Disclaimer: Not mine, yo.

So, um. There really is no excuse for this whatsoever. Also, I seem to be a writing FIEND recently. Go figure.


So Harry had been married to Ginny for, oh, eleven years, now. And—he loved Ginny, and they'd had a good marriage so far, better these days than it had been at the start (even if the kids put a strain on things sometimes).

But, well. Sometimes he wondered if Ginny wasn't getting…bored.

Oh, she claimed she was fine giving up Quidditch to raise the kids—"It's just a game, you know, and frankly I was getting tired of all the obsessive fans stalking me," she'd said. "It'll be nice to do something a little more intellectual and low-key," she'd said. "Knowing Shacklebolt, he'll promote Ron to Head Auror if you're the one to quit," she'd said.

And Harry knew she enjoyed writing for the Prophet, taking the kids to Quidditch games every week for 'research' (never mind that getting the game recorded on Omnioculars was infinitely cheaper and easier). To be honest, it wasn't even her job that truly worried him—he just thought it might be making things worse. Things like, well, er...

Well, the real problem was…what if she was getting bored with him? They'd done their share of, erm, experimenting back in the day, but their sex life had been rather more subdued the past few years, ever since James was born. In fact, it was rather depressingly vanilla, when he thought about it. Not bad; in fact, for vanilla, it was quite, er, satisfying.

He thought so, at least. But Ginny…

So he planned, and schemed, and finally got Hermione and Ron to take the kids for an entire weekend. Plenty of time, he told himself, plenty of space and privacy. They could do whatever they liked for two whole days.

He pointed this out to Ginny rather proudly. "We can do whatever we want," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "For two whole days."

His wife beamed at him. "Oh, Merlin, a vacation from the brats. A real vacation. Darling, never doubt my undying adoration," she said with a sweet, freckled grin. "Let's cuddle. And kiss a lot—for once without the peanut gallery shouting about how we're burning their eyes. Ooh, let's hold hands and snuggle on the couch and read to each other!"

Harry blinked. "Er."

Ginny frowned, looking a little hurt. "There something wrong with my plan?" she demanded, hands on her hips, head cocked to the side. It was a pose she'd stolen from her mother, he was pretty sure.

"It's just…" He swallowed. "I was thinking you might want to do something more…well—exciting."

"I knew it!" Ginny cried, exasperated. Harry took half a step back, startled. "You've been dancing around this for ages—you think I'm bored, don't you?"

Huh. He supposed he hadn't exactly been subtle about it, at that. "It just seems like we've, you know, lost certain elements to our sex life that I seem to recall you rather enjoying," he said feebly.

"Harry," Ginny said seriously, "you don't ever have to worry about us not being kinky enough, all right?"

"You're sure?" Harry asked uncertainly.

Ginny rolled her eyes expressively. "Harry," she said patiently, "you died when you were a teenager. Every time we have sex, darling, it's necrophilia. It's practically impossible to get any kinkier than that, at least without involving gerbils."

"What?"

His wife snickered. "Harry, if we had a problem, trust me, I'd tell you. Now how about that kissing?"

"…Fine. Couch. Now," Harry grumbled, feeling his face go bright red.

"Oooh, commanding," Ginny said in a faux-breathy voice, fluttering her eyelashes and clasping her hands to her heart. "I like it."

Harry bit back a grin, then gave up and adopted a rakish pose, leering. "I will hold your hand like it's never been held before," he promised in a low growl. "And our cuddling, dearest, will be hard core cuddling."

"Golly. Be still my beating heart," Ginny said, and tackled him onto the couch.

There was cuddling, but it was hard core cuddling, so all in all, Harry counted the night a win.