Harry opened his eyes. For a brief moment, he didn't recognize where he was—but then he remembered their room. Still, something felt different. He was unusually warm, and when he glanced sideways, he found the reason: Flamia was peacefully asleep next to him, her head resting nearly on his chest.
The events of the previous evening came flooding back in a rush. Flamia stepping out of the shower... and then, as if making a decision, quietly joining him in bed. It seemed that her courage ended there—she awkwardly leaned against him, stroked his chest, and looked up into his eyes with almost helpless vulnerability.
That helplessness somehow gave Harry the courage to act. He freed his arms and gently wrapped them around her, caressing her back. His touch seemed to jolt Flamia out of her stupor. She leaned in toward his face, and their lips met.
From that moment on, both of them grew bolder. Harry felt her soft weight on top of him, her breasts pressing gently against his chest, making him forget all awkwardness. Flamia, too, was clearly aroused, tracing his face with her lips as Harry's hands explored her body. Every touch brought them both pleasure. Harry couldn't remember how long they spent like that—it was all new to him, and even more so for her. But somehow, everything they did felt natural.
At some point, he realized he was no longer wearing anything. Flamia had been naked from the start. And then... Perhaps this is how adult wizards create their Patronuses? He'd have to try it sometime…
Harry shifted uncomfortably, trying not to wake the girl still asleep on him. But she stirred and opened her eyes. Unlike Harry, she seemed to remember everything immediately.
Harry took the opportunity to glance around. The first thing he noticed was a piece of his clothing flung across a chair. He was just glad they had fallen asleep covered with a sheet. He wasn't sure how he would've reacted to the sight of their bare bodies pressed so closely together.
"Harry, is it morning already?" Flamia asked softly.
"Yes…" He didn't quite understand why that seemed so important to her.
"But then… I didn't wake up even once during the night!" she exclaimed with genuine amazement, sitting up on the bed and forgetting all about the covers. The sheet slipped off her, baring her to the waist. The sight sent another wave of dizziness through Harry, and before he could stop himself, he kissed the now-blushing girl—who had just realized what happened.
Things nearly started all over again, but they stopped just in time, with her once more lying on top of him.
"Could it be… that I'm finally free?" she said slowly, reaching for her robe on the floor without leaving the sheet.
"We'll have to check," Harry said, grabbing his wand from the nightstand. He tried to perform the spell silently at first, but it didn't work.
"Accio clothes!" he said aloud, giving in.
A long silence followed. Flamia slipped on her robe and disappeared into the bathroom. Harry changed right there, neither of them feeling much like talking. While waiting for her to come back, Harry began tidying up the bed—only to discover a sizable red stain.
A memory surfaced, something he'd once heard about the loss of virginity. With a quick "Evanesco," he made it vanish. No need for the house-elves to see that…
After breakfast—which they didn't miss, since they had woken at the usual time—they performed another "inseparability test," as they had begun to call it. The results were the same. Fifteen minutes later, Flamia grew uneasy and, soon after, returned to him in quiet defeat.
"Well… I guess it's not meant to be," she said with a sad smile.
"Don't worry, we'll figure something out," Harry said gently, stroking her back. He could understand now. He'd long hated the feeling of dependence—on the Dursleys, for instance—but Flamia's situation was far worse. She'd had a glimpse of hope, and now it was gone again…
But that was the end of that topic. They returned to practicing Nonverbal Spells—curses, as they'd each secretly dubbed them—and after two more hours of frustration, the only result was a shared headache.
After lunch, they took a walk around the castle grounds. According to Dumbledore, they were safe as long as they stayed within the anti-Apparition barriers. Still, in true Moody fashion, the Headmaster had warned them to stay vigilant. It was the first time they had left the school since their trip to Diagon Alley.
The Hogwarts grounds were as beautiful as ever. Walking along the lake, where squid tentacles occasionally broke the surface, it was hard to imagine the war ravaging the country. A war that was only just beginning and threatened to spread across the world.
They didn't talk about it. They didn't want to. Instead, they walked and breathed and talked—about nonsense. They reminisced about their past lives, their shared memories—joyful and painful moments alike. It was rare to find a conversation partner who knew you so thoroughly that words barely mattered.
By late evening, they realized they had been circling the lake for hours. Looking down, they saw at least a dozen pairs of footprints—at a minimum. And they hadn't even noticed. The squid's head popped up from the water, staring at them with what could only be described as curiosity. Apparently, it was wondering why these two-legged creatures kept pacing around its home. They weren't exactly scared, but they returned to the castle much faster than before.
