A/N: This is a self prompt from super long ago and I honestly can't remember why I thought of it. But now it's here and I hope you enjoy!
"Weasley."
A grunt.
"Oi. Weasley."
Ginny tears off one of her shin guards and tosses it aside haphazardly. It's intended to put a stop to Tanith's endless prodding but Ginny's so dead on her feet the guard just clatters against her half open locker. Can a person be dead on their feet if they're currently splayed belly down half on half off a changing room bench?
"Alright there?"
"I'd have to be dead a week to be alright," Ginny mutters, sucking in a shallow breath to keep the drool from passing her lips.
Tanith sits somewhere in the vicinity of Ginny's feet and chuckles. "I never thought I'd have mixed feelings about getting on the National Team - almost makes me wish we'd shown less potential last season."
"Don't let Gwenog hear you - she'll have you running the bleachers again," Ginny says, finally pushing herself up into a seated position. Mostly she motivates herself with the thought that the longer she lies there without showering off and changing, the further she is from a hot meal and soon after her warm bed. Maybe if Harry's feeling generous she can combine the two.
She rips her remaining gear off with heavy, tired hands and shuffles to the shower for a much needed wash to rinse away the grime and sweat earned after an extended-extended practice. It's almost impossible to tell how much time passes while the suds pool and swirl down the drain at her feet, but it's at least brief enough that the water stays warm and her fingers don't prune up.
In ideal circumstances, Ginny goes straight from a warm shower to a fluffy towel (held open by one Harry James Potter) and following a very thorough drying, slips between freshly washed sheets (sans clothing and once again this bit includes Harry James Potter).
Instead, as a side effect of her profession, Ginny's best case scenario is often an oversized Harpy tracksuit and being shuffled into another dreadful Q&A session with the press.
As luck would have it, today she's free from press duty so once she's tucked back in her sweats, Ginny's only a quick review of the three D's away from the flat she shares with Harry. And even better, a delicious, warm meal served up by her lovely husband.
She manages to remain upright through dinner but quickly - and unsurprisingly - melts to the floor soon after.
"You know I think someone should remind Gwenog that a dead but extremely prepared team is still dead," Harry muses.
Ginny grunts from her place on the floor as Harry pops open another tupperware and pours cooled sauce in with gentle nudges from his spoon.
"It's my own fault for pointing out how many National Team contenders we have on the Harpies. I would tell you to find somewhere more comfortable but I know you'd just say - " Ginny cuts in to finish his sentence halfheartedly, "I'll only make the sofa stink of human misery."
"You smell alright to me."
"Emotional stink."
Harry bites his lip and flicks his wand at the empty pots and pans, setting them to soak in the sink. "How about we take care of the 'stink' as you put it so dramatically."
"Can't," Ginny mutters, face still smushed against the cool tile, "Too dead."
A couple more swishes from Harry's wand send the containers toward the now open fridge and he takes one last look to confirm the stove is switched firmly to the 'off' position to avoid a fiery blaze acting as an end to their Thursday. Harry squats down and prods Ginny with one cautious finger. "I'll help you."
"I do love a good watery tryst," Ginny says with a long sigh, "But I'll just slip and kill us both."
To much protest and groaning, Harry rolls Ginny onto her back and puts those extra hours at the Ministry training in 'the muscular arts' - Neville's term, generally used in the context of 'I am not one for the muscular arts' while he repots another deadly something or other - to good use. Ginny lets out a minor protest, oddly compliant when he slips one arm behind her back and the other under her knees.
"This is better than the manhandling style you normally use," Ginny murmurs into his shoulder.
"You have said on multiple occasions how much you enjoy my 'manhandling'," Harry says with a chuckle, settling her gently on the toilet - that he'd ensured was closed first naturally. She teeters a bit but stays upright as Harry twists the bath taps with a few squeaks.
"If you set me in there I'll get so relaxed I may drown."
Harry gets to his feet, hands finding the drawstring of his joggers, dropping them to the floor and tugging off his socks, shirt, and pants in quick succession. "Fear not. We're about to have a very non-sexy shared bath."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have done that little strip for me."
He snickers and begins working on Ginny's clothes - socks, joggers, and her braid are the first to go. Once she's down to her sport bra and knickers the non-sexy promise is a bit harder to remember. Especially when she's fiddling with the zip on her bra and doing that little smirk. Tempting. Utterly tempting.
Until he sees the dark circles beneath her eyes and the scrapes and bruises that litter her legs and arms. If he wasn't so firmly in the 'respect Ginny's professional autonomy camp' Harry'd be tucking her in bed and sending Gwenog Jones a howler to rival that of Molly Weasley.
Much to Harry's chagrin, this course of action is not one he can take. So instead, he slides the zip down while Ginny runs a finger softly down his cheek. When their gazes lock, Harry pats her knee and reaches behind her with his other hand, grasping for her favorite bath soap. "Just a few minutes now."
He squeezes a healthy dose of bubble bath into rising water and tests the temperature, swirling two fingers below the rising suds. Satisfied, Harry extends one hand to Ginny. "Up you get."
"So bossy."
"Want me to manhandle some more?"
