"I think there's sand in my bum," Harry mumbles, spearing an olive from Ginny's plate.

Ginny hums. "Appetizing."

"S'pose it's what I get for taking you up on a challenge."

"I didn't challenge," Ginny says, fork clashing with his when he goes to swipe another kalamata, "I merely stated what we know have definitive proof of - chasers are better at muggle sports."

"Volleyball," Harry corrects, "Beach volleyball."

"And our little race."

"You nearly drowned me in the ocean," Harry corrects, "That's not a muggle sport."

"Poor sport."

Their spanakopita arrives and Ginny eagerly pulls a section onto her plate, the flaky layers kicking up the sharp scent of feta and buttery filo.

Harry takes a tentative sip of his Visináda, grinning to himself when the sweet, icy drink. "So tell me if this crosses our 'no work chat' line, but have you seen the article Jensen wrote about you?"

"More creepy shit about my 'muscle tone'?"

"Never found someone so accurate and yet so rage inducing," Harry says with a grin, "But no, not that. Apparently your gameplay - that I missed - was 'dynamite.'"

"Not gonna lie," Ginny sighs, "It's nice to hear after that piece of crap game. Read more - oh."

She pulls the newspaper from his grasping fingers. "Did you see this brilliant piece of journalism?"

"Is this one about my arse?"

"Sort of," Ginny says with a smirk, "Apparently I'm neglecting you by focusing too much on my career and not enough on the state of your laundry. More specifically your trousers last week."

"Gimme," Harry says, already tugging the newspaper back over. "Wow I look like crap."

"I think you look cute - Grunge Harry makes an appearance."

Harry takes another swallow of his drink and examines the photo - it's him looking 'grunge', scowly, and overall unapproachable. It's sort of his default when Ginny's not around. Or when he's in a bad mood more generally. Though they usually overlap. Harry sans Ginny tends to be a surly bloke.

"Ironically, I think this photo is from when I slept at the Ministry for three days straight."

"Yes," Ginny sighs, "You were quite neglectful of me in my post-defeat melancholia."

"I feel terrible about that."

"Harry."

"I do."

Ginny lifts a slice of spanakopita onto Harry's plate. "Yes, but you came home and let me sniff you and cuddle for a whole weekend."

Harry cuts a bite size piece free and sighs as it melts on his tongue. "Ah yes. You cosied up with my man musk."

"Please don't call it that."

Ginny sips her mojito, eyes drifting shut in bliss, while Harry frowns. "What shall I call it instead then? My fragrance?"

"That's such a poncey word," Ginny says with a scowl, "Almost as bad as man musk in terms of things that make me want to die."

Snorting, Harry tops off his drink and nudges Ginny's foot beneath the table. "It's just a word."

"I feel like percy when I say it."

"I have never heard percy say that word."

Ginny groans around an oversized bite of spinach and feta. "Just get me some regulation books to shove up my arse."

"Cute."

"You love it."

Harry sighs, "Yes."