Summary: Severus Snape treasures the memory of one particular day with Lily Evans.
Warning: Underage content.
On a certain evening every July, Severus Snape locks the door to his rooms and takes a bottle from a hidden, warded niche inside his closet. It’s a pretty bottle, a green glass oval molded with flowering vines trailing up the neck. Sitting on the desk in his chamber, it seems to gather the dim light, making a jade moon in the dusk. Outside, the crickets sing their courting song. He can just hear them.
Snape has waited all year for this one day. He understands that memory is a miser, that its goods are cheap materials, easily worn out by overuse until all that is left is memory of remembering, and then a pale memory of that. He knows that he another person would open the bottle less often; if he expected to live a full span, he might try to go two years, or at least eighteen months. But he does not expect to live. He only hopes that his life will not outlast the silvery liquid that he pours with exquisite caution into the pensieve this July night.
This memory will never, never be shared by another. If he dies tomorrow, the bottle will never be found; he is sure of that.
The contents of the pensieve swirl invitingly, like a cool dip on a hot day. He has washed his face and eaten sparingly. Now he gathers his hair into an elastic at the back of his neck, making the ritual preparations. He takes a deep breath and plunges in.
+ + + + +
It is the summer of his fourteenth year. Father has gone for the day and Mother sits at the bare table, staring into a cup of cold tea leaves. She is still in her dressing gown, cheap brushed acrylic worn transparent at the elbows and stained in front. He stops in the kitchen. He hates her for a moment, her defeated skinny ankles and greasy ponytail.
“I’m going out,” he says, challenging her to object. There is no answer.
As soon as he leaves the house, it is forgotten. Lily has agreed to meet him by the culvert outside the playground. She will bring sandwiches and wait for him as long as necessary. He covers the two miles in long strides, perspiring in the heat, his too-short summer pants flapping around his ankles.
She is sitting in a tiny patch of shade next to her bicycle. He slows as he approaches; she hasn’t seen him yet. She is wearing shorts and a pale green tee shirt with her red hair in a plait down the back. Her nose and cheekbones are sunburned. She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Hey,” he calls out, so pleased to see her that it can be expressed only in a single syllable.
She turns around and lights up.
“Guess what,” she calls. “They’re all out. My mom is taking Tuney shopping and they’re staying for lunch in town. I begged off, so you can come over and have lunch at my house.”
He has been to Lily’s house several times when it could not be helped -- when she did not meet him and he had to know what had happened, or once when she had mononucleosis and her mother allowed him to sit with her. He doesn’t like the rest of them. He knows how they look at his clothes and his hair. The mother is all right, he supposes; she always offers him a drink or a sandwich. But he doesn’t like to go.
“Let’s just go down to the brook,” he says. “Let’s go wading.” Wading and talking is a favorite summer occupation. He wishes he had some money to take her out to lunch; that would give him more say in the decision.
“No, I want you to see my room. It’s painted like I told you, purple and gold. I have a new bedspread. I want your opinion about curtains.” Because she is Muggleborn, Lily acts as if only Severus can tell her the proper Wizarding way to do things, or maybe she does it to flatter him. As if he knew anything about curtains.
“I don’t feel like going to your house,” he says stubbornly. “It’s hot and I just got here.”
“There’s no one there, I swear.”
“Let’s go down to the brook,” he says.
“We have roast beef for sandwiches,” she coaxes.
He’s always hungry and he resents her using this to her advantage.
“I don’t suppose you thought to bring any along,” he says angrily. “You just assumed I’d do your bidding.”
“I’m hot,” she says. “I want to go inside.” It’s true, he’s sweating in the dense, still air, and there’s a layer of droplets on Lily’s upper lip. He notices that she’s gotten a fine coating of red-gold fuzz there as well. It’s disturbing, like the small breasts that push out the front of her shirt. He turns his head, making it a gesture of displeasure at her insistence.
“Look,” she says, placatingly. “I promise we’ll have the whole day until tea at my house. Dad’s at work and once Mum and Tuney get to the stores, they’re good for hours. It’s really cool inside and there’s a bottle of fizzy lemon in the fridge. I’ll walk you home at four.”
He begins to soften at the thought of fizzy lemon and roast beef sandwiches -- possibly with that horseradish mustard -- in the shady kitchen with Lily.
“Any biscuits?”
“Tons! You can have the whole Cadbury assortment. I’ll let you eat them before and after lunch. I’ll make you a biscuit sandwich.” Sensing that he is about to relent, she is being silly, but he won’t give in too easily.
“It’s a long walk,” he says.
“It isn’t. It’s a bit more than a mile. I’ll ride you,” she says, getting her bike. She walks it to the street. “Hop on.”
Severus does not like to admit that he has never shared a bike with anyone. In fact, he has barely ridden a bike, having never owned one. She gestures him over.
“I know your legs are very long for this. Can you please stop growing?” she says, fondly. “But if you sit on the seat and put your feet on the hub back here -- ” He follows her instructions, keeping his left foot on the ground. He must look ridiculous, with his skinny knees flanged out on either side.
“Oh --” She bends down and tucks his pants leg into his sock. “There. Otherwise, you might get caught in the gears.” She throws her leg over, puts her right foot on the pedal. and takes the handlebar. “Okay, now I’m going to push off and you pick your leg up at the same time.”
She gives a push. They wobble forward, lean precariously and put their left feet down simultaneously.
“I’ll walk,” says Severus, at the same time Lily says, “You’ve got to hold on.”
