The next two days were full of events. That same evening, late at night, Emmeline Vance was murdered — something the Prophet reported on the following day among other things. But the front page carried a different headline:
SCRIMGEOUR TO SUCCEED FUDGE
There was also a large black-and-white photograph of the man himself — someone with the air of an old lion who had seen much in life. The article explained that this man, unknown to Harry, had previously led the Auror Office. Harry could understand why he was chosen to replace Fudge, who had finally been undone by the events gripping the country. The article also mentioned rumors that the new Minister and the Headmaster had already had a falling out. Harry hadn't seen the Headmaster that day — or the next.
Three more days passed. Harry and Flamia reasoned that everything happening so far didn't directly affect them. They fully immersed themselves in their homework — or rather, their shared homework, since they were obviously attending the same classes. There was no other option. They continued living in Gryffindor Tower and even slept in the boys' dormitory. They weren't quite sure why they kept putting off moving out. Perhaps it was because Harry — and through him, Flamia — had spent five years here, and it was hard to leave.
Working together proved much more effective — it was easier to find information, and they spotted each other's mistakes just as well as Hermione would have. By the end of the second week of the holidays, they had completed their Potions essay. It turned out to be half a scroll longer than required. They also made progress on Charms — over the summer, they needed to compile a list of "spells for life" and explain their purposes.
Then the Headmaster returned to the school. Harry saw him only briefly the first time, but it was enough to notice something disturbing — his right hand was completely black, as if charred. Soon after, Professor McGonagall informed them that they were being summoned. The gargoyle responded favorably to the old password. The office hadn't changed, but the Headmaster looked weary, and his scorched hand only emphasized the impression. Still, he smiled warmly at them, as always, and invited them to sit down. Harry barely suppressed the urge to bombard him with questions, especially about the injury. He would have done so without hesitation a few weeks ago, but he had changed since then. Now he clearly understood: asking would be pointless. Dumbledore would reveal only what he deemed necessary, and nothing more. If the Headmaster didn't want to explain the wound, then asking would change nothing.
"Harry, Miss Nightfolk," — ever since they'd discovered her surname, he no longer addressed Flamia by her first name — "it's good to see you both again. I need to discuss a few matters with you, especially you, Harry..." He absentmindedly stroked his beard with his right hand and winced — clearly the injury was still troubling him.
"We're listening…"
"First of all, Sirius's will has been found. He left all of his possessions to you…" Harry nodded, suppressing a wave of bitterness — he would mourn later, after this conversation. "Most of it poses no issue. Your personal vault has already been credited with a significant sum, and all of Sirius's personal belongings now belong to you… Most of them are at Grimmauld Place. And that's where the problem arises…"
"If the house has passed to me, you can continue using it as headquarters." Not long ago, Harry would have declared that he'd never live there and didn't want it at all. But he had become more cautious since then. "I'm not planning to live there for now, so…"
"That's very generous, but the problem lies elsewhere… You see, the Blacks were notorious for their obsession with blood purity — as you know. Traditionally, the heir had to be the eldest male of the family. Sirius was the last. I suspect there may be enchantments on the house that allow only a pure-blood wizard to claim it…" Harry found the idea disturbingly plausible — he could vividly recall Sirius's mother. "Formally, the will names you as the heir. Legally, it's yours. But the ancient house may not accept you, and that could have unpleasant consequences. Because if it doesn't, then the likely heir becomes his cousin…"
"Not Lestrange!" Harry burst out. The very thought of that monster in female form inheriting Sirius's house — the same Sirius she had killed — was unbearable.
"We'd like to avoid that scenario too. By 'we', I mean the Order of the Phoenix. Since we don't know who owns the house now, we can't even be sure that our protective enchantments, including the Fidelius Charm, are still in effect. The situation is so serious that we abandoned the headquarters immediately after Sirius's death."
"We need to find out if the house has accepted me," Harry clarified, receiving a confirming nod.
"How do we find out?" Flamia asked, speaking up for the first time.
