It's been a gruelling eleven days of examinations, one after the other, with very little let-up; so little that my nerves have had virtually no time in which to frazzle. I've been on autopilot, cycling from exam to revision to sleep and back again, memorising equations and definitions and long lists of downright ridiculous drug names.

Finally, there's just one exam left to go. In exactly three hours and twenty-five minutes, we'll be free from any studying shackles for the rest of the summer. Judith, Saffron and I are currently sitting on the grassy expanse of Parker's Piece, enjoying a picnic lunch under the midday June sunshine. There's bugger all point in doing any more revision; even I recognise that. Not that it's stopping Veronica or Yoshi, who are sweating it out in their respective college libraries and furiously cramming in a few extra facts that they definitely won't need because they already know way too much as it is.

"Fuck me, this day has been a long time coming," sighs Saffron, dusting crumbs off her lap and leaning back to stare up at the sky. "What are we all up to later?"

"Getting drunk," grunts Judith, busy reading something on her phone.

"I didn't think you ever drank to excess, Jude!"

"Yeah, well; tonight's a one-off. I think I've earned it."

"What about you, Sunny? Any plans?"

"Having a quiet night in with Al and Netflix," I reply. "I know it sounds boring, but my mind is absolutely shattered and I'm really not feeling up for an evening out. All I want is pizza, wine, Al and an easy-to-follow movie. Everyone else on my corridor is still studying, so it's not like we can go too wild anyway."

"So basically," says Saffron with a wicked laugh, "you're planning on shagging him senseless all night then. You must have fucked him by now, right?"

Unnerved, I freeze for a moment before glancing apprehensively at her, wondering exactly what to divulge.

"Of course she has," says Judith bluntly, thankfully not bothering to look up, otherwise she'd see how tomato-faced I've gone. "They've been dating since Easter and hanging out together before that. Anyway, even if she hasn't, it's none of your business, Saff."

I let go of the breath I was holding. Blimey, I thought it would be obvious to everyone that I'm still a virgin. I practically wear my virginity on my pure, untouched, flowery, virginal sleeve, it's that blatant.

It's not that I'm desperate to hang onto my V-card; it's more that I've never had the right opportunity to lose it. And I want to lose it to Al more than anything. But there's a bit of a problem. A big problem, actually. He's rather…large down there. And frankly, it scares me a bit.

Why I couldn't have fallen for someone with the dimensions of a smallish carrot, I will never know. I think back to visiting Italy as a ten year old with my parents, when I first encountered a willy. David's, actually. It looked tiny to my juvenile eyes; a small, cocktail-sausage lump sitting on what looked like a conference pear, and protruding from a thatch of alabaster curls. In fact, genitals were everywhere in Rome and Florence, and I soon stopped sniggering every time I accidentally glimpsed some. Of course none of them were real, just painted or moulded ones on model deities. But the point I'm badly trying to make is that if Roman Gods could have modest, barely-visible pudenda, why the fuck couldn't Al have a less terrifying penis?

Obviously, I'm reasonably well acquainted with it by now, because Al (and his generously-proportioned appendage) spent a lot of time in my company, but whenever I - erm - handle it, it feels like a fucking marrow to my inexperienced fingers. There is no way it will ever fit inside me. I had enough trouble with slimline tampons when I was younger.

"So how good is he in bed, then?" Saffron looks up at me eagerly from her position on the grass, and I have neither the heart nor the courage to reveal the truth.

"Oh. Um. Good? Yeah. He's…good in bed," I squeak in embarrassment.

Which he is, when we're kissing and cuddling in it on the many occasions we've spent the night together. He doesn't fart in it or hog the covers either. How much better in bed can a man get?

"Honestly, Saff; why are you even asking that question? Sunny's sex life is none of anyone else's concern," snaps Judith righteously. "Leave the poor girl alone."

"I was just showing an interest, that's all," replies Saffron indignantly. "Sunny, you're welcome to ask about my sex life if you want to know anything."

