Harry woke with a sense of profound disorientation; the clouds skittering across the ceiling overhead combined with the comfortable warmth of his new bed to confuse his sleep-shrouded brain. He couldn't say what woke him, or if his body just thought it was time to get up -- he hadn't set his alarm, and he was all alone except for Hedwig, back from her nightly hunt and sleeping quietly in her cage. A bit of fumbling about for his clock told him the annoyingly early hour, and he sagged back into the mattress for a few more moments of peace before giving in to his body's demands and getting up.

He decided to take advantage of the early-morning tranquillity and have a bath, so he dug out some clothing for the day -- more jeans, a pair of interestingly blue-green silk boxers, and another t-shirt the twins had chosen, this time with a "Co-Ed Naked Quidditch" slogan. He found his towel, flannel, robe and slippers, and then he was ready for a bit of private time with some warm water and his morning erection.

Last night had been hard, in more ways than one, but in the end he'd had to conclude that no amount of rationalization would either make his jealousy go away, or make it right. He was enjoying the same freedoms and pleasures that Snape was, and no matter how much he might envy the twins for getting to touch where he couldn't, he couldn't blame any of them for taking advantage of the situation. Despite all logic, he still got a sick burn in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought about them together; perversely, it was almost always accompanied by a rock-hard erection, as the image of the three of them having sex was, all emotional turmoil aside, a very inspiring one. As a result, he'd done a great deal of wanking in the past twelve hours, even for a boy his age.

He revisited the image this morning, safely ensconced in a tub full of hot water and magical green bubbles the size of marbles, which gave off a pleasant aroma of crisp apples and made a noise much like bubble wrap when popped. He spread his legs, slicked up his hands and gave himself over to the simple pleasure of his own touch, exploring both his body and his mind, rolling all those newest fantasies over and around in his head like they were sweets that he was mentally tasting. He ended it by laughing himself breathless; when he finally sent himself over the edge, the spray of seed popped dozens of those bubbles in a riot of sound and scent. Once he caught his breath, he washed and got out, finally feeling ready to face the day.

Harry wandered down to the kitchen, trailing his fingers thoughtfully over the walls and wondering if they'd ever manage to erase the taint from the house completely, or if it would always have the pall of Dark magic that seeped through the bright new paint and made him shudder. The new bit of wall where Lupin had forcibly redecorated seemed strangely out of place, as though it hadn't quite soaked up the atmosphere of the place yet.

These thoughts were quickly forgotten when he arrived in the kitchen to find Snape at the table with four cups of tea and two scrolls, one of which was still sealed. Harry vaguely remembered the sound of an owl arriving at some point during his bath, and sat down across from Snape, recognizing the Gringott's seal with apprehension. "So, what do you think it's about?" Harry asked, pointing his own name in spidery writing on the Gringott's scroll.

"I expect it relates your godfather's will," said Snape. "Dumbledore mentions it in his letter." He gestured toward the other, his own name on the outside in the headmaster's familiar hand.

"I appreciate the tea," said Harry, taking a steadying sip and carefully avoiding both letters for as long as possible. "I don't suppose it'd wait until tomorrow?"

"I find it fortuitous timing that Fred and George are here now to provide you with the comfort I cannot," said Snape, voice tight. "You have some small idea of my feelings on this matter, and I do not wish to be the cause of further grief. I would suggest you take advantage of their presence."

Harry nodded, throat tight. He'd mostly put Sirius out of his mind over the last year, unable to function with the raw grief still welling up. He'd been dreading the memories locked in this house, but its complete rehabilitation had eased the sharp bite of returning to find it empty of his godfather. "What else did Dumbledore say?" Harry asked, clinging to the tea like a lifeline.

"You might as well read that one, too, as it mostly concerns you," said Snape quietly. "Would you prefer to assist me with breakfast first?"

Harry nodded, sipping at the tea again. He made no move to rise, eyes fixed on the shimmering golden blob of sealing wax as though the intricate embossing held some answers. All his other worries seemed so pale against the darkness of his grief for Sirius, the closest thing to a parent he'd ever known. He took a long drink of the tea, then nearly set the mug on thin air before Snape managed to get his attention. "Better not let me chop anything," said Harry with a tight laugh, sloshing hot liquid over his wrist as his hands began to shake.

