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Summary
His face was so near now that Harry could make out a few, light brown freckles, dusted on the bridge of his nose, and he was still frowning, alcohol stained lips pressing together. He lifted his hand haltingly - two white, slender finger pressed, a light, rippling pressure, on Harry's bottom lip; whose mouth parted immediately in response, like a moth to light, like a puzzle piece to its counterpart, like a flower to the sun-
Is he going to kiss me?