"There's one simple test... House-elves pass along with houses..."
"Don't tell me I inherited Kreacher too!" Harry yelled, catching on. His words were cut off by a sharp crack — the elf had arrived, everyone understood that instantly.
"No! Kreacher won't! Kreacher won't serve nasty brat Potter. Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix!" The elf appeared at Harry's feet and began to wail loudly. At the mention of that hated name, Harry's temper flared unexpectedly.
"Silence! You miserable creature!" he shouted, giving the elf a solid kick. Kreacher flew aside. The blow wasn't actually that strong, and the elf wasn't harmed. But once on the ground, he opened his mouth — no sound came out. He clutched his throat and began silently banging his fists on anything he could reach in a soundless fit of rage.
"Harry!" Dumbledore scolded him sternly, even indignantly. "I must insist — no violence in my office!"
"Sorry, Professor…" Harry caught his breath and sat back in his chair, realizing he had leapt up. He cast one last glance at the silent, flailing elf. "It won't happen again."
"I hope not… In any case, we can say with certainty that you are the rightful owner of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Sirius knew what he was doing. This simplifies matters."
"What am I supposed to do with him? I'm not keeping him."
"Quite understandable. If you want my advice, leave him at the school. Let him work in the kitchens — the other elves will keep an eye on him."
"Should we even let him live?" Flamia asked quietly, voicing what Harry hadn't dared say — he had already said and done too much that day.
"Let's not pass such harsh judgment, Miss Nightfolk. Taking life is easy. Giving it… is another matter entirely." The Headmaster trailed off.
"Well, though I'm inclined to…" Harry stopped and didn't finish. "Kreacher, go to the Hogwarts kitchens. I want you to work there with the other elves." The elf stopped pounding the floor, threw a look of deepest loathing at Harry, and vanished.
"Good, that's settled. The Order will return to headquarters soon. Have you considered how to explain your absence from the dormitories?"
"Yes, but we couldn't come up with a convincing explanation."
"In that case, here's what I propose: Harry, as everyone knows, you are Voldemort's primary target. For your safety, it has been decided that you should sleep in a secret location, apart from everyone else. You're most vulnerable while asleep. As for you, Miss Nightfolk — at the Magical Boarding Academy of Congress, each student had their own room. You're so used to sleeping alone," — all three of them couldn't help but smirk — "that you haven't adjusted to shared dormitories. So, as an exception, you've been given a private room."
"But, Professor, people will notice that we leave the common room together…"
"Well, I suppose you'll think of something." Harry blushed slightly — indeed, he'd decided to take control of his own life. Time to start acting like it — not running to the Headmaster for every little thing.
That night, they finally moved into their room. Bruce didn't even bother setting a password — he just opened the door for them when they asked, and only for them. It seemed safer that way. Their room was comfortable and spacious enough — two beds, a wide table, a fireplace with two armchairs nearby, and of course, a shower… It was remarkably cozy, though they still spent most of their time in the Gryffindor common room. After some thought, they decided to measure how long they could spend apart. Harry stayed downstairs while Flamia went up to the dormitories. After fifteen minutes, she began to feel uneasy. After thirty, it turned into panic. Yes, the time they could spend apart was clearly very limited. Harry already imagined the difficulties ahead — they'd never be able to be alone anymore. He couldn't have a moment just with Ron and Hermione. Flamia would always be the fourth, and personal meetings would be impossible... Strangely, it didn't bother him much. Flamia could easily take the place of all that. Talking to her was interesting. Though they were so alike they almost completely understood each other, she still differed in some ways. For one, she seemed a bit less shy, and therefore more decisive in certain personal matters. But above all… she understood him. Understood him like no one else — not even Ron or Hermione. And that… that was new for him. As for his personal life… maybe...