Two sharp cracks echoed in the little room, and Fred and George were suddenly there, looking sleep-mussed and a bit damp around the edges. "G'morning," said George, sitting next to Harry and claiming one of the steaming mugs.

"What's up?" asked Fred, looking from Harry's grief-stricken features to Snape's tight, guarded expression.

Harry gestured at the scrolls sitting innocuously in the middle of the table. "Gringott's was quick with..." He stopped, unable to get Sirius' name past the lump in his throat.

George rubbed Harry's back gently, then exchanged a look with Fred. "Food first, then angst, right?"

Fred sat beside Snape, rubbing one of his hands up and down Snape's rigid spine. "You gonna be OK tonight?"

"I..." Snape looked faintly lost. "I cannot help him."

"You help him just by being here," said George. "You brought us to him, which a lesser man might not have done."

"You try," said Harry quietly, "which is more than anyone else has ever been arsed to do."

Snape closed his eyes and nodded. His face looked drawn, almost as haunted as it had when they were in the lab, every worry and burden etched in the lines of it. "Shall we eat first, or ruin our appetites?" he asked the group with something approaching his normal biting humour.

"Eat," said Harry definitively. Cooking breakfast was a familiar chore, one he could easily lose himself in and try to find his centre by giving himself over to the mundane. "Then we can go sit somewhere comfortable for the emotional torture portion of our morning."

They cooked quickly and ate quietly, mostly discussing small things, the larger issues looming over the meal and hurrying it to its conclusion. Finally, all the food was eaten, the plates washed, counters and table wiped clean. Snape made another huge pot of tea and Harry led the twins to the parlour, where they each took one of the comfortable chairs, Harry wishing wistfully for a long couch instead. He had a feeling he'd need someone's arms before this was over.

He put off the moment, watching as Snape prepared their tea, falling in love all over again with the economy of his movements, the grace and dexterity in his long, thin hands. He looked up and caught George staring too, and they both blushed and grinned. It was nice to have someone around who understood the appeal; it helped keep Harry from second-guessing his every new impulse. Some of these feelings were mere hours old, and felt loose and unsure in his chest, fluttering and fidgeting like birds in an unfamiliar roost.

Once they all had their tea, there were no more excuses. Figuring it best to just get it out of the way, Harry carefully broke the Gringott's seal, feeling a rush of magic as it identified him as the intended recipient. The scroll expanded to full size, words flowering on the page even as he unrolled it.

"Wait, how can that be right?" asked Harry, slightly confused. The Will had been waiting in his parents' vault for years; how could it possibly designate most of Sirius' things to Harry, who hadn't even been born at the time it was written? Harry had already figured out that 12 Grimmauld Place was the thing concealed by "strong magic", hidden away by the Fidelius Charm and apparently left in their joint custody for the use of the Order. "I mean, did Sirius even own this house when his Will was written?"

"It is a magical document," said Snape. "Once the charms are set into the parchment, the writer signs the blank sheet in their own blood. Then, upon the moment of their demise, the will writes itself out, taking into account the person's final wishes and their actual property list. In this manner, there are rarely disputes, as the Will's magic is virtually inviolable."

"So, when Sirius died... this is what he wanted? To leave me another pile of useless gold?" said Harry, tears springing to his eyes. "He sets up Lupin in some tiny house with a tiny income, and leaves me more wealth than I could possibly need, and this freak house full of death and decay!"

"The Will is writ only when the recipient is beyond retrieval. He left you what he could in this world, because he was passing on to the next," said Snape tightly. He was once again gripping the armrests of his chair, this time from emotions much less desirable than lust and its restraint.

Harry's chest was so tight he could barely breathe, and he lashed out mindlessly. "God, I've suddenly become the heir to the fucking Black fortune and all you've got is platitudes?"

Snape's eyes flashed, but George laid a hand on his knee and whatever he was about to say died on his lips. "Harry, he's only trying to help," said George admonishingly.

"I know, I'm sorry," said Harry, face in his hands. He remembered the bit about the keys as the parchment crumpled rough against his cheek, and sat up, pulling out his wand. He took a deep breath and tapped it, and a small door opened in the empty space next to his name. Nestled in an impossible pocket were three golden keys, and he nearly cried at the irony that he'd been so excited to have just one vault key of his own only a few days ago.

"Oh god, I'm going to have to go down there," said Harry as they dropped, solid and real, into his hand. They were cold from whatever space they'd occupied while inside the parchment, and he shuddered at the memory of the chill not-breeze and whispering, sibilant voices from behind the Veil.

