This is a work of fanfiction, written and posted solely for the enjoyment of readers. The characters appear in the works of JK Rowling. The author of this story receives no remuneration.
Honeymoon
A Harry & Daphne Short Story
By
Bfd1235813
Regardless of how well we believe we know one another, those first few days of marriage are filled with the new, the fresh, the unexpected.
"Harry?"
He thought he was drifting off. He was mistaken.
"Unh-huh?"
"Are you going to tell me what went on at your bachelor party?"
"Daphne…What? Right now? What do you think? Bunch of guys, beer, free shots. Loud talk."
"Oh. Translated, that sounds like, 'What happens at the bachelor party stays at the bachelor party.' Well, if you don't want to tell me..."
"I just told you. Blaise and Neville rented one of the private rooms in a very respectable restaurant in a very respectable London hotel. It was all completely civilized."
"Did you get sick?"
"NO! They did buy me shots. I drank them. Managed to hold it down. Somehow."
"Oh."
"Believe me, there's nothing there. You know every person in attendance. They couldn't look you in the eye, ever again, if they'd gotten me up to any kind of misbehavior. Solid citizens, all the way."
"No stripper?"
"No."
"Belly dancer?"
"Not even."
"So what did you talk about?"
Sigh.
"Bits. They wanted to know which of yours I like the best."
"WHAT? Who?"
"Just generally speaking. It was somewhat raucous but only borderline disrespectful."
"Oh-h-h-h, when I get my wand after them…"
"What will you do? Bunch of guys giving your husband the raspberries about his wife-to-be? If they didn't think you had something worth commenting on, they would have avoided the subject. None of them expressed appreciation for this or that feature. They respect you, as a witch and a human being."
"Hmmph…So what did you say?"
"About?"
"About my bits, Doofus! Did they want to know if these were all me, or were they enhanced?"
"No…hahahahaha! No, nothing like that."
"So, what did you say? Did you tell them what your favorites were? These? This business back here?"
"I just said it's all very nice and I can't have favorites. Of course they all hissed and booed but I think they could tell I wasn't going to give them any more than that."
"Ah. I guess that's nice. Can I have a kiss?"
"Of course, whenever you like. Here."
A very short time later, he'd begun to feel deliciously sleepy again.
"Harry?"
"Mm-hmph?"
"What did you say?"
"What?"
"What did you tell your friends? If you wouldn't pick out a favorite feature of my anatomy, what DID you say?"
"I told you. I couldn't choose."
"But if you could. What would you say?"
"Do you need to know that? Do you need to know right now?"
"I'm afraid so. I can't seem to go to sleep. I guess it is because I can't get that out of my mind. You're being very cagey which makes it sound like you do have a favorite. So, if you had to pick, what would it be?"
"I kind of keep that private. I haven't told anyone, ever, because I don't understand it, myself, and I doubt if you or anyone else would. Why do you want to know? Has your honeymoon been a disappointment?"
"No, it has gone far beyond my expectations. I just want to know. If you really, really love me, why can't you just say?"
"Okay. Remember, a few minutes from now, that I tried to be diplomatic about this and you refuse to let it go. Ready? It's your feet."
"My…feet?"
"Yeah. They're beautiful. Slim. Nice ratio, length to width. Not stubby. Elegant. Your toes are a perfect match for the foot itself. Like that sculpture we saw at the V&A. Remember that marble? I noticed your feet, all the way back to first year. You wore Navy tights under your uniform skirt, all through the cold months, with those cute black flats. I didn't notice anything about girls at that age. Well, to be honest, what is there to notice? Something about your feet, though…"
"Perv."
"You asked."
"Okay, so what then?"
"What do you mean?"
"You noticed me in first year because of my feet, what then?"
"I don't know what you're asking. You've always been beautiful, in my opinion. We grew up. You added things, from time to time. It all grew in just fine, as far as I'm concerned. I have no complaints."
"Uh-huh. No complaints is suspiciously neutral. What about my feet? Are they up to your standards?"
"Of course! Everything about you exceeds all reasonable standards."
"Thanks. But it's my FEET, of all things, that get you riled up."
"Uh…sort of."
"Sort of. What does that mean? My feet get you 'sort of' riled up? Our marriage is literally hours old and now I find out my husband prefers my feet to…to…everything else! My parents went to a great deal of trouble and expense to give me a perfect wedding in our garden and I could have taken you and a JP to the beach and bedazzled you with my bare feet treading the sand. No wonder you seemed a bit distant through it all. The gown, the veil, the arch of white roses, who needed them? What did you notice?"
"I'm a little hesitant to answer that. I am sleepy. Maybe my thought processes are acting up. How about, at breakfast, we…"
"No! You're going to tell me what you noticed at our wedding! What was my gown like?"
"White."
"Cheap shot. Material?"
"Kind of semi-shiny?"
"Yep. Thai silk. They're the only ones who can finish silk that way. What else?"
"Your veil was nice."
"Nice? That veil is Belgian lace! It's over a century old. All hand work. My grandmother wore it, then my mother, then me. It's stored in a special box with an anti-aging charm in our Gringotts vault in between weddings. That's why it looks so fresh and new, like the day Grandmother took delivery. I can't give you more than half-credit for 'nice.' Anything else?"
