Chapter Text
It seemed like a good idea at the time. James and Al would be at school, and she could still have one year at home with Lily before her daughter set off for Hogwarts. Now, sitting alone at her white marble desk on an island in the Persian Gulf, Ginny thought that maybe she had been mistaken to take another stab at the Quidditch World Cup.
Not that she’d ever admit this to anyone. Ginny was nothing if not confident. Confident in her Quidditch skills. Confident in her parenting. Confident in her marriage.
This confidence had led her, at the tender age of thirty-six, to play for England’s national team in the World Cup. The last time she’d played was in ‘07, when she’d won the league for the Holyhead Harpies and hung up her hat before getting pregnant with Lily a few months later.
Fans were angry when she stepped away after only playing a few seasons. Even though she’d done the Euros, won a few gold medals at the Magical Olympics and got the Harpies their first championship in the past quarter century.
‘What takes other players twenty years took me less than a decade to achieve,’ she said in her farewell interview with Quidditch Weekly. ‘I’d rather go out on a high, knowing I’ve achieved everything I’ve wanted to, rather than be forced out by an injury.’
Which wasn’t entirely true. There always was the World Cup.
Ever since winning Rookie of the Year in 2000, Ginny had her sights set on the ‘02 World Cup. England hadn’t competed in ‘98, for obvious reasons, so it was bound to be a spectacle. That year, Australia was hosting. Ginny was a star after her meteoric rise as top scorer in the British National League.
They made it to the final eight before being trounced by Canada. Canada! She doubted anyone remembered how badly they lost, though, because some paparazzi photos of her tanning on Bondi Beach in a string bikini after the Cup hit the British press like an asteroid. Coupled with the fact that Harry, who Ginny thought looked particularly delicious with his tanned abs, was pictured groping her arse… well. Ron said it kept Witch Weekly in business for weeks.
Now she was back after eleven years away from the pitch. The oldest woman to ever compete for the English national team, though she was already sick of being reminded of it only a month into the tournament. It certainly wasn’t easy to convince the Quidditch world that she still had what it took to play at the highest level. The head of the English Quidditch Federation, Augustus Bloch, went so far as to say she was too unattractive to be on the team. Nevermind that he looked like a pile of goo that had evolved into sentience.
‘There’s no doubting your talent, Potter,’ he had said at one of her recruitment meetings. ‘But a large portion of your fanbase comes from— to be frank— your looks. And do Lions supporters, who only get to see their team compete for the Cup every four years, really want to see a doughy mother of three on the pitch?’
‘Well, they have to look at you too, mate, so I think they’ll survive,’ Ginny said with a grin, though her insides were burning. Bloch flushed an ugly puce color as the rest of the recruitment team choked back laughter.
Ginny knew from her career as a Quidditch correspondent that there were other qualified candidates— not that she’d ever admit to it publicly. In order to convince England that she belonged on the team, she could never let herself think otherwise. Of course, there were mutterings that Ginny was given her spot on the team to generate buzz for the Cup. Her celebrity had ballooned even more than she thought was possible in the last sixteen years. Even Bloch had to admit that having a Potter on the team was good for business, even if she was a "doughy mother of three."
(That comment had incensed her so much that Harry had to bend her over the rim of the hot tub on their hotel balcony after the meeting to make her feel better.)
Though Ginny was curvy like her mother and always would be, she certainly wasn’t doughy, and she especially wasn’t after Quidditch training whipped her into shape. After a year of training before even stepping foot on the island, she knew she was sharper than ever. She knew all she had to do to prove everyone who doubted her wrong was to dominate on the pitch. England had already won two matches, against Lebanon and Sweden, partly (mostly) because of Ginny’s sixteen goals apiece.
The tournament lasted from April to July on a remote island in the Persian Gulf. No World Cup had ever been played in the Middle East— partly because the tournament dipped into their sweltering summers. But the Magical Cooperation of the Gulf had lobbied heavily to host the Cup, arguing that their cooling charms and facilities were state of the art. Ginny had to admit that with all the modifications, it was better than playing in Australian autumn.
The deal that she made to herself when accepting a spot on the team was that she’d show up for her kids in every way she could. For the winter holidays, they had gone to a village in Finland to feed the reindeers and meet the elves that the myth of Father Christmas was based off of. They had to take three Portkeys and it cost more than Ginny’s monthly salary as a reporter. The months leading up to her departure had been filled with teatimes at the Ritz with Lily, mounds of presents and letters to James and Al, and the promise that they could come straight to the Cup once they finished school.
Since Harry had work and Lily had school, she couldn’t move them out to the Gulf with her like other players did with their families. Plus, it made her feel better knowing that Harry was on the same continent as their sons. She spoke to Lily through the mirror and wrote Al and James daily letters to assuage her mum-guilt.
What she wasn’t expecting was how much she would miss Harry.
They could talk on the mirrors, but Ginny still liked to write him letters, a vestige of the early days of their relationship when they were often separated by distance. Between Harry’s Auror missions and the random diplomatic events expected of the Saviour, combined with her rigorous Quidditch schedule, oftentimes they could go weeks without seeing each other.