He curled down into himself, fists against his forehead, knees drawing up and jaw clenching. His stomach felt as though he'd been punched, sick and aching, and he couldn't seem to take a decent breath. "Why?" he whispered, "Why can't they just stay with me, instead of leaving me their fucking money?"

Fred left his chair and came to kneel in front of Harry, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back and arms. "Why," Harry continued, voice growing steadily louder, "is it that I miss them every damn day still? I'm grateful to be alive, I know my mum gave that to me, but why do I have to live without ever knowing what kind of mother she might have been to me? Everyone says I'm like my dad, but I'll never really know, will I? And Sirius, everyone's favourite golden boy in his youth except when he was torturing my l-lover, madman and escaped convict when he finally showed up in my life, forced to hide and finally choose a prison, this horrid little hole and all his worst bits of childhood instead of Azkaban and the Dementors."

"Harry," said Snape, and Harry realized that the twins were now on either side, with Snape on his knees in front of Harry's chair. "They weren't perfect, no one is when they're fifteen, but they deserved your love. And you deserved to know them, but life isn't fair, so instead you get me and a great sodding pile of Galleons, cold comfort at the best of times."

Harry slid off the chair and into Snape's arms, feeling the twins surround them much as they'd done back in his parents' vault. Harry finally let the tears come, great wracking sobs that shook his entire body and got salt and snot all over the front of Snape's nice shirt. It wasn't dignified grief, or even particularly adult, but instead all the deprivations of a decade with no friends and nothing to call his own but a cupboard full of spiders, finally finding an outlet.

They held him while he cried himself out, keys and parchment still clutched in his hands. In the end he fell asleep with tears still leaking out of his eyes, the letter from Dumbledore lying forgotten next to his teacup.

The first thing Harry noticed when he awoke was the soft thrum of a heartbeat below his ear. The second thing was that his eyelids were gummy and gritty from having fallen asleep crying, crusted with salt tears and goo. He disentangled his arm from the covers to rub them, and stopped, realizing finally that he was in a bed, curled up pretty much on top of someone, surrounded by warm arms and something very much like comfort.

"Wha?" he said intelligently, then he swallowed and opened his mouth to try again.

"Hush, Harry, we've got you," said a voice, Fred's he thought, though it was hard to tell when it rumbled through the chest beneath him.

The warmth at his back he'd thought was just blankets suddenly moved, and George nuzzled behind Harry's ear, then whispered, "We'll take care of you for a bit." Harry was fairly sure that wasn't supposed to have sounded quite as dirty as his brain made it, but he was, after all, sixteen and sandwiched between the first two men he'd ever had any kind of sex with.

"Naked care?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. He blushed and hid his face more firmly against Fred's chest, listening to the way Fred's laugh travelled through his bones.

"If that's what would help," said George, licking his ear and making Harry squirm. He pressed a kiss just behind Harry's ear, and Harry sighed softly, relaxing into Fred.

"I'm not sure if anything will help," Harry murmured, and broad hands began to stroke and soothe him. He suddenly realized he'd been stripped out of his shoes, socks and jeans, and left in the t-shirt and silk boxers, which were shifting interestingly over and around his rapidly awakening cock. Fred and George were similarly attired, their leg hair rough against his own barely-fuzzy limbs, Fred's cock pressing into Harry's hip and George's just now insinuating itself into the cleft of his arse, rubbing the silk of his pants over his hole maddeningly.

One of Fred's hands stroked his hair while the other found and toyed with a sensitive nipple, and George's hand snaked around the front to fondle Harry through his boxers. Harry was just beginning to melt into that state of unthinking bliss, prick hard and brain going to mush, when there was a knock on the door.

"Yes?" said Fred and George in unison, hands still moving while Harry tried to reassemble the scattered bits of his consciousness.

Snape's voice held an apologetic note that Harry might have marked on his calendar even a month before as he said through the door, "Dumbledore will be here in a quarter of an hour to meet with myself and Mr. Potter. I suggest you have him awake and dressed before the Headmaster arrives."

"Yes, Professor," they replied, voices singsong and impudent. Harry heard a muffled harrumph through the door and then Snape's footsteps retreated.

"Well," said Fred, giving Harry's nipple a sharp pinch.

George gave Harry's cock a squeeze, eliciting a whimper from his lips, and said, "We'd best be quick then."