"Fuck no!" I yelp, having absolutely no desire to find out exactly how behind I am in the bedroom stakes. "In fact, I don't even want to think about what you and Lenny get up to in your free time."

"I agree. Pass me the mind bleach," says Judith with a shudder. "Change of subject, please."

"Shall we split that final bread-cake?" I suggest desperately, looking at the remaining piece of food sitting all on its lonesome in a cellophane wrapper.

"Hang on - what did you just call it?"

"A bread-cake; why?"

Saffron lets out a loud snort. "How is it a cake? It's a roll of bread, not a roll of cake. Hence 'bread roll'."

"Not where I come from, it isn't," I reply mutinously. "It's definitely a bread-cake, or even a tea-cake if you're from the nearby town of Barnsley."

"That's so wrong. Tea-cakes have currants in them."

"Oh I agree. Barnsley's just weird like that."

"So what do Barnsley people call actual tea-cakes, then?"

"Currant tea-cakes."

"Fucking Hell."

"I know."

"What do you call these particular bread products, Jude?"

"I hardly want to tell you because I know exactly how you two children will react," she replies drily, "but here goes. Muffins."

Both Saffron and I fall about laughing. "No way is it a muffin! Muffins are miniature cakes, for fuck's sake!"

"Actually, I think you'll find that muffins are flat, doughy things that you slice in half and stick in the toaster! Bread-cakes are absolutely not muffins."

"Well according to Google, the term 'muffin' can be used to describe any individually portioned bread product, so there."

"Bread rolls, you imbeciles!"

"Bread-CAKES!" I yell back, as Saffron pelts me with torn-up bits of grass and we engage in a brief but furious tussle which neither of us win.

All too soon, lunch is over and we're lining up outside the pathology department, partaking in our customary good-luck-wishing ritual, before falling silent and filing solemnly into the building. Bags get thrown in lockers, lab-coats are pulled on, and we proceed in a steady fashion to the laboratory, where two hours of disease-riddled organs, bacterial plates and pink-stained slides lie between us and glorious, glorious freedom.

This last paper is going to be something of a struggle. The end is in sight and I'm almost giddy with anticipation. It's hard to focus on the task in hand over that blank canvas of time that follows this exam. Luckily, the first question comes to my rescue by being so obscure that it sends a small bolt of panic ricocheting through my brain and I have to take a few quick breaths to compose myself. But this exam, just like its predecessors, eventually drags itself to a finish, and I slap my pen-point triumphantly against the paper in a final full-stop, not giving a shit in this moment whether I've actually triumphed in these exams or not. It's over - and I'm free.

Al and I find each other almost immediately afterwards. In blessed relief, I sink myself into my favourite place; the contours of his body. His arms encircle me, his cheek resting protectively against my temple.

"How was it?"

"Must we discuss it?" I murmur, my voice muffled by his shoulder. "Fuck me, how can you smell this good even after an exam?"

"Is that a rhetorical question or are you asking for aftershave recommendations?"

"Idiot. What did you put for question seven, by the way? The hepatic one? Was it cirrhosis, with subsequent necrotising fasciitis in the subcutaneous tissues?"

"Umm, I thought you didn't want to talk about it?"

"Please, just tell me!" I whine pathetically.

"Sunny, what's the point? The exam's over and you can't change your answers. Best to forget about it. Let's talk about something else instead."

"Oh bollocks; does that mean I got it wrong? Fuck fuck fuck."

"Why would my answer necessarily be the right one?"

"Because you're always bloody right, you git. Oh tits. There goes my pathology pass."

"Sweetheart, stop it. As a matter of fact, I think I did put cirrhosis and necrotising fasciitis for that one, but really, how does my answer alter anything at this stage?"

"I bet you're only saying that now to try and make me feel better," I whinge, deliberately resisting the urge to relax as he runs his palm up and down my back in rhythmical, slow strokes. "Well, it's not working."

He just laughs heartlessly, the bastard. "I can't win this one, can I?"

"No," I mumble into his t-shirt, "but at least you won't fail your exams either."

