132 Honeymoon

Norway is a beautiful place. Ask anyone who lives beyond the cities and they’ll tell you how close to nature you feel there—how the air seems cleaner, the silence richer. High in the mountain region, the world feels as peaceful as it can get on Earth. There are hardly any roads, no hum of traffic, no trace of civilisation at all—only the soft whisper of wind through pine and the distant call of a bird greeting the dawn. The air carries the scent of cold water, damp earth, and evergreen needles, each breathes a reminder that this is what quiet truly means.

Hidden in those mountains, you find small lakes, where the water from the mountain glaciers gets collected to support the luscious flora and fauna of the region. These lakes, with how undisturbed they are, tend to mirror the sky—a glassy sheet of silver and blue, mist curling lazily across its surface. Morning sunlight spills over the peaks, painting the water with soft gold, as if the whole scene were brushed onto canvas by a patient hand. It’s the sort of place Bob Ross might have called “a happy little hideaway.”

And on the shores of one such lake, nestled between birch and stone, stands a small, cosy cabin. Smoke drifts from its chimney with a promise of warmth and coffee within. A wooden dock stretches from the bank into the calm water where a paddle boat bobs gently beside something far less rustic, a sleek Quinjet gleaming in the morning light, utterly ruining the illusion of untouched wilderness.

The cabin was a single-story, made of timber and stone, its sloped roof blanketed in the soft morning frost. A wisp of smoke curled from the chimney, most likely, a remnant of the fire they’d kept alive through the night, now little more than glowing embers beneath a bed of ash. From the outside, it looked like something plucked straight out of a winter postcard: simple, secluded, and impossibly peaceful.

Inside, space was scarce but decorated for comfort out of love. The fireplace dominated one wall, its soot-stained bricks telling quiet stories of countless evenings spent in front of its warmth. In the living area, a plush sofa faced a modest television hooked to a PlayStation, the controllers abandoned on the armrest after what had clearly been an intense co-op session. The CD case of Injustice: Gods Among Us lay open from last night, and nobody bothered to close it. A small bookshelf sat nearby, its shelves lined with paperbacks and Blu-ray cases—feel-good novels, classic films, and modern blockbusters, and co-op classics.

Beside the couch, a vintage gramophone sat proudly atop a low table, a stack of vinyls resting beneath it. Some were timeless like The Beatles, Sinatra, Bowie, while others were far more recent like Avril, Lady Antebellum, Fergie and Pink, a curious collection that only made sense if you knew the couple who lived here.

Across the room, the kitchen occupied the far wall, a cosy nook with a small sink, a few well-used appliances, and a wide window overlooking the lake. The countertop doubled as both dining and cooking space, cluttered with evidence of their late-night indulgences: a basket of fruit, open packets of instant ramen, and six empty beer bottles standing like trophies. The fridge was plastered with magnets, each one a story from their globetrotting honeymoon. Rothenburg. Bellagio. Bruges. Little snapshots of Europe, places they’d flown to on whims in the Quinjet just to catch sunsets or steal a meal together.

A narrow staircase hugged the cabin’s slanted wall, leading up to the small loft that served as their bedroom. There, under a heap of blankets that still held the faint scent of smoke and cinnamon, two figures were curled together in perfect, lazy contentment. Red hair glinted faintly in the pale morning light, tangled against dark brown.

Harry and Natasha Potter, newlyweds, lovers, soldiers, survivors, had traded the chaos of the world for this tiny pocket of heaven. Here, there were no missions, no battles, no alarms blaring from Stark’s network. Just the crackle of a dying fire, the hum of the lake outside, and the kind of peace that made you believe the world had finally decided to leave them alone.

Harry was the first to stir awake, his green eyes fluttering open as soft sunlight poured through the cabin’s wide windows. They had decided not to close the curtains last night due to the moonlight streaming in from and the desire of wanting to fall asleep under the stars, though that plan had taken a far more entertaining turn before either of them got any real rest.

Harry stretched lazily with a content smile, tugging at his lips as he took in the quiet morning light. A few freshening charms later, he began picking up the trail of clothes scattered across the floor. A clear evidence of just how fun their evening had been. Once dressed, he leaned down to press a tender kiss to his still-sleeping wife’s forehead before heading downstairs to start the morning.

Harry prepared two cups of coffee in the matching his and hers mugs they’d picked up in Oslo, the kind of cheesy thing Natasha had teased him about before secretly claiming the “hers” one. He set her cup on the counter, preserving its warmth with a quick stasis charm, then grabbed his copy of The Godfather and stepped out onto the porch that stretched into the dock.

The air was crisp and carried the scent of pine and fresh water. Harry sat at the edge, letting his legs dangle into the cool lake as he sipped his coffee and lost himself in the pages. The occasional birdcall or ripple in the water was the only sound that dared interrupt the calm.

