So Much

Summary: Harry's insomnia leads him places he never could have imagined.
Author's Note: The perspective shifts here to Harry's.


SIX MONTHS LATER

Harry couldn't sleep. This wasn't unusual, especially not recently, with the Triwizard Tournament -- among other things -- weighing heavily on his mind, and he had found ways to keep himself amused while his dorm-mates slept soundly behind their curtains. Tonight, he had the Marauder's Map spread across his bed, gazing lazily at it by wandlight.

Generally, he just watched Filch chase Peeves through the castle until their little black dots swam together in front of his eyes and he grew woozy, like a strange form of meditation. As he glided his hand over the corner of the map to straighten it, however, he noticed two more dots making their way through the corridor, just outside the Gryffindor Common Room. Squinting down, Harry saw that they were labeled Fred Weasley and George Weasley. Thinking this a bit different, though not entirely unlikely, Harry grew curious.

The twins had been acting secretive lately, and he and Ron had had vigorous discussions over what they were up to. Ron seemed to be a bit more concerned than Harry, but, strangely, had been refusing to tell Harry what he suspected them of. He brushed it off with, "Blimey, Harry, I don't know, but I just have a weird feeling." Ron's blue eyes, however, were his constant betrayers, and Harry knew that something was going on behind them that Harry couldn't quite understand.

Harry considered arousing Ron to go and follow them. He climbed out of his own four-poster and crept over to Ron's bed. Ron's sleepy murmurings were coming through the curtains, and Harry laughed quietly to himself. Ron was constantly talking in his sleep, though Harry could never quite discern actual words.

Noiselessly, he pulled aside the hangings. Ron was curled into a ball on his side, facing Harry. His mouth was open just slightly, and his lips were moving in some approximation of speech, starting and stopping in time with his twitching eyelids, which, Harry noted, looked somewhat delicate in the light from Harry's wand. He appeared to be having a rather pleasant dream. In between words, his lips rose at their corners into a little half-smile. Ron's red hair (which was sorely in need of a trim) was sticking up at odd angles across his pillow, and his pale hand was tucked under his chin, leaving just a small expanse of freckled wrist visible, due to his too-short pyjama sleeve.

Harry had a strange urge to pat him on the head and smooth down the unruly mess there, but instead just closed the hangings and stepped back. Right now, Ron was the most untroubled Harry had seen him in quite some time, and he couldn't bring himself to interrupt. His curiosity still prodding him, Harry elected to follow Fred and George alone and fill Ron in the next morning.

Harry collected his Invisibility Cloak and the map, and, tucking his wand securely under his arm, he made his way into the common room and through the portal into the corridor. A quick glance revealed that Filch was a safe distance away (Peeves appeared to be in the Great Hall, undoubtedly upending the tables there as he was wont to do when he was bored), and Fred and George, Harry saw, were currently in an empty room on the sixth floor, not awfully far.

Moving quietly, Harry made his way to the marble staircase, his interest growing with every step. Artful mischief was a particular specialty of Ron's brothers', and Harry was keen to catch a glimpse of their next project. He was also piqued to know why they had taken whatever it was into an empty classroom in the middle of the night, rather than the common room.

When he reached the sixth floor landing, Harry crept down the corridor. He soon found that he didn't even need the map; noise drew him easily to the twins' location. It didn't sound like conversation. Harry quickly discovered that it wasn't.

The door to the classroom was sitting halfway ajar. No lights were on, but moonlight was streaming brightly through the windows, illuminating everything. Harry nearly dropped his wand -- and did drop the Marauder's Map, which fluttered to his feet -- at what he saw.

Both Fred and George were utterly starkers. Their pyjamas lay in a heap at the foot of one of the tables. One of them -- Harry couldn't discern who from this distance; their bodies were identically lean and white, both their hair a matching shade to Ron's -- was seated in a desk chair, which was braced against the wall below the windows. The other was in his lap, legs splayed on either side. Their mouths were caught up in one another, occasionally coming apart in impetuous, ardent little noises; the sounds that had alerted Harry to their whereabouts. They were clutching one another so fiercely that Harry actually thought, for one bizarre moment, that they were having a row.

Who brawls without their bloody clothes on, in the middle of the night, in an empty classroom, you prat? Harry chastised himself internally. No, they definitely weren't arguing. But what in Merlin's name were they doing? Certainly they weren't... they're brothers; they couldn't be...

They were. Harry soon had no doubt that that was exactly what they were doing. The noise had turned into words.