Harry whimpered again, tilting his face up in hopes for a kiss. Fred obliged him with a rough kiss that nearly made up for the lack of time. Harry sank into the sensations, opening his mouth and pushing his body forward into the hands; a shiver of need ran through him when George whispered in his ear, "Can I taste you, Harry? I know we haven't yet, but I've wanted to for so long."

Harry nodded, moaning something like a yes into Fred's mouth, or enough of one that George took it for permission. All that wonderful warmth disappeared from behind him, but Fred rolled him into the hollow left by George's larger body, and Harry snuggled happily into the heat and softness. Fred continued to ravage his mouth as if that alone was enough like sex for him for now, while George slid his smooth pants down off his legs, then settled between them.

Harry gasped when George nuzzled at his balls, hands fluttering about from hip to shoulder to sheet, not knowing where to land. Fred solved that problem by capturing them both and pressing them into the pillows overhead, then biting his way down Harry's neck. George's mouth found his balls and he cried out at the shock of hot-wet-good that crawled up his spine. He spread his legs wide and lifted his hips in offering, wanting that mouth everywhere at once, wanting it to stay just where it was, sucking and licking and scraping delicate teeth over skin that had never felt so sensitive.

More teeth above, as Fred pushed up Harry's shirt and began to worry at his nipples, biting and licking and sucking hard enough to make Harry arch and moan. He nearly screamed when George's wicked mouth licked, not up as he'd half hoped but down, tongue ghosting over his perineum and circling his entrance with its slick, wicked caress. Harry whimpered, breath barely coming at all from a chest tight with desire so sharp it felt like a knife, his cock harder than he could ever remember, pulsing precome onto his belly in time with his heartbeat.

He felt as though he might snap in two just from wanting, the rasp of Fred's tongue over increasingly sensitive nipples sending sparks of pleasure shooting straight through his cock to meet the tingling rush of it coming up from his hole. George's tongue was spiralling slowly inward, pressing at the very centre of him like a thief easing open the only unlocked window of a house and stealing the last of Harry's breath away when it finally crept inside.

He got it back in a rush when Fred's teeth sunk into a nipple, sharp and poignant in contrast to the liquid pleasure melting his insides from George's wicked tongue. Harry hovered at that cruel edge, needing something, one last push to send him over. "Please!" he begged, not sure what for other than release.

Fred's mouth lifted from Harry's nipple and then, instead of moving back to the other one, Fred struck like a snake, capturing Harry's cock and swallowing it whole. George's tongue stabbed deep inside him, not quite finding that place but for once it didn't matter as Harry tumbled gratefully down, letting pleasure crash over him as he came down Fred's throat. He didn't even notice his hands had been released as he brought one down to stuff in his mouth, muffling the shout that escaped.

Fred swallowed around his cock, the pulse and squeeze of throat muscles milking Harry's pleasure for long, drawn-out moments. Finally he was utterly spent, and both mouths pulled away, leaving him feeling cold and empty despite the warm glow of satisfaction curling in his stomach. Everything heated right back up when Fred and George kissed, mouths meeting right over Harry's softening prick as they shared the taste of him between them. They broke apart reluctantly and turned nearly identical gazes onto Harry, lying mussed and sated on the bed, legs still spread and shirt rucked up to expose his pale chest.

"You're definitely good," said Fred, stretching out beside Harry, one hand coming up to rest over his heart.

"Enough to eat," George agreed, lying down on the other side, his hand cradling Harry's cock and balls like something precious.

Harry stole a kiss from each reddened mouth, tasting bitter salt on one pair of lips, and earthy musk from the other. He blushed at the knowledge that it was himself he tasted, and sampled each flavour again anyway. "You'll show me how to do those things, right?" he asked, rubbing absently at eyes still a bit sticky from sleep.

Fred and George exchanged equal looks of pleased surprise, grins wide on their faces, and George said, "Of course, Harry,"

"We'll teach you anything you like," finished Fred, hand stroking up Harry's neck to cup his cheek. One last soft, sweet kiss, and he rolled away and sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Wait, what about you?" said Harry, confused. He could feel George's erection pressing into him the way Fred's had just a second earlier, and he wanted very badly to take care of them as best he could.

George gave Harry a deep, thorough kiss, then grinned down at him, rubbing his nose. "We've done what we came to do," he said, then sat up, pulling the covers off completely and exposing Harry's still-damp bits to the chill air.

