The other evening, lounging in front of the cottage’s hearth, Severus had asked her if she remembered the first time he kissed her.
Obviously, Lily did. It was less than a year ago: Easter time. Finally worn down, he'd come to check on her desperately hungover self after the chaos in the kitchen the night before. Somehow she had found herself on top of him, and…The memory of his mouth opening over hers--after months of that mouth doth-protesting too much--still elicited a little thrill.
“No,” he had whispered. “Earlier than that.”
When they were children she had kissed him many times on the cheek. On Christmas. His birthday. Had he ever kissed her back? No. It had always been Lily who had initiated these sexless little pecks. Sev had been too awkward a boy for anything like that.
“We were nine and you tripped on the pavement,” he had explained, dark eyes catching the firelight. “You rarely fell. You were a graceful, talented witch even then. You started weeping, shocked by the blood, perhaps, rather than from the pain.
“You demanded, tearfully, that I kiss it better.”
Lily laughed, embarrassed. “No, I didn’t! Oh God! Sorry, Sev.”
“And I did. I kissed your gravel-flecked, bloody little knee, then I tried to dust off the gravel, but the blood was quite sticky. So I just kissed it again, gravel and all. I was so proud of myself because I made you stop weeping.”
“Funny thing to remember.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And I can remember it perfectly. Sun on my back through my shirt, little downy hairs on your knee, how white the skin was. The smells.”
“Nice smells. Laundry soap. Sun-warmed skin.”
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