Dinner was quiet. Only three people were there: Harry, Flamia, and little Professor Flitwick, who gave them both an encouraging smile. He must've realized their enthusiasm was waning from the lack of progress and did his best to support them.
That evening, they pointedly went to their own beds and sat on them, exchanging only a few short phrases. They avoided even the slightest reference to the previous night, so much so that it seemed to echo in every word left unsaid. They went to bed early—each in their own bed.
Days passed. They avoided the subject as if nothing had happened. But they threw themselves into their studies with renewed energy. Harry even began rereading his old Potions textbooks—figuring it was time to catch up on everything he'd lost to his (well-earned) hatred for the subject and its teacher. On the second day, he gave up on the books, settling for copying all the rules and principles onto a separate sheet. Within two days of relentless study and memory-scouring, both he and Flamia managed to actually understand it all. Still, they knew rules alone wouldn't carry them through Potions class—but it was a start.
A few days later, Harry turned sixteen. The owls began arriving early that morning, bearing sweets, treats, and a few interesting novelties from Fred and George. Ron, ever predictable, sent him another book on Quidditch—one Harry barely glanced at. His life had been split in two: before Sirius's death and after. And in this new life, Quidditch no longer seemed important.
Hermione, staying true to herself, gave him a book on Occlumency called "The Powers of the Mind." Occlumency… The word only brought one image: Snape. The same Snape who had mocked Sirius. Who had made no real effort to teach Harry. Who had only weakened him further. Harry almost threw the book into the fire—but stopped himself. That's what he would've done last year. But he'd promised himself to be more thoughtful.
He stood by the fire for several minutes, the wretched book in his hands. Then he shoved it into his trunk. He'd come back to it. Later.
Everyone gave gifts in their own way, and despite everything, the day felt like a celebration. Though "celebration" was perhaps too strong a word… Dinner was set for six: Harry, Flamia, Professor Flitwick, Madam McGonagall, Professor Sprout—who had just returned—and the caretaker. The latter even sent a present. When Harry saw the small package and realized who it was from, he burst out laughing with Flamia. The caretaker had sent him a full list of all forbidden items at school, each page framed individually—a sort of photo collection.
Nothing came from the Dursleys, which Harry wasn't the least bit upset about. At least he didn't have to figure out where to put another pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks. He'd half-expected Hagrid to show up, but the giant was apparently off on some mission. His gifts arrived though. After some thought, Harry stored the rock-hard cakes under his bed—right into a convenient little niche that could serve as an emergency food stash.
But the best gift Harry received came the next day—from himself. During another practice session in Nonverbal Magic, he finally made a breakthrough: his quill flew to him on command five times in a row—a record. Until then, neither of them had managed to succeed twice in succession. But now it was finally happening.
As Flitwick had promised, once you break through, progress comes quickly.
Within two more days, Harry could summon objects without issue, levitate anything at will, and had even started working on basic combat spells. Disarming was already going well. Around the same time, Flamia also began improving rapidly. She was slightly behind but advancing at the same pace.
Professor Flitwick congratulated them both and told them he no longer saw a need for lessons. From here on, he said, things would progress naturally. Every wizard has their own limit with this skill—an innate ceiling that can be awakened, but never surpassed, no matter how hard they train.
Another week passed. Nothing major happened at the school, except for Hagrid's return—though he refused to say where he had been. The Headmaster continued to vanish for days at a time. Even Professor McGonagall seemed unaware of what he was doing.
There were attacks during the full moon. Florian Fortescue's café was destroyed, and the owner was listed as missing. Dementor attacks became more frequent, though mostly without casualties—just terror. Still, a few tragic incidents were unavoidable. It seemed Scrimgeour was taking things seriously; perhaps his efforts were the reason the toll wasn't worse.
Harry had just finished the last of his summer essays—longer than required, even. He was sitting in their room, while Flamia was in the common room doing something or other. They'd parted about ten minutes ago; she'd be back soon.
He set his quill down and let his eyes wander across the floor, the walls, the ceiling. His gaze landed on the bed, and a wave of unwanted—but pleasant—memories rushed into his mind. He quickly looked away.
After a while, his eyes fell on his trunk. Something about it tugged at his thoughts—something he had unreasonably forgotten…
Harry opened it quickly and found "The Powers of the Mind." That's what he shouldn't have forgotten. Disgusting, maybe—but probably necessary. Who knows when Voldemort will—
And then a very simple—and very unexpected—thought occurred to him…
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