Al starts to rock me gently, like I'm a troublesome child in need of soothing, which, I suppose, is not terribly far off the mark right now. "There there," he murmurs patronisingly.

"Are you taking the piss, Albescent Potter?"

"What if I am?" Al's playful laugh tickles my ear. "Ten galleons that you've passed, by the way."

"I've…passed ten galleons?" I repeat, confused. "Where? I'm nowhere near the sea, you weirdo! Honestly, you come out with the strangest things at times."

"Oh for fuck's sake ten pounds," he says, a note of flustered irritation marring the smooth velvet of his voice. "So, have we got a bet?"

"Make it fifty," I mutter. "I pass, you win; I fail, you lose."

"You're on." He gives me a villainous grin and kisses my forehead. "May as well hand over fifty now, sweetheart."

"You don't know that!"

"Oi, lovebirds!" Leonard shrieks at the top of his lungs as he skips joyfully towards us, beaming from ear to ear and looking simply delighted to be breaking up our private moment. "Don't you dare tell me you're planning to sneak off together for some 'alone time' - you're going to be sociable little profiteroles and come to the pub with us, aren't you?"

"So if we don't dare tell you, we could still sneak off?" Al muses thoughtfully. "What do you think, Sunny?"

"Why do we even need to sneak off?"

"Good point. Shall we openly ditch this loser and go?"

"I don't want to be a sociable little profiterole, or any other choux pastry product for that matter. I'm tired!"

"Just one drink?" Leonard pleads, applying his most beseeching expression as he gazes at Al and I. "Even Yoshi's coming! You can't turn that dear little soufflé down, surely?"

"Well, that changes things. You're definitely twisting my arm by dangling Yoshi in front of me like that," says Al with a laugh. "Sunny?"

"Sunny, please?" Leonard adds, seemingly for effect.

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Just one, then," I grudgingly concede.

Four half-pints of lager and a stop-off at Enzo's pizzeria later, Al and I end up back in my room by half-past six. I'm feeling a touch of post-exam guilt, as though I should be doing some constructive revision instead of throwing this free time away, but the combination of Al, friends and alcohol is helping me to unwind.

"It's a shame your college is so anal about guests sleeping over," I sigh, as I extract a slice of pizza from the box, inwardly marvelling at the length to which mozzarella can stretch. "It's always my room that ends up smelling of takeaway for days on end."

"Yeah, I know. It's massively annoying for me too," replies Al patiently, making much less of a mess with his pizza triangle than I am with mine. "I wish they weren't so strict about it, but they issue heavy punishments, as Monty and his girlfriend discovered when we broke the rules that night, remember? We were bloody lucky to escape."

I do remember. The girlfriend in question - Lydia - had got so drunk that night, she had no recollection of the evening whatsoever, as I found out when I bumped into her in Sainsbury's a few days later. She hadn't the slightest clue who I was.

Al opens the screw-top bottle of white wine that we bought with the food, and begins to decant it into two mugs. I wouldn't normally drink wine from a mug - I'm classier than that, honestly - but fuck knows where my wine glasses have got to. Probably the same place as that chunk of cheddar back in February.

It's quite a nice wine. Al chose it. He knows a bit about wine, or maybe that's the way it seems to me, because I know very little about it apart from it requires grapes, sugar and yeast to make. This one has a lovely, crisp apple-y flavour, which tastes even better on Al's lips as I soon find out.

Things are starting to get rather passionate between us, as they have done the last few times we've spent the night in together, but despite the alcohol in my system, I can feel my anxiety levels rise. Damn my pathetic, novice nerves.

I break off the snog.

"Al?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" He kisses my forehead softly and looks at me curiously.

"Because I'm not very good at…this."

"Sunny, you're perfect. Whatever do you mean?"

It all comes out in a rush. "Well, I…want to have sex with you, just in case you think I don't. I'm not trying to push you away. It's just that… Please don't laugh or tell anyone, but I've never done it before and…and…"

He looks at me with such a caring expression as he caresses my cheek lightly with his finger that I want to melt into his arms and chest, and stay there like some sort of weird wax limpet.