Fred turned with an equally smug grin, and then mimed tapping Harry with his wand. "Mischief managed," he said with a wink.

They laughed their way through dressing, George and Fred fussing over Harry until he looked a bit less debauched and more like a respectable young wizard on the verge of adulthood, or so they said. Harry personally thought he just looked the same as usual, even if the jeans did rather flatter his arse better than his old things. They were just engaging in a final bit of snogging when Snape's knock sounded at the door once again.

"Are you quite through?" said Snape, his voice quite a bit tetchier this time. "He'll be here any minute."

Harry disentangled himself and went to open the door, unable to stop the pink that rose in his cheeks. "All done, sir," he said, giving Snape his best innocent eyes, rather spoilt by the smirk gracing his kiss-bruised lips.

"Good," said Snape, his lips pursed in something that wanted to be disapproval but didn't quite manage his usual sourness. "You'll just have time to read this before he arrives, then," he added, handing Harry the familiar parchment of Dumbledore's letter.

"Right," said Harry with a sigh. Back to earth already, it seemed, and he shot a wistful glance back at the rumpled bed before following Snape downstairs, the twins trailing after. Harry plopped himself down at the foot of the stairs, motioning for them to go on into the kitchen without him while he read, giving him a few moments more to collect himself after the emotional rollercoaster his day had already been. He unrolled the parchment and began to read.

Harry shook his head. Of course Dumbledore would want to talk about his "progress" with the twins, which Harry had half a mind to yell at him about; instead, he decided to bide his time, and wait for the right moment. When Harry finally came of age, he'd be able to tell the old man what he really thought, and although he'd still have to put up with Dumbledore's guidance in his education, and the restrictions on Snape, Harry would tell him to mind his own business when it came to Harry's sex life.

Harry sighed, rolling the scroll back up and staring off into the darkness beyond the staircase. He'd have to get up any minute now and go meet with the meddling old man, and he could already feel the tension creeping back into his spine, the old instinct to curl into himself and mumble whenever he was in the presence of adult authority.

"I know," said a surprisingly kind voice from behind him, "that you must be very angry about everything that's happened these past weeks." Dumbledore sat down next to Harry on the stairs, smelling faintly of lemons and ozone. "I never meant for things to end up this way, my boy, but somehow for all my intentions, I always seem to end up telling you the wrong things and keeping back the facts that you ought to have been told."

Harry shrugged; he couldn't really disagree, but he had no idea where this was going. "I cannot in good conscience allow a student under my care to have an affair with one of his professors, no matter how adult he has become nor how ardent the feelings between them," Dumbledore continued, and Harry tried to suppress the childish desire to cry unfairness. Some things really weren't possible, and a Headmaster condoning a teacher/student romance and still keeping his position, Dark Lord or no, was one of them.

"I know," said Harry, wincing internally at the sullenness left in his tone.

Dumbledore nodded. "But you don't have to like it, Harry, nor does Professor Snape."

Harry sighed and ran his hands through his hair, ending with his chin on his elbows. "So, what now?"

"Now," said Dumbledore, standing creakily, "we get up, go have some tea, and talk about your curriculum." He turned to Harry, an unmistakeable sadness in those faded blue eyes. "I hope that your lessons with the redoubtable Weasley twins will never, ever be called upon outside of such situations," he said, his voice sounding older than Harry could ever imagine being, "but if you ever need them, Harry, I hope you will be grateful to have been spared such a fate."

It was Harry's turn to nod thoughtfully, remembering the story that Snape had shared with him, the small pieces of a very broken past. "I realize that you're trying to save me from something really awful," said Harry, choosing his words carefully, "but you have to understand that it's... I just wish you didn't have to, you know, hear about it."

Dumbledore smiled, eyes once again twinkling with wry humour. "I assure you, Harry, I share in your devout wish that I will hear as little as possible about those particular lessons."

Harry found himself smiling back, feeling for the very first time as though Dumbledore acknowledged that he had a right, and even a need, to know everything, and even more, to have a life of his own. It was as if this conversation was the lock that Harry's golden vault key fit into, a rite of passage of sorts made up of small changes that added up to Harry the adult, a man capable of doing the things they expected him to do. Harry stood up, motioning for the Headmaster to precede him into the kitchen, where tea, Snape and his future were waiting.

A Question of Etiquette XI: Methods of Learning