They'd been at school for nearly three weeks. His birthday was approaching. The Headmaster was still absent for long periods, and his blackened hand remained unchanged. Of all the teachers, Harry had only seen Professor Flitwick, Hagrid, and occasionally McGonagall. The rest had either left or were simply staying out of sight — which was a relief. The last thing Harry needed was a run-in with Snape. The newspapers reported more attacks and the Ministry's countermeasures. Ollivander's shop had been attacked, but — by a stroke of luck — Mad-Eye Moody happened to be nearby. The attackers didn't all escape, and one young Death Eater — name withheld — was captured. Harry had no doubt that the Order's presence there wasn't a coincidence. Who knows — maybe even his own suggestions played a role?
He and Flamia finished their assignments for Charms and Transfiguration. They decided to take a break before tackling the rest. Most importantly, the day after their meeting with the Headmaster, the O.W.L. results arrived. Harry was mostly satisfied, though the "Exceeds Expectations" in Potions troubled him. Why had they bought him the new textbook? Snape only accepted "Outstanding"… Then again, maybe Dumbledore had "persuaded" him to make an exception. He also received letters from his friends detailing their own scores. Ron's letter included a vivid description of Hermione's behavior on result day — she had already moved to the Burrow. First, she'd spent the morning panicking, predicting nothing but "Trolls." Then she nearly cried when she found one "Exceeds Expectations" in an otherwise flawless line of "Outstandings" — in DADA. Harry replied to each, assuring them he was fine.
Though they paused their homework, Harry and Flamia didn't waste time. They had already skimmed through the new textbooks and found many mentions of non-verbal spells. After looking into it, they realized these were extremely useful skills and decided to practice. One advantage of living at Hogwarts — they could cast and train as much as they wanted. They approached Professor Flitwick, who seemed to be bored out of his mind lately. At least, he eagerly agreed to work with them. Though, after a week of attempts, they hadn't made much progress — even the feather refused to twitch at a silent "Accio." But the Charms professor reassured them, confidently stating that the hardest part was the initial breakthrough, which could take up to a month — after that, things would go faster. Still, Harry had unfortunately come across a note in a book saying many wizards never mastered this type of magic at all. Since then, both he and Flamia felt anxious after every failed attempt.
One evening, Harry burst into their room, nearly slamming into the doorframe. He'd just been trying to master those blasted non-verbal spells again — and for a moment, he thought the feather had actually twitched. The practice wasn't physically exhausting, but the mental effort gave him a splitting headache. Only one thing could help — hot water. So he went straight to the shower, imagining how he'd wash and go to bed. Flamia was still in the Room of Requirement, having spent the day buried in a book she'd wanted to finish — or so she said. She'd seemed distracted all day. Harry saw himself in her — when something weighed on his mind, he could ignore the world. He had the feeling she wasn't really reading — maybe pretending. But it was probably something personal, so he didn't press her.
Standing under the steaming water, he suddenly laughed. It occurred to him that they were lucky to have even half an hour apart. Otherwise, they'd have to go to the toilet together, not just share a shower… The water worked its magic — his headache faded into blissful exhaustion. Harry stretched out on the bed…
Just then, Flamia returned. This time, there was no doubt — something was bothering her. She was even biting her lip, something she never did. Nodding slightly to him, she went into the shower. Harry decided to wait for her. It probably wasn't his business, but whatever was troubling her, he should try to talk — without pushing.
But when she came out of the shower, all thoughts vanished. She wore a robe that didn't conceal — but rather emphasized — every curve of her body. Harry's breath caught, blood rushing to his face and elsewhere. He stared, entranced, before guiltily meeting her eyes. It would've taken someone blind not to know what he was thinking…
Flamia looked back into his eyes, took a deep breath — as if gathering courage — and then...
"Do you want me?" Her voice was husky with nerves. It seemed this was what she'd been thinking about all day, preparing herself…
"Yes," he blurted out — and immediately clamped his mouth shut, all of it entirely involuntary. He was already starting to blush. Now she would...
"Then I'm yours!" Flamia almost shouted, as if diving into icy water.
The next moment, Harry — barely able to think — felt a completely naked body next to him, as the robe had been left lying on the floor...
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