It was a well-rehearsed routine at this point. Daphne's own innate inclinations would wake her about twenty or so minutes before the sun rose to shine through the impossibly created windows of the Room of Requirements. She would dawdle, shifting in bed for a time, pretending like she was not completely awake and that she ought to get up. That would go on for as long as it would take for her to roll over to look at Harry. Then her eyes would trace the toned lines of his back – beginning at the bottom and rising slowly upward – until they took in the sight of the two still images forever imprinted onto the back of his shoulder blades, after which her fingers would involuntarily reach out to trace the well-preserved linework.
Sometime soon, the subtle touch of her fingers would rouse him from his slumber – he was far from a heavy sleeper after all – but he never minded. More often than not he would lie there long after he'd woken. He knew there was no quieter time in her day than this moment, stolen every morning. And he appreciated her interest. The few girls he'd been with before her had been too obsessed with the myriad scars that covered his body.
Cho had been enamored with the ragged, vertical scar that Wormtail had gifted him. Susan had labored over the pinprick white marks on his hands and forearms – leftovers from his early days cooking for the Dursleys. Fawkes, God bless him, had never managed to fully heal the scar tissue left over from Harry's brush with the basilisk, and Ginn had been disgustingly obsessed with the wound.
But not Daphne. Never Daphne. She had never paid the slightest attention to his scars – least of all the one that marred his forehead – and he did not believe it was out of any effort to make him more comfortable. She seemed genuinely uninterested – no, that wasn't the right word. She was…unconcerned. To her, the scars were just one part to his total sum. They did not affect her image of the whole Harry Potter one way or the other. His tattoos, on the other hand, were a different story.
He had only two – a matching set he'd gotten on either shoulder – and he did not anticipate ever getting any more. They were a pair of silhouetted, full body deer – one a proud stag and one a lithe doe – and Daphne was enamored with them. She suspected it was their origin that most intrigued her. Harry had never told her when or where he'd gotten them, and she had never asked. He'd had them when they'd first gotten together, and she suspected he'd gotten them in the wake of his Godfather's death a few months ago – an event she knew still affected him greatly.
But these were muggle tattoos. They did not dance and prance about. They did not nuzzle at each other with imitated intimacy. They did not feed on grass that the artist had never drawn. They stood, resolutely, silently across the divide that was the planes of her lover's back. Daphne was hardly a blood purist, but she was a pureblood and she would be remiss in not thinking that Muggles and the way they did things was not inferior.
But, in this, she would say that 'going Muggle' had been the right choice.
Harry rolled over finally, the green of his eyes meeting the gray of hers. They did not exchange 'Good morning's. That was understood.
In a very serious voice he told her, "Let's skip classes today."
And in the same serious voice, she replied, "You say that every day."
"One day you'll say yes," he said very confidently.
She smiled, kissed him and climbed out of bed.