Halfway through his cup, the door creaked softly behind him. Natasha appeared, wrapped in a light robe, her red hair catching the morning light. She carried her coffee and a sketchbook, greeting him with a lazy smile before sitting beside him. A brief kiss on his cheek followed by a comfortable, effortless silence. She sipped her coffee and began sketching the lake while Harry turned another page.

They stayed there for the better part of an hour. The only sounds were the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle lap of water against the dock, the quiet scrape of pencil on paper, and the occasional turn of a page. Even the breeze seemed to slow down to match their rhythm.

When their mugs were empty and the sun had climbed higher over the treeline, Natasha set her sketchbook aside and nudged Harry with her shoulder. “There’s some fishing gear in the broom closet,” she said with a playful glint in her eye. “Go get it, will you? I’m thinking fresh fish for lunch.”

Harry smiled, stood up, and carried their empty mugs inside. With a lazy flick of his fingers, the dishes washed themselves in the sink as he headed for the broom closet. A moment later, his voice called out to Natasha. “Hey, I don’t see any spears in here, just boring old fishing poles!” he called out, feigning disappointment.

From outside came Natasha rolled her eyes before replying. “Shut up and bring the supplies, wizard.”

Harry continued as instructed, humming softly as he rummaged the small broom closet beside the kitchen to get the fishing supplies. He bent down to grab them, but something else caught his eye near the bottom shelf, a weathered cardboard box labelled in black marker: “Budapest.” With his curiosity piqued, he tugged it forward. Inside were a few parcels and letters addressed to a “Fanny Longbottom.”

Harry blinked. Then, as the absurdity of it sank in, a grin spread across his face. He could practically hear the teasing opportunities writing themselves in his head. He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he gathered the fishing gear.

When he stepped back outside, Natasha was already undocking the paddle boat. She glanced up just in time to catch the mischievous smirk tugging at his lips.

“What?” she asked, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.

“Fanny Longbottom,” Harry said aloud, barely managing to keep a straight face as he set the fishing gear down and climbed into the paddle boat.

Natasha groaned before he even got comfortable. “Don’t ask,” she warned, handing him a paddle and giving the boat a push off the dock.

Harry dipped the paddle into the still water, grinning. “Oh, I have to ask. You can’t expect me to ignore something like that. Ms. Fanny Longbottom?”

“Mm-hm,” she replied flatly, focusing on steering them toward the centre of the lake.

“So I assume she’s one of your aliases?”

“Yes,” Natasha said, her voice dry as the northern air. “Fanny Longbottom is a British architect who consulted with an engineering firm in Budapest on a hotel project.”

Harry laughed. “You know, Neville’s grandmother would be honored that you carried the family name forward.”

Natasha finally snorted, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re a Longbottom,” Harry countered back. “By the way, why have you not kept up with the longbottom tradition to maintain the gardens properly?”

“I don’t choose the names, alright?” Natasha sighed as she stopped paddling, letting the boat drift lazily over the glassy water. She reached for the fishing rod and started setting the line. “That’s my handler’s job. He’s the one who comes up with the fake identities, the more inconspicuous, the better.”

Harry smirked, threading the bait onto his hook. “Right, because nothing says inconspicuous like a woman named Fanny Longbottom showing up to high-level architectural meetings in Budapest.”

Natasha gave him a deadpan look. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, it definitely did. Nobody would ever suspect that name of hiding a world-class assassin.”

Natasha just rolled her eyes and flicked her line into the lake. “Exactly. That’s why I kept it.”

“So what’s Fanny Longbottom’s mail doing here in Norway and not in Budapest?” Harry asked, reeling in his line lazily as the boat bobbed gently on the lake.

Natasha didn’t look up from her rod. “She rented an apartment there years ago. Lease finally ran out. Since she—” she made air quotes, “—no longer plans on visiting Budapest, the landlord forwarded whatever was left behind.”

Harry smirked. “And by ‘whatever was left behind,’ you mean love letters, right? Maybe a few secret admirer gifts from your mysterious architectural suitors?”

Natasha snorted. “Please. It’s mostly old bank statements, junk mail, and probably some long-forgotten online orders. I didn’t even bother opening the packages.”

Harry chuckled, leaning back. “Tragic. Somewhere out there, some poor Amazon seller is heartbroken their one loyal customer never got her spatula set.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. “You’re insufferable.”

The two of them stayed adrift for a while with thier lines cast lazily over the water and sunlight glinting off the lake like scattered diamonds as Harry inquired about other aliases that Natasha had used before meeting Harry.

“So,” he began with a tone far too innocent, “aside from Fanny Longbottom, what other masterpieces of spy identity do you have under your belt? Please tell me there’s a Mildred Butterworth or a Gertrude Snicklefritz in there somewhere.”

Natasha sighed. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely,” Harry replied shamelessly. “Come on, give me another. I’ll rate them out of ten.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sabrina Wilkins. Countess Vera Ivanova. And… once… Janet Phelps.”

Harry chuckled. “Janet Phelps? Sounds like someone who teaches fourth-grade math and collects teapots.”

Natasha smirked. “She did. She also assassinated a war criminal in Prague, so watch your tone.”

That earned a full laugh from Harry, and even Natasha couldn’t help joining in.

By the time they caught enough fish for lunch, the sun had climbed high above the treeline. They paddled back toward the dock. And on shore, Harry cleaned their catch with a flick of his hand while Natasha set up a small portable grill. Soon, the scent of sizzling fish filled the air, blending with the crisp freshness of pine and lake water. They ate sitting on the dock, plates balanced on their knees, cold beers in hand as the afternoon light danced across the surface of the lake.

After lunch — and a bit of private exercise that left the cabin’s blanket in need of straightening — the couple cleaned up and changed into something more presentable.

Then, like any ridiculously well-connected couple on their honeymoon, they decided to make the most of their freedom. With the ease of people who could treat continents like neighborhoods, they boarded their Quinjet, the engines humming softly against the calm Norwegian air.

“Where to this time?” Harry asked as Natasha slid into the pilot’s seat.

She smirked. “Gstaad. I’ve heard it’s beautiful this time of year.”

Harry grinned, buckling in beside her. “Then Switzerland it is.”

Moments later, the Quinjet lifted off the lake, slicing through the clouds and heading south toward snow-capped peaks and cobblestoned streets — another perfect day in their ever-expanding honeymoon adventure.

The Quinjet touched down a discreet distance outside Gstaad, its stealth systems shimmering briefly before fading into the snowy backdrop of the Swiss Alps. Harry stepped out first, the crisp alpine wind hit his face with a cold and refreshing feel. Natasha followed right behind feeling a bit chilly.

“Remind me again why we didn’t just stay at the cabin?” Harry teased, adjusting his gloves.

Natasha grinned, slipping her goggles into place. “Because, Mr. Potter, the world is too beautiful to see from one lake. And because I want to see you fall on your face when you try to ski.”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, you wound me, Mrs. Potter. I’ll have you know, I’ve handled dragons. How hard could snow be?”

The answer came five minutes later, when Natasha gracefully cut down the slope like she’d been born on skis and Harry followed, yelling something about physics being a conspiracy before tumbling into a snow bank. Natasha came to a stop a few meters down, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her poles.

“Elegant as ever,” she called, her breath visible in the cold air.

“Shut up and help me up before I make a snowman army to avenge me,” he replied, brushing snow from his jacket.

They spent the next hour skiing or in Harry’s case, mostly surviving, down the gentler slopes overlooking the valley. Natasha, effortlessly agile, would sometimes slow down to match his pace, teasing him mercilessly; Harry retaliated by using a mild levitation charm to keep himself upright, much to her mock disapproval. Eventually, she admitted defeat and joined him in floating down the last stretch together, laughing the whole way.

After their run, they stopped at a rustic lodge nestled at the base of the hill. Inside, the air was warm and fragrant with melting cheese and mulled wine. Wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, and the fire crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth. They shed their coats, cheeks flushed from the cold and exercise, and found a corner table with a view of the slopes.

A friendly waiter brought them mugs of dark local beer that had thick and malty texture with a hint of chocolate and a steaming pot of fondue bubbling in the center of the table. Natasha twirled a chunk of bread on her fork, dipped it into the cheese, and leaned back with a satisfied hum.

“I could live on this,” she murmured.

“You say that about everything you like,” Harry said, dunking his own piece. “The ramen in Japan, the pizza in Naples, and now melted cheese in Switzerland. I’m sensing a theme.”

“It’s called taste, Potter.”

“Ah yes, you did marry me.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway, clinking her fork against his. “Touché.”

They lingered there for bit and then headed out to sample everything the city had to offer.

They strolled hand in hand down Gstaad’s Pedestrian Promenade. The narrow cobblestone street was lined with boutiques and cafés, and the scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with fresh snow. Fairy lights were strung between buildings, casting a golden glow over the early evening crowd.

Harry, wearing a wool scarf that Natasha had insisted on buying, looked every bit the relaxed tourist. Natasha always blended in effortlessly, though Harry noticed she still scanned every reflective surface out of habit.

They browsed through small shops that sold handmade crafts and wooden ornaments, then wandered into a high-end boutique with Swiss watches gleaming behind glass. Harry caught Natasha admiring one and bought it for her without second thought of the price.

As they strolled down the Promenade, arm in arm, they couldn’t help but stop at nearly every shop window. It had become a tradition between them to find something ridiculous or heartfelt for their friends back home.

Harry was the first to spot something truly absurd: a pair of pink, rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses sitting proudly on a mannequin. “Tell me Tony wouldn’t wear these just to make a statement,” he said, holding them up to the light so the gems sparkled obnoxiously. Natasha gave him a disbelieving look that quickly broke into a grin. “Perfect. They’re loud, gaudy, and expensive. He’ll love them.”

A few shops down, Natasha found a vintage leather jacket in a small boutique that smelled faintly of cedar. The tag read Old is Gold. She ran her fingers along the soft grain of the material, then turned to Harry. “Steve would wear this into battle if I let him.” Harry nodded. “And then give a speech about how it’s a symbol of timeless values.” Natasha smirked. “Exactly.”

For Bruce, they both paused at a quirky little bookstore tucked between two chalets. Harry picked up a stack of local agricultural journals and a bilingual guide titled Modern Swiss Dairy Practices: Cow Breeding in the Alps. Natasha arched an eyebrow. “You’re serious?” Harry shrugged, lips twitching. “It’s either that or a cheese-making kit. I’m not sure which one would make him angrier.”

Clint was easier. A shopkeeper selling handmade chocolate assortments offered them a tasting sample, and before long, Natasha had a box filled with chocolates some for Laura and the kids, some marked “for emergency rations only.”

Vision’s gift took a bit more thought. Harry eventually found a minimalist cashmere sweater in a pale cream color. It was soft, warm, and oddly comforting ,much like Vision himself. “It’s practical,” Natasha said approvingly, “and he won’t question its symbolic meaning for at least a week.”

For Pietro, the choice was immediate, a pair of lightweight Swiss-made running shoes that promised peak performance and “perfect kinetic stability.” “He’ll probably burn through them in a day,” Natasha said. “Then we’ll get him another pair,” Harry replied.

Wanda’s gift came from a nearby artisan boutique. A pair of intricately hand-painted heels caught Natasha’s attention. “They remind me of her,” she said softly. “Beautiful but dangerous.” Harry smiled and nodded. “Perfect.”

In a tea shop filled with shelves of fragrant blends, Harry found something for Felicia — a rare mountain tea infused with lavender and alpine herbs. “Something new for her collection,” he said. “She’ll appreciate the craftsmanship.” Natasha rolled her eyes affectionately. “You mean she’ll appreciate the bragging rights.”

By the time they were done, their hands were full of neatly wrapped parcels, and their laughter had drawn a few smiles from passing locals. They picked up a few smaller items too like  postcards, handmade keychains, a delicate snow globe with the Gstaad skyline, etc.

Side by side to the shopping, they tasted platters of cured meats, small jars of caviar, slices of crusty bread still warm from the oven. They shared a bottle of local white wine that tasted crisp and clean, like the air outside.

For dessert, Natasha insisted on Swiss chocolates, and Harry didn’t protest .A few doors down, they stepped into a confectionery that looked like a cathedral of chocolate. Glass cases displayed rows of pralines, truffles, and golden-wrapped bars with ribbons. The owner, an elderly man with kind eyes, insisted they try samples, and Harry nearly melted on the spot after tasting a dark chocolate filled with hazelnut cream. Natasha raised an eyebrow at his reaction.

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry said, savoring the bite. “We need to buy this place.”

“Let’s not,” Natasha replied dryly. “You’d eat our profits.”

They left with two small boxes of assorted chocolates and a few trinkets, including a fridge magnet of Gstaad, which joined their growing collection from Bruges, Bellagio, and Rothenburg. Harry joked that one day, their fridge would collapse under the weight of their adventures.

As the afternoon turned into evening, the sky deepened into a soft violet hue, the snow reflecting the glow of lanterns and storefronts. They stopped at an open-air café, wrapped in blankets offered by the staff, sipping hot cocoa and sharing quiet conversation as the mountains faded into silhouette. Natasha leaned against Harry’s shoulder, her gloved fingers intertwined with his.

When the first snowflakes of the evening began to fall, they decided to head back. They boarded the Quinjet hand in hand, their laughter echoing through the cabin as the engines came alive. As the jet ascended into the night sky, the snow began to fall heavier, blanketing the quiet town once more.

Once the Quinjet broke through the cloud line, the world below disappeared into a sea of mist and moonlight. Above them, the sky came alive with ribbons of green and violet dancing across the horizon like brushstrokes on a canvas of stars. Harry dimmed the cabin lights, leaving only a soft amber glow that reflected gently off the glass.

Natasha leaned back against him, her head resting on his shoulder, while his arm wrapped loosely around her waist. As the Quinjet glided silently through the night, the autopilot carrying them toward their secluded cabin in the Norwegian woods, they simply watched the lights move enjoying the quiet peace they had away from everything.