Sometimes Ginny thought that was a good thing. They’d been together for over twenty years. How many couples did she know who had gotten hastily married in the frenzied years after the war and were now getting divorced? The distance made all of Harry’s rough edges and annoying quirks smooth over, so all she could remember was how long his fingers were, and how sexy he looked staring up at her from between her thighs.
That’s how she ended up sat at the desk in her team-designated flat off the coast of Bahrain, writing her husband smut.
H—
I miss you everyday. They didn’t put sex toys on the packing list for the cup, but they should’ve. You know how randy a good game of Quidditch makes me. And I have no kids to corral, no dinner to cook, no articles to write. So all I have to do with my free time is think about how much I want you to fuck me.
I’ve resorted to masturbating with the bath spigot, like I did when I was a teenager. I told you I used to do that at the Burrow, right? It annoyed everyone so much because I would take up so much time in the bathroom, though of course they didn’t know why. I remember the summer before my fifth year, I was in the bath and you kept banging on the door, telling me to hurry up because you thought it was Ron in there. Little did you know it was me with my legs curled around the taps, my bum lifted up towards the water stream so it could pour down on my clit.
When I came out in my towel, you said sorry and looked away. Before you turned, did you see how red I looked? Did you think it was because of the heat of the shower? Really it was because I had just cum so hard to the sound of your voice I could still feel it gushing out of me. Did you see my cum drip onto the ground? I bet now that you’ve made me orgasm so many times you’d know what that blush meant.
I wish you were here while I come undone in the bath. Maybe petting my tits or stroking my hair. I haven’t masturbated using water since I was 15, and I forgot how good it feels. Even though I have my buzzy vibrators and my suction vibrators and my dildos and my vibrator-dildo combinations, something about the water stream makes me cum so hard I don’t have to get off for the rest of the night.
It usually starts like this: I’m in bed, reading one of my trashy romance novels, wishing you were next to me. When I’m home and one of my smut books turn me on, I just reach over to you so I can fuck you the way I like it. Because of the time difference I know you’ll be making dinner when I need you the most… so instead of watching you jerk your thick cock until your moans tip me over the edge, I have to get in the tub.
I shower after training and matches every day anyway, so I’m always already clean. My hair smells freshly of flowers and my body is smooth, just the way you like it. I fill the tub up with an inch or two of water before laying down with my legs against the wall. I put my hands underneath my bum to help lift it up towards the stream. The water pressure is kind of shit, which is odd considering how many galleons have been invested into the players’ dorms. I would complain, but that would take half the fun out of getting off. The jet is powerful, but it’s uneven. Sometimes it’ll only come down hard on the left side and drip, drip, drip on the right side.
It’s so imperfect but that makes me even more desperate. Thrusting up doesn’t help. I cry out but there’s no point. I just have to wait for it to build. My orgasm starts in my toes and travels up my legs until all I can feel is my clit and my eyes are rolling into my head and I can see stars and I cum so, so hard that I have to jerk away from the water because it’s all too much.
Maybe if you’re good, I’ll show you.
Love G xxx
The sexy letters ran parallel to their real lives as Mum and Dad. They would speak to each other daily in between. Sometimes they were able to get off together using the mirrors, but often they were used to coordinate the administration of their life, like deciding when Lily needed to get a check-up or what bag of feed to buy for the chickens.
Their game was that they could only reference something written until after the other person had a chance to respond to it in a letter. So Ginny waited until Harry’s owl appeared at her bedroom window.
Gin,
God. I don’t think you’ve ever told me about the time with the bath at the Burrow. Kind of impressive you can keep surprising me after so long. I remember you coming out of the bathroom, all glowy in your little tiny towel. Of course I’m a total idiot and didn’t realise how much I fancy you. If I had known it was your cum dripping onto the ground I’d probably get on my hands and knees and lick it up. Then have you sit on my face.
I’m not as good at writing these letters as you are, but I’ll tell you that we’re reaching 16-year-old Harry territory here. Every time I talk to you through the mirror or read one of your letters and don’t get off, I have really vivid sex dreams. Then I’ll wake up in the middle of the night with a huge erection. Sometimes there’ll even be precome in my pants. I swear, if I have an actual wet dream at 37, I’ll be so embarrassed.
Or is that what you want? To humiliate me a little bit?
Love,
H xxxx
When Harry called the next night, lounging on the bed with one hand behind his head and the other holding the mirror above his face, his pupils were so blown out his eyes practically looked black. Ginny would bet her whole Quidditch salary that if he titled the mirror down, his pyjama pants would be tented.
‘That bathtub thing at the Burrow? Is that true?’
Ginny laughed. ‘Of course! You know how much I was gagging for you, even then.’
Harry groaned, pushing his glasses up to his forehead as he put his hand over his eyes to rub his temples. ‘You don’t want to know how many times I came to that letter.’
Ginny shifted underneath the covers of her own bed, rubbