Have you ever written fic where the Harpies are talking/comparing their s.o or even brag about guys they have *been* with and Ginny kinda want to join them but what she and Harry share are for them only so she always give a non comittal response?
A/N: pretty short, combined with another prompt, and title courtesy of @annikaleigh24 woo! I am working on tempus part 2 and still brainstorming for the follower celebration fics AH!. Please believe me when I say teh delay is no reflection on how much I celebrate all of you, and more a product of my brain being a little buttface and not being creative.
When Ginny wakes up to Harry nuzzling her belly button, green eyes twinkling, she’s optimistic it will be a good morning. And when his lips start working their way down her abdomen, beard prickling against her skin, she knows this could make her week.
Which is why the locker room chitchat after practice that afternoon is so grating. Without any input from Harry, Ginny had decided early on – like Fifth year early – that their relationship would remain private between them. Largely because of Harry’s inescapable fame, but her decision became even firmer as her own fame rose. If Harry Potter’s bedroom habits with some scrappy little red head drew in readers, his bedroom habits with one of the first string chasers for the Holyhead Harpies - and the World Cup team, fingers crossed - would be a hot commodity. So when the usual Thursday, pre bar crawl night chatter is going on and Ginny realizes she’s one snide comment or pitying glance away from beginning a graphic speech about just how not boring her marriage bed is, she begins disrobing faster and shoving her robes into her bag. Rank smelling or not.
One of the beaters – Sandra – saunters around the corner, toweling her pale hair dry and frowning at Ginny as she’s heading toward the door. “Leaving Weasley? Should be a fun night before you go back to dull married life.”
Despite the initial prick of offense, Ginny swallows down her retort in the name of team harmony and smiles lightly. “I think I’ll just have a quiet night in,” she shrugs her bag further up her shoulder, “Harry’s been away almost two weeks and I barely had a chance to see him.” But when I did it was very impactful, Ginny thought privately.
After wishing them a good night and promising to come out next time – they really aren’t a bad bunch, when you haven’t been deprived of your scandalously attractive husband for a fortnight – Ginny trots toward the apparition point and appears in the front entrance of their flat seconds later.
It’s quiet, when she gets there. The faint, enticing scent of some sort of savory pie wafting through the flat, buttery and warm, draws Ginny toward the kitchen where she finds a partially empty bottle of Guinness on the counter and takes a swig. Wandering closer to the stove, Ginny takes a big sniff and sets her mouth watering at the heady aroma of one of Harry’s signature pies.
He’s made a habit of it, cooking something a bit extravagant when he comes home from any extended work trip and they have a cozy night in, gorging themselves and getting reacquainted.
So she’s pretty sure that given the late hour of his arrival last night, Ginny’s early morning wake up session, and the entirely homemade dinner waiting, Harry’s likely passed out on some flat surface, dead to the world. Except, there was that one time he fell asleep in the shower, so she really can’t limit it to horizontal locations.
After padding through the flat on tiptoes with no luck in her search, Ginny presses the door to their bedroom open with a single finger, cursing herself for neglecting to oil the squeaking hinge as it squeals in the heavy silence.
Still, the lump of a husband that’s sprawled across the bed doesn’t move beyond a childish smacking of his lips, snuffling adorably as he burrows further into the mussed pillows.
Smiling softly to herself, Ginny disrobes as she makes her way toward the ensuite, letting the bathroom fill with warm air to ease her body aches before she steps under the sharp heat of the spray.
By the time she’s exiting the loo in a cloud of steam, yellow light cutting a wedge across the darkened room. As the floorboards creak beneath her damp toes, Ginny turns abruptly toward the bed where Harry’s now open eyes glow in the dim lighting. Her towel slips a bit and Harry’s smile flashes in the dark. “No need to cover up for me, Mrs. Potter.”