"We're not doing anything until you're sure you're ready," he replies with absolute certainty.

"I think I'm ready…"

"I sense a 'but'" he says gently.

"I want to try but I'm a bit scared too." I take a deep breath. "Will it be painful?"

"I don't know. It shouldn't be but if you're sure you want to give it a go and you're not comfortable at any point, I'll stop. I don't want to hurt you."

"What if we can't do it?" I blurt. "I mean, what if…umm, you're quite…well, a bit…big? Oh fuck. This is coming out all wrong."

Al flushes brightly and cracks a crooked smile. "Sunny, you know how babies are born, right?"

What? Does he doubt my basic reproductive biological knowledge? I've just done three exams on the subject, for fuck's sake! "I've got condoms, if that's what you mean," I splutter awkwardly.

"Condoms are…good, but that's not quite what I was driving at." He pulls me to him and wraps his arms comfortingly around me so that I'm tucked snugly into his torso. "What I meant is that if whopping ten-pound babies can come out of women's…umm…bodies, then comparatively much smaller things can go…in."

"Oh," I exhale slowly, stupidly, as comprehension dawns. "Now I feel like a complete dolt!"

"Don't. You're not at all."

His hands gently cup my face as he presses his parted lips to mine. Our tongues entwine, exulting in the familiarity of each other, dancing in synchrony as they have done so many times before. It feels so rhythmical, so right.

Al is correct; practice really does make perfect. Well, it does with snogging at least.

He deepens the kiss, his fingers caressing the back of my neck, sending a flurry of goosebumps darting over my skin. I run my hands over his smooth toned shoulders and chest, wishing that this damn clothing wasn't in the way. As if he can read my mind, Al pauses the kiss to whip his t-shirt off.

I lift my arms up as Al, in one fluid motion, removes my t-shirt as well, and throws it to one side to join his on the floor.

Al has seen me topless several times now, but in the heat of this moment, I'm suddenly self-conscious in my bra - what if he thinks my boobs are saggy, or ugly, or abnormal in some way without it? His gaze is fixed on my chest as his hands cup my cotton-covered breasts, and his thumbs run across the accessible flesh of each one. If he thinks my body is strange, he's certainly not letting on.

Before I can overthink any further, I reach around and unclasp my bra and let slide it off my arms, then I reach up to splay my fingers through Al's hair and around his scalp, pulling his mouth to mine. We stay locked in lip to lip combat until we both have to pause for air.

He gazes at me softly. "Do you want to go further? It's absolutely fine by me if you say No."

I nod. "Don't stop yet," I whisper.

We tumble onto my bed, our hands roaming each other's bodies, following curves and concavities, muscles and outlines, fingers softly exploring from north to south until we're touching the most intimate, delicate parts of each other, and Al is lined up between my hot, damp thighs. I can feel his body suggestively nudging mine.

Al softly kisses the tip of my nose and brushes a stray lock of hair away from my face. "Are you sure you're still okay with this?"

"Yes."

"How was it?" Al tentatively asks me afterwards. I'm curled up in his arms, my head resting against his bare chest, listening to his heart, the reassuring steady rhythm of which is lulling me to sleep.

"Very enjoyable," I reply drowsily. "Much more fun than I expected."

He nuzzles the top of my head with his nose and kisses my hair. "It'll be even better next time. Practice makes perfect, remember?"

I gaze up at him affectionately. "I'm sorry if I was awful. I wasn't very sure what I should be doing. Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh, very much so."

I feel my face burning. "You seemed to be doing most of the work, though."

"Well, you could always go on top next time if you want to," he deadpans, snuggling down into my bed and turning sideways so he's spooning me. His attentive lips leave gentle kisses along my shoulder and neck.

And with that happy thought that there'll be a next time, I drift off to sleep in Al's toned arms. If anyone ever asks me about my sex life again, I'll be able to tell them with perfect truth that Al really is good in bed.

And maybe marrows aren't so terrifying after all.