anything to know about?" his eyes gleamed wickedly.
Ron paled. "You wouldn't."
"Wouldn't I?" Now it was Harry's turn to be smug.
"Mum'd have my guts for garters if she knew..." he trailed off, suspicious. Harry didn't actually know anything. "Hang on. You must think I'm a complete idiot, Harry." Ron glared.
"Whatever do you mean?" Harry feigned innocence.
"You were hoping I'd give you gory details, weren't you? I'm a gentleman, I'll have you know. I never kiss and tell." Ron sniffed prudishly.
"That's not what I heard," Harry shuffled some photographs in front of him. "That's not what my camera heard, either."
Harry then learnt that if a Weasley falls in a forest and no-one else is around to hear it, it's best to leave him there.
"He'll find his way out. He doesn't even need a compass," Harry sulked, lugging his kit away on his back, tent poles knocking into the backs of his legs and leaving rather nasty mud stains on his trousers.