"Turn around, Georgie." The lap-sitting twin -- George -- slung his leg to the side and rearranged himself so that his back lay against Fred's chest. He leaned back, arching a shoulder under Fred's chin and lolling his head to the side, leaving his throat bare for Fred's mouth, which wasted no time. Harry gaped as Fred nuzzled into the bones of George's neck, humming a low, murmuring litany against his skin, stopping only to press a reverent sort of kiss here and there. George responded with little sighs, digging his fingertips into the sides of Fred's thighs and shivering visibly against him.

George's cock was now plainly visible, and though Harry tried his best to avert his eyes, it was no use. It was straight up against his flat belly, almost painfully hard-looking. Harry swallowed, not oblivious to the response of his own prick, which was, unsettlingly, stirring in his pyjamas. He made a swift decision to ignore it, which grew steadily more difficult, as Fred's hand had come to rest in George's lap, and his fingers were running up and down George's erection with obvious adoration, his thumb drawing lingering circles around the tip.

Harry watched, agog. He wondered if they had fallen under some sort of curse (the brother-bonking hex? he wondered, idly, and would have laughed at himself if he hadn't been so worried.) There were some awfully dodgy things going on lately. Maybe this was one of them? Though Harry couldn't imagine what purpose anybody would have for such a thing, other than blackmail, and Fred and George had no obvious enemies, other than Filch, who kept an entire drawer dedicated to their misdeeds. But Filch, Harry saw, retrieving the map, was what amounted to miles away, and besides, Harry remembered, he was a squib.

There was no logical conclusion other than this was something they were doing of their own free will, and, Harry noted, rather enthusiastically enjoying. Fred's entire hand was now wrapped around George's cock, and George was rocking his hips in a slow, indulgent rhythm, slipping himself through Fred's fist. Harry could see Fred's cock every time George rocked forward, sliding against George's arse and the small of his back; Fred's head was thrown back in a sort of ecstatic way, and he was moaning freely.

Then George spoke. "Freddie, I want you."

The tremor in his voice, that low sort of aching sound, put Harry's bollocks into a vise-grip, and his cock sprang to its full attention. Much to Harry's chagrin, he found himself having to reach into his pyjama bottoms to adjust it into a more comfortable position, and his hips rolled rather involuntarily at the pressure. He bit his lip to keep from hissing aloud.

Fred was reaching for his wand, which lay on the windowsill behind him, now wholly alert. Harry watched as George leaned forward onto his toes, giving Fred access to his arse. Fred touched his wand lightly to George's bottom, then to his own cock, muttering something, and then replaced his wand on the sill. Harry's eyes grew wide, realizing what they meant to do next.

Fred slipped his hand underneath George and carefully slid two fingers inside him. His chest was rising and falling quickly, and his cock was straining in the space between them. George had his hands on Fred's knees and was holding himself slightly aloft, allowing himself to be fondled and plied. His lower lip was between his teeth, and he was making sounds into his own mouth that Harry could hear from where he stood, all the way across the room.

The sounds are what did it. Harry couldn't help it. He had his own cock gripped in his fist, and he was transfixed, horrified, and outright bloody horny. Maybe what he was looking at was more than a mite strange, but what he was hearing was irresistibly, well... sexy. He squeezed and tugged, unable to tear himself away.

Fred was leaning up now, whispering into George's ear, his cock meeting his hand, and George was nodding his agreement. Slowly, Fred slid his fingers out of George's arse and guided George's body down to meet his cock, which Harry could see was shining a bit in the moonlight. It was a careful but obviously familiar process, which involved a lot of stopping and starting and wriggling, but once Fred was all the way inside, it was fluid and graceful.

Fred allowed George to set the pace, and George ground himself down into Fred's lap in a deep, steady, sensuous rhythm, and when Fred cottoned on to it, George relaxed and Fred began to thrust up into him. George was stroking his cock in time with Fred's thrusting, palming the head every time his hand slid down to it.

Harry, without meaning to, started to adopt the same cadence. He could feel himself blushing, and was more thankful than he had every been for the protection of his Invisibility Cloak. He was peculiarly fascinated with George's face. Though Harry was sure that what was happening couldn't be entirely comfortable (nothing that took that much preparation and work could be, could it?), George wore an expression that -- and this realization made Harry swallow hard -- more than a little resembled the one that Ron had been wearing when Harry left the dormitory. His eyes were closed, but not squeezed shut; his lashes fluttered a little when Fred gave a particularly enthusiastic roll of his hips. His lips were parted, the bottom one pushed out a little further than the top. Every muscle in his face seemed utterly, completely relaxed and peaceful in its slackness. He looked, Harry thought, as though he were having the most gorgeous dream of his life. Yes, Harry thought, he never looked more like Ron than he does now.

Harry's stomach gave a lurch, like he was dropping from a great height. Pushing the thought out of his mind, he grabbed at himself, feeling as though he were very, very close. George was, also. Harry could tell from the harsher, more urgent way his hand was working his cock now, twisting around it with a tight little jerk with every stroke. Fred seemed to be working harder, also, grunting a bit (which made Harry shiver) and lifting up off of the chair slightly every time he thrust into George.

Suddenly, George's hand paused, and his mouth opened wide into a moan of absolute, unadulterated bliss. Harry had never heard anything like it in his life, and before he could make heads or tails of it, he came all over his hand and gasped. Luckily, Fred and George were entirely too distracted to notice, though Harry's other hand flew immediately to his mouth in horror.

George was coming, too, and when Harry shook himself back to sense, it was still spurting out of him, covering the planes of his belly and his long, slender fingers. Harry could see the muscles under George's skin contracting and releasing, and this made Fred throw his head back and his hips up as he came, too, inside of George.

Harry hastily mopped at himself with his pyjama pants, terribly embarrassed but pleasantly loose and warm. Fred and George were groping at each other and panting, their bodies falling into one another as though their insides had suddenly melted. That was sort of what it felt like, Harry mused, scrubbing still at his thigh.

Then George stirred, and lifted himself gingerly off of Fred's lap, reaching one hand back to guide Fred out of him gently. Fred brought his hands to George's flushed hips and turned him back around, settling him back across his legs. Harry watched as Fred pulled George in towards him and dipped his face down toward George's belly, which was quite thoroughly debauched. With voluptuous slowness, he drew his tongue over his brother's body in long lines of kisses and licks, stopping to suck or nip wherever he pleased, until every drop that George had spent on himself had been cleaned up. George just rested back against Fred's palms, which supported him with a strength that Harry didn't think he could possibly have left.

When Fred had finished, George drew his knees up onto Fred's lap. George curled up into Fred's chest, tucking his whole body into a position that also, disconcertingly, reminded Harry of Ron's sleeping frame. Fred wrapped his arms around his brother as tightly as he could manage and rested his sweaty head against George's shoulder.

"Love you," Fred said, low but clear, into George's ear.

"So much," answered George, sighing with heavy contentment and kissing the inside of Fred's arm.

They sat that way for a moment, and Harry felt more like an intruder then than he had the entire time. He actually tore his eyes away and forced himself to look at the map, which, to his relief, revealed that they were still a safe distance from Filch and Peeves.

He looked up again when he heard them start to move.

"To bed, yeah?" Fred muttered. "Before we give Filch another reason to hang our arses up?"

"Right," answered George, a smile in his voice. "My arse has had quite enough haranguing for one night, don't you think?" Both of them laughed, working to untangle their limbs and right themselves.

"Oh, it's never enough," teased Fred. "If I had my way, you'd be getting salved by Madam Pomfrey every sodding day."

George, who had retrieved their pyjamas from the floor, threw Fred's to him with a playful sort of snap. "Oh, true? Well, I'll remember that next time you're arse-up for me, then."

They dressed swiftly and picked their wands off the windowsill. Harry backed away and flattened himself against the wall in the corridor as Fred and George made their way towards the door. As they walked by him, Harry noticed that their hands were clutched together.

When they were a safe distance ahead, Harry followed them up the marble staircase and towards the portrait-hole, the whole time being mindfully silent and as graceful as he could manage, still feeling a bit confused and put-off by what he had just witnessed.

When Fred and George woke the Fat Lady (who glared quite disgustedly down at them and wrinkled her nose) and gave the password, Harry stuck his arm through the portal to hold it open until he saw them start up toward the sixth-years' dormitory, then climbed through himself. The Fat Lady looked startled. Harry snickered.

He waited until he was back in his own dormitory before removing his Invisibility Cloak. He stowed it, and then started toward bed, a strange, woozy feeling in his gut. At the last second, he had a change of heart, and made for Ron's bed instead. He wasn't sure why, but he wanted -- needed -- to see him undisturbed and restful before he could sleep, perhaps to remind himself that there was something unchanged about tonight, even if it certainly wasn't Harry himself.

Silently, Harry pulled back the hangings of Ron's four-poster. Ron hadn't moved. He was sleeping soundly, though whatever dream he had been having now appeared to be over, and his eyelids were calm and his mouth slack. He sighed, and Harry felt his breath brush the back of his hand, which was resting against the mattress. Without thinking, Harry grazed his thumb across Ron's jutting lower lip, so much like his older brother's, and closed the hangings.

Until morning, Harry slept fitfully. Every time he woke (and he woke several times, unable to nestle into comfortable, sleepy thoughts), he was chewing at that same thumb.