"Always," Ginny says with a grin, but rises nonetheless, and pads toward the tub, slowly slipping one foot and then the next into the water.
Harry follows behind, armed with a brand new sponge and Ginny's favorite bar of lavender soap. Ginny settles against his chest while he slowly begins working the soap up her arms in smooth circles. She takes the sponge once he's scrubbed all the bits of her front he can reach, and works it over her legs. "I miss my silky legs."
"You have gorgeous legs."
"But my body butter."
"Can still be used."
Ginny hums contentedly as Harry reclaims the sponge and swipes in large strokes over her aching back. "Yes, but not the same."
"What's a little bonus hair in the face of bonus shut eye?" Harry murmurs against her temple. "Now let's get the rest of you squeaky clean. Pass me that shampoo, eh?"
After Ginny's scrubbed from head to toe, Harry manages to get them both extricated from the tub, dried, and yes, body buttered. Ginny waits, relatively pliant save the stroke of her toothbrush over her teeth. "I think my teeth are even too tired for this."
"Want me to jump in there and finish up."
"Mm no," Ginny, "You've already buttered me up enough - and I mean that literally."
She rinses and manages to pull on an overlarge Weasleys Weezes t-shirt before collapsing in bed, Harry close behind in full mother-hen mode. "What time do I need to wake you?"
Ginny snuggles further beneath the covers. "Ideally five. No later than half past."
On soft feet, Harry shuts up the flat for the evening, doors and windows locked tight and lamps shut so the inky night is only lit by the moon's glow.
When he follows Ginny beneath the covers, she quickly inches close enough to koala bear around his waist. Her nose is cold against his jaw. "Love you."
Harry kisses her forehead. "Love you back."
Anyone with the thought that Gwenog's training regimen for the team would settle into a more relaxed lineup as the season wore on was disabused of the idea after their first win. She'd been happy, elated as Ginny'd ever seen her, but their spectacular success only cemented her belief that sweat equity was the only relevant tool for the season.
Ginny for her part did find her body adjusting to the strenuous schedule, muscles sore but overall she felt less dead on her feet - and sometimes not even that - after their first game. Which was a huge improvement, but didn't mean she suddenly had energy to spare for unnecessary tasks. So things like taking out the trash, eating like a normal human, doing her laundry - the latter of which she never much did in the first place - and even shaving her legs fell by the wayside.
She hadn't given the changes much thought overall and Harry was an adaptable, understanding, supportive type, who knows how much she wants to make the National Team, so all is well.
Until Gwen gets her an interview that will 'boost her brand' which allegedly helps out with the National Team stuff as much as performance on the pitch. Ginny's just changed into her practice kit - they go wild for her 'wild muggle fashions' - when the photographer zeroes in on her legs. "What is that?"
Ginny raises one brow. She'd never been a fan of shoots, even less so when they were run by Cormac McClaggen's cousin Dan who was somehow more of an idiot, so she's particularly prickly when she asks, "What's what?"
"Don't be coy. Your legs."
"That's good, you can identify basic human anatomy."
"The hairs - " he gestures again, nose wrinkled, " Is that some statement?"
"Is it a bloody - "
"And then you bat bogeyed him, right?"
"No."
"Well in my head, that's what happens next."
Ginny laughs, sipping her Firewhiskey float - a treat she decided she'd earned after today's undertaking - and pats Harry's shoulder. "Mine too. But the verbal evisceration I delivered was a pretty close second."
"I'll preface this by saying I have absolutely zero problem with your new grooming practices," Harry says, fingers brushing over her calf. "But what prompted it? It's more than the time thing. I saw you taking bags out to the bins yesterday. Some of that energy is back."
"I like that you call my newfound will to live 'energy'. And I dunno - things have been going so well since I stopped...like not 5th year Quidditch Cup good…that hairband is a miracle worker."
"Thank you," Harry says with a smirk.
"So I'm feeling a little - "
Harry laughs. "Irrational?"
"Superstitious," Ginny shoots back, pinching his side.
"So what did you say in your interview?" Harry asks, propping his feet up on the table and slouching back.
"I said whether or not I shave is nobody's business," Ginny grumbles around a mouthful of french vanilla. "And some other stuff about women's bodies and autonomy and value being about more than socially mandated physical beauty. And I might've railed on about how the rules are arbitrary and the standards can be emotionally damaging."
She's swiping her finger through the melted ice cream that lines the inside of her glass and doing her utmost to act unaffected and Harry decides to honor the effort. Mostly.
"That's probably important for Witch Weekly's reader base to hear."
"And maybe a few other people too," Ginny adds, taking another swallow and staring into the milky depths of her drink. "Seriously - sometimes I feel like being silky and sometimes I want extra sleep and warm little coats on my legs. Why the hell does it matter to anyone? Least of all Dan."
Harry toys with the hairs on her legs - now grown out enough to be more in the soft and fuzzy phase rather than the rough and prickly. "Got that right. Want me to braid 'em?"
"Stuff it."
"I'm not complaining. If I get the privilege of running my hands all over your lovely body the status of your hair follicles is not really a primary concern."
"Good."