A/N: This was inspired by blvnk-art's headcanon over on tumblr! Hope you like!
Ginny is having a rather fabulous dream involving her svelte husband sans clothing, a private room, and an endless supply of whipped cream when she's jarred awake. The sun's just coming up and Harry's grappling for his glasses on the nightstand rather clumsily. Her hand slides across the still warm sheets and grabs at his t-shirt.
"Come back to bed Harry," she murmurs, letting her fingers tickle beneath the waistband of his pants.
Harry twists and presses a short and depressingly chaste kiss to her forehead. "I want to head in early, get some back paperwork done, yeah?"
Groaning, Ginny shoves her face into her pillow dramatically and Harry chuckles, shuffling off to the loo for a quick shower.
It's not the best start to her morning but it could be worse. She's got another ten minutes 'til she's got to get up so she snuggles back under the covers and takes a snooze.
That evening, she comes home stiff and sore from one of those practices Gwenog only whips out right before finals and drops her bag with a thud and a groan. Sloppily, she kicks off one, two trainers and presses her forehead to the cool door. "Honey," she sighs, "I'm home."
A couple cabinet bangs later, Harry appears around the corner, hair escaping from its loose bun and his beard deliciously – beardy. What? She's tired.
Still, she's not too tired to notice he's just wearing those sweats he favors, grey and low slung on his trim hips. And most people would say a t-shirt really shouldn't be that much of a thing but most people haven't seen Harry in a t-shirt.
Harry tosses a tea towel over his shoulder and slips his hands into his pockets, leaning against the entry to their kitchen. "Alright there, Weasley?" Ginny blinks at him, slow as she smirks too, waiting, and he amends, "Potter."
"How long have we been married?"
He laughs, "I don't know – the days blur into one – "
"If I wasn't a shell of a human being I'd come over there and – "
Harry raises his brows and saunters closer, pressing a depressingly short kiss to her lips and tucking her head into the hollow between his neck and shoulder. His hands come up to work at her tense muscles with expertise borne of years together. "I've got some pasta and grilled chicken with your name on it," he squeezes her shoulders, "Asparagus too."
Ginny hums her appreciation, nuzzling at his jawline, "And dessert?"
"C'mon, dinner and bath first," Harry instructs, ushering her toward the kitchen with two deft hands on her shoulders before dishing out two plates and flicking his wand to set them on the table. After assuring himself everything on the stove is set to rights, he pours a couple glasses of water and wanders over to where Ginny's slumped.
Too hungry to think about much else, Ginny tucks in without hesitation, missing the affectionate glance Harry sends her way before doing the same. Though her feet do find their way to his under the table, now chilly toes icy against his ankles. Wordlessly, he sandwiches her bare feet between his socked ones, rubbing gently to warm them.
Ginny crunches through a spear of asparagus, smirking, "How was your paperwork day?"
Harry sighs, slicing a bite of chicken for himself, "Got caught up on all my paperwork – that'll teach me to put it off during the busy times."
"Sure it will," Ginny snorts.
As Ginny swipes her last bit of chicken around the plate, soaking up the cheese and butter spread over it, she raises her brows at Harry, "So. Dessert," her eyes skate over him, "I was hoping something decadent and involving – whipping cream."
He leans forward and kisses her deeply, fingers knitting through her hair as his lips skip over her cheekbone, nip at her ear, before he murmurs, "How about a," she scratches at his scalp and she's nearly won her victory when he pulls away a little, though his breath is a bit rapid as he stumbles to pick up the trail of his though, "shower?"
Somehow, he does manage to dodge her invitation to save water and shuffles her off to the shower. And Ginny knows, she really shouldn't make it such a big deal. They don't have to do it all the time, and it's normal to be tired or – something. But it doesn't mean she's not dying to push him down on the bed and –
Anyway. Ginny really makes an effort to try and keep a cool, reasonable head about things for the next week. She's busy enough with official practices, her own private training sessions, and press conferences of varying size and import that it's not too difficult a task.
But nearly two weeks is a bit much for them to go without, particularly when they're in the same house and Ginny gets so desperate she nearly asks George for advice when she's helping him in the stock room at the shop. If 'helping' means Ginny sitting on a crate while George unpacks various toys, tricks, and ingredients from toe overstuffed boxes.
The fourth time she starts and stops George pauses his inspection of something that looks a spinning top, though over two decades of growing up and older together mean Ginny knows much better, and turns his gaze on her, "Either ask me your question or go find Harry and ask him."
"How did you?"
George turns around fully, propping himself half on one of the tables and crossing his arms over his chest, "The only thing you'd be this hesitant to bring up with me would be your's and Harry's – you know."
Ginny narrows her eyes, mirroring George's position, "What do I know?"
Apparently not cowed by her challenging glare, George quirks a brow, "The horizontal tango, night time loving, sensual delights –"
"Ew. Please stop."
He shakes his head with mock regret, "You forced my hand, dearest Gin-Gin."
"That'll teach me to come and help you," Ginny grumbles, tossing some crumpled brown paper at George with professional accuracy.
Batting the projectile away George smirks, "You ate half my lunch and took a nap on my couch."
Ginny saunters over to the door and tugs it open partway so the cacophony of sounds that is Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on a Saturday, "I had an early practice – you're welcome for coming to see you on my last afternoon off before I'm gone for a week."
After flicking her nose so she scrunches her freckles together, George nudges Ginny's shoulder, "Get out."
She sticks out her tongue, but proceeds to the employees only floo with a couple of finger guns shot toward her brother on the way.
Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Ginny's finished packing for her week away within twenty-five minutes, out of the shower in another seven, and staring blankly at the ceiling of their bedroom in two more.
The front door slams shut, jarring her from her contemplation of the shapes made by the bumps on the popcorn ceiling, and Ginny vaults into the front room and practically leaps into Harry's arms, pressing her lips to his, humming, "I missed you."
Harry returns the embrace, fingers tickling beneath her t-shirt, rough wool cloak scratching her jawline. Eventually he pulls away and tucks her head into the crook of his neck, her nose chilled against his skin, hair still damp. "I would tease you," Ginny snuffles against his shoulder and Harry laughs, "I would, but I missed you too."
"Pretty pathetic, eh?" Ginny snorts, working at the knots in his shoulders, "You were only gone for two days."
Craning his head back against the door, Harry cups her chin with one hand, thumb stroking her cheek and smiles softly, green eyes darting over her face, "And now you're leaving for a week."
Ginny's halfway to closing the space between them and kissing Harry senseless – those eyes do her in nearly every time – when his statement clicks and she realizes she's leaving. "I'm leaving," she frisks him – and sadly doesn't get to enjoy it – and finally finds his beaten up pocket watch, "I've got to go."
Harry kisses her temple and they dash about, gathering her bags before the fireplace and she's off in a swirl of green before they can murmur more than a few quick 'I love you's.'
The next few days are a blur of training and flashbulbs and interviews – so draining and full that Ginny barely has a chance to think about her Harry problem until her head hits the pillow at night. And that's only for a few moments before she practically passes out, too tired to dream much – or at least remember more than quick views of Harry's eyes and one particularly memorable flying obstacle course that utilizes various Weasley Wheezes.
So Harry's on her brain, of course, but not that much. Not enough that she should be hallucinating him holed up in the stands with a pair of omnoculars pressed to his face. But a hallucination definitely wouldn't look that guilty when she catches him spying, and would be much better at disappearing without a trace. Real Harry tucks his omnoculars away and runs for the nearest exit, but Ginny's got the advantage, abandoning her cool down to fly exactly where she avoids – into the stands – and practically leaps from her perch, sticking the landing and raising her hand to shoulder height just as her broom falls into her waiting palm. Harry's frozen like a deer in headlights for a moment, before he blinks nervously and begins backing away, "I – you – I was supposed to be incognito," he raises his hands defensively while Ginny waits, tapping her foot, "I checked with management and they said the press would be cleared out by today."
"I get avoiding the journalists," she steps closer, arms crossed, "I don't get avoiding your wife."
Sighing, Harry glances around for eavesdroppers and doesn't spot any, but still doesn't trust their seemingly safe surroundings after almost an entire lifetime of being bitten in the arse by not assuming worst case scenario in these situations and tugs Ginny down the hall, trying doors until one responds to his alohamora.
After closing the door, locking it behind them, and flicking his wand toward the ceiling where he's hoping for – and does indeed find – a light, Harry lets his chin drop to his chest and takes a steadying breath.
"I was trying to be helpful."
"By avoiding me," Ginny says flatly.
Harry purses his lips and pinches the bridge of his nose, "By not – " he unscrunches his eyes and they lick over her form before he squeezes them closed again, "If we're together it'll make you less – would distract you."
Suddenly, the last fortnight of torture makes sense. Which doesn't make her any less frustrated – in any sense of the word – but it does make her less concerned about the state of her marriage. "You do realize I'm a professional Quidditch player."
Harry blinks at her, "Yes, thus the moratorium."
"Do you use big words when you're more frustrated?" Ginny teases, prodding his ribs and nudging him toward the exam table – highly convenient if she didn't have a bloody noble husband.
He props his hip on the edge of the table, folding his arms unimpressed, "Ha, ha."
Ginny steps between his thighs, bringing her hands to frame his hips on the scratchy plastic cushion, "What I'm saying, Harry dear, is not shagging whenever I have a game – "
"Not whenever you have one, just for the big stuff," Harry cuts in, bringing one hand to cup the back of her head, fingers massaging at her scalp.
Letting her head drop back, Ginny's eyes slip closed and she nearly groans, "So after the game tomorrow…"
"Where the scouts for England will be –" Harry puts in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.
"Yes yes, you'll – "
"We'll have whatever dessert you want."