A glimmer hesitated in a far corner of Harry's mind. A glimmer, faint, but real: almost shy, hardly more than an effort of will, it was so soft and slight and uncertain.
There was another word.
On the bland nothing of his mind, it assumed a position far, far distant from Torpor.
It glimmered– yes glimmered, another word rising out of the nothingness – with all the trepidation and uncertainty of… of one of Tisha’s looks, when her eyes flash a smile before running away and hiding, giggling, somewhere beneath her sheets.
Torpor was no longer master.