Author's Note: this stuff was written for jily week on tumblr, and i figured i should put it on here for posterity. anyhoo. as always, i don't own any of it.

Lily Evans' first kiss took place in the summer of 1975, under the lamppost at the end of her cul-de-sac. It was one of those cool, cloudless, starry summer nights that you always remember, even if nothing important happened in it.

She had spent the day in the park where she'd first met Severus Snape (who was staying at his Nan's for the week, the git, leaving her at a loose end), with a copy of The Great Gatsby and a bottle of cloudy lemonade that her mum had got for her at Safeways. The boy, the very first boy (but not the last, I must add) who ever kissed her, went to school with her sister, and he was six foot tall, with messy brown hair and very blue eyes. By the time she was eighteen, Lily couldn't even remember his name.

He'd turned up on his bike, a Chopper ("I thought only eight year olds rode those," she'd remarked dryly) and asked her about her book. And she was bored, and it was so hot (not as hot as the summer after that, but that's another story for another day) and so when it got dark, and the stars had come out, and he asked to walk her home, she said yes.

The way she saw it, he was alright looking, and he seemed to like her a lot ("you're nothing like Petunia," he'd said, "you're a lot prettier too.") and it had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fact that before she left Hogwarts a few weeks previously, Mary had absolutely ripped the piss out of her for never having kissed anyone before. It had nothing to do with that. At all.

They stopped underneath the lamppost, and she could see her house behind his ear.

"I've had a lovely day, Lily," he told her earnestly, "May I see you again?"

She laughed. "Of course you can, you idiot! You'll probably see me tomorrow; Sev's not back 'til Monday."

"And Sev is…Sev is your friend from Spinner's End?" the boy said slowly. She nodded.

"Yes. There's no need to say Spinner's End like it's a prison, you know. It's actually quite nice, in certain lights."

"What, like no light at all?"

She laughed again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she told him, and that's when he leant down and kissed her.

It wasn't a bad kiss, per se, but it certainly wasn't the type of kiss that have songs written about them. It was standard, mediocre, middle of the road. Just like the boy himself, she would later think.

And when he pulled away, she cleared her throat shyly (which was strange, because she never did anything shyly, ever) and said again; "I'll see you tomorrow."

When she was older, not a lot older (dear Lily Evans never made it past 22, dear reader), but older than she was that July night, she would try to remember if she ever did see him tomorrow. And in all honesty, she didn't think she did.

James Potter's first kiss happened that same year, but later, at Christmas, when the snow lay thick on the ground at Hogwarts. He, unlike his future wife, would later be able to recall both the name and birthday of the girl who was his first kiss. Her name was Celia Mitchell, and she was a Hufflepuff of tiny stature and a rather kind heart (her birthday, if you're interested, was April 13th).

He was supposed to have returned home with Sirius, but since Moony's cycle had been particularly nasty that month (Thursday 18th December 1975), he thought he'd better stay, and make sure his best mate recovered properly.

His mum, though she was disappointed, understood, although not fully (he couldn't imagine telling her. "Oh, by the way Mum, my best mate's a werewolf. Can I stay at school this Christmas to make sure he recovers from his transformation alright?" Not bloody likely) and as a result, there he was, stood under the beach tree, his tree, with Celia's frozen lips pressed to his, and snow in his messy hair.

He'd got to know her because she was on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and that October they'd both been in a very nasty collision during a game, that led them both to be in the hospital wing at the same time, in beds next to each other. Of course, he'd spent the majority of his time there (three days, three days cooped up in bed!) wishing he wasn't, but in the dreary hours between the rest of the Marauders visits, he'd found that she was actually a laugh.

"You're a laugh," he'd told her, "for a Hufflepuff."

"Just when I was beginning to like you!" she sighed, but she was smiling, so he didn't think it counted, "You know that Hufflepuff have produced the least dark wizards of all time, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess," he ran his hand through his hair, "but then you have produced the least everything, haven't you?"

She rolled her eyes. But she was still smiling.

"Do you ever think before you speak, James?" Celia asked.

"Not really, no," he replied, opening a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavoured Beans, "Where's the fun in that?"

She said nothing in response, and merely leant over, across their shared bedside table, and grabbed a handful of beans.

"Oi!"

She just laughed.

That day, he'd asked her if she fancied going for a walk at lunch, because Sirius had a hangover, and Remus was still in the hospital wing, and Peter was still eating, and who was James to tear a boy from his food?

"Didn't go home for Christmas, then?" she'd asked, kicking her way through the snow.

"No, I did," he deadpanned, "you're hallucinating me."

"Oh ha ha," she replied, "aren't you a comedian?"

"Thanks," he grinned, "I pride myself on my humour."

"I thought I was the laugh?"

He leant against the tree trunk, and chuckled. "Can't believe you remember I said that!"

"Of course I remember," she smirked, rubbing her hands together to keep out the cold, "Best concussion I ever had."

He smiled at her, and quite before he knew it, she'd crossed the little distance between them, and her hands were on his shoulder, and her frozen lips were on his, and the snow fell heavily, like thought it was rain.