"You're going to demand I talk about your shoes, aren't you?"
Silence.
"They looked like ballet slippers, more silk, I suspect, and they looked, to me, as if they really liked their job. They followed the shape of your feet. Hugged them. Caressed them, if that is acceptable. You've got perfect symmetry between right and left, and like I said, the length/width ratio and the perfectly-shaped toes…All day, I was so afraid I would step on a toe and hurt you, maybe leave a mark on one. All through dinner and the toasts, I kept thinking up excuses to fidget, move my chair or look at you and ask if there was anything I could get you. Trying for a little peek. I hope it wasn't too obvious."
"No, actually, it wasn't. It was kind of cute. My new husband visibly under the spell of his beautiful, perfectly-groomed and outfitted bride. I'm sure the guests noticed. Too bad all they really saw was a guy trying to sneak a look at some poor, innocent, country girl's feet who didn't even know she's married to a perv who'd been ogling her from the floor all the way up to her ankles since before she had the beginnings of a bosom."
"Yeah. Too bad, I mean. What time is it?"
"Two. A bit past."
"Since it doesn't look like we're going to get any sleep, you just stay there a moment."
"What? What are you…"
Silence.
"Okay, I'm back. This is my hand lotion. It's mostly glycerin. Some water. A hint of lemon scent. Let's see 'em."
"See what? You want to rub my feet?"
"I've dreamed about it. Literally. For years. Are you going to deny me? We are married. It isn't against the law. Stick 'em out."
"Okay. Here. Have at it."
"You were on them for hours today and those slippers couldn't have been giving them any support. Do you get cramps in your arches?"
"Are you a mind reader?"
"No, I get them too. I'll just thumb this arch for a bit. There we go. Think relaxing thoughts. Yeah, getting some relief? Thought so. Okay, now I'm going to put a hand back here, by your Achilles, and you'll let me hold everything up and we'll see about those toes. Try to relax everything. I like your nail polish. That pinky is so cute."
"Thanks, but it is pitch dark in here."
"You had your shoes off when the lights were still on. Besides, I can get an idea from how it feels. How is this?"
"Mmm! Mmm-mmm! Oh! Keep that up! Uhh! Oh, yes! Yes! Mmmmmmm!"
"And that is how Little Miss Right Foot loosens up so all that tension drains away."
"What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop? Get back to work."
"There is another one waiting."
"I know that. Let me be the one who decides when you switch."
Some hours later:
"Oh! You're awake. Good morning, Mrs. Potter!"
"Mr. Potter. You were in the shower?"
"Have to be presentable. I'm a married man. I have responsibilities."
"Give me a minute, please?"
"Of course."
Silence.
"That's better. Come here, please. Ooooo…there's no pillow like my husband's chest. I do hope you like cuddling."
"I don't have a lot of experience. Married cuddling, I mean, not that arm-in-arm, strolling on the beach version. Which is alright, don't get me wrong."
"K-Snerrrrk! Don't get defensive. This is lovely, and much nicer than any beach. Besides me, who let you rub their feet?"
"What? Where did that come from?"
"Did you rub HER feet?"
"Whose?"
"Don't act naïve. You know whose! The Weaselette. Did you rub the Weaselette's feet?"
"Your tone is a little demanding for such trivial subject matter. Not to mention, so early in the morning."
"It's going on nine. Plenty late for you to answer a simple question. Besides, it's not trivial if your hands have been slathering lemon-scented lotion over every pair of witch-feet in Britain."
"I don't know what is going on, but, if you insist, no, I have never, even once in my life, rubbed Ginny Weasley's feet. Satisfied?"
"A little. What about Granger?"
"We were never like that. Ask her if you don't believe me."
"What do you think of her feet? It's quite obvious that's of primary importance to you. Are they nicer than mine? You must have seen them."
"Are your feet in competition now? Will you be entering them in the village fete foot-judging?"
"Will you?"
"Is there such a thing?"
"You'd know, Mr. Foot-centric. The next words out of your mouth better tell me what you think of Granger's feet."
"I guess they're okay. I never thought…"
"Oh, but you did! You have an opinion: 'They're okay.' Are you holding back? Were they the first feet you lusted after? You met on the Express, first year, didn't you?"
"That is a matter of record, so?"
"What kind of shoes was she wearing?"
"I'd just be guessing. Really, Daphne, after all this time…"
"Take a guess. What have you got to lose?"
"I think they were a pair of clunky, black, lace-up oxfords, but I wouldn't say so under oath."
"So you DID look! And Granger's feet made a lasting impression! We were all ELEVEN! What kind of man are you? Or, were you? Or, developing into, you naughty, naughty boy?"
"The kind that took you to bed on your wedding night, cuddled you, kissed you, told you I love you and I'm yours forever. And THEN, for dessert, you got a foot rub."
"Mmm…yes, that's all true. I did. Slow, with lots of slippery lotion."
"Something new. Unexpected."
"I'll say. You want to do it again, don't you?"
"I may have revived. You're awfully demanding. Like you've been starved for physical affection all these years."
"Okay, you sweet-talked me into it. Pile all the pillows up behind me. That way I can watch."
"Perv."
This is the end of Honeymoon, a Harry-Daphne short story.