He has been clutching the edge of the seat behind his bottom. Lily seems to think that is the problem.
“Hold me around the waist,” she says.
They used to pummel and push and haul each other into trees. In the last year they have gotten more dignified. Severus doesn’t know the last time he touched her. He puts his hands there tentatively. It’s not the way he remembered it, skin slipping over muscle. He’s almost shocked at the deep curve above the waistband of her shorts and the soft, resilient flesh. It embarrasses and thrills him to have his hands there.
“Okay!” she calls. “Here we go.” This time they push off together. Lily concentrates on pumping hard, keeping the momentum. Severus focuses on balance. The whizzing spokes alarm him and it’s hard to keep his legs at this awkward angle. Certainly, if they go over, there will be bruises and blood. He is glad that there are no downhills on the way. They speed up and he begins to get the hang of it.
She’s got a good rhythm going now, and he relaxes into the ride, adjusting his feet to take the strain off his legs. They pass block after block of Muggle houses with neat gardens. There’s the school that Lily and Petunia went to, when he first knew her. A little commercial area with a candy store. He experiments with loosening his grip on her waist and immediately begins to sway.
“Hold on!” she says.
His nose is very close to her hair. In fact, it’s tickling a little but he’s afraid to let go and move it. Heat radiates from Lily’s back, and with it, her indescribable, familiar scent. Her hips move rhythmically under his hands and her tee shirt is damp. She is soft, so soft, and he has been ordered to keep his hands there, the breeze of riding blowing her hair against his face. Heaven. He closes his eyes for a moment.
Lily breathes hard. He opens his eyes. This long avenue into their neighborhood is a bit of a hill, after all. He thinks he ought to offer to get off and walk, but it’s lovely, the ride and the closeness and the breeze. She told him to hold on.
They crest the hill and she rests a moment, gliding and standing on the pedals.
“Halfway!” she calls. She must be tired; she changes her position, pushing his elbows closer to his body. When she begins to pedal, her thighs brush the insides of his legs. It feels good. He spreads his fingers experimentally, feeling the roundness of her hips.
What comes next has never happened in the presence of another person, but only alone in bed or in the shower.
The good feeling of holding Lily, the tantalizing smell of her, the memory of her breasts against the inside of her shirt and the rubbing of her legs between his, gather into a delicious tension in his groin. The fabric strains over his cock. Startled, he holds on tighter. It feels incredible, but he should find a way to stop it.
Still, he touches his nose to her back and breathes in deeply. He fills up with her, so soft, so warm in his hands. She is panting now, coming into the home stretch, taking deeper dips on the pedals that bring her lightly against his lap. It feels too wonderful against him there --
She readjusts her stance for the final climb to her street, brushing against him firmly once on the down stroke. The sensation of her bottom against him is too much.
With a gasp, he yanks her spasmodically against him while waves of pleasure roll through his body and he comes in his pants, holding her tightly and resting his forehead against her back. Oh, god. Lily. Oh, god.
He’s still on the bike a moment later and they are climbing the hill. When she paused and turned her head was she checking the crossroad? He’s dizzy with it and unreasoningly happy.
Then he makes a reckoning of his clothes. Pants, utterly soaked in the front. Shirt, too short to cover the spot. He probably even smells like it. They are pulling into her driveway and he panics. Could he just run home from here? How would he explain?
“Whew!” Lily plants her foot on the pavement and leans against the handlebars, closing her eyes. He is dismounts and stands behind her. “Look at me. I’m drenched.” The back of her shirt is wet through. Still talking, she leads him to the front door between the beds of wilting hostas and impatiens.
“Do you mind if I take a shower?” she asks, fitting the key in the lock. “I just feel so gross and sticky. You can, too, if you like; I’ll give you a towel.”
“Okay.” He can’t believe this good luck. In years to come, he will recall in this the vast and loving tact that made their friendship possible. At thirteen, however, he is only relieved.
Still walking ahead, Lily takes him upstairs and hands him a towel from the cabinet.
“You go first. I’ll make sandwiches. After lunch, I want your opinion on my room.”
The Evans bath seems luxurious compared to the cramped and mildewed one at home, with its mean little sliver of soap. He locks the door, then he unlocks it. He washes off his pants as best as he can and rolls them tightly in the towel. He steps into the shower and lathers up with lavender soap and herbal shampoo. He leans against the wall, letting the water run over him, completely relaxed.
After the shower, the pants are good enough, nothing visible. He dresses again and heads for the kitchen. Lily is spreading horseradish mustard on hard rolls. She has cut carrot sticks and put them on two plates.
“Hey,” she says. “Finish these while I shower, okay?” He nods.
He hears her upstairs, turning on the water. She has prepared two rolls for him, and a veritable pile of carrots. He feels the house draw about them, cozy and inviolate. He can’t believe he didn’t like it here.
Half an hour later, they are talking in low voices at the table. Severus has eaten two sandwiches, carrot sticks and a dozen chocolate biscuits, and is enjoying the rare feeling, in summer, of being well-fed and safe. His sarcastic comments about school make Lily laugh. The shades are drawn to keep out the heat, and her pale skin glows in the dim interior. It occurs to him for the first time that the word is love: he loves her.
The house is dim, and Lily’s radiant face is fading, replaced by the moon, then a round glass bottle, and Severus finds himself in his chamber, leaning over the pensieve as the last drops plink from his nose into the liquid there. He sighs and wipes his face. Perhaps it is good to be sad.
+ + + + +
This memory will never, never be shared by another. If he dies tomorrow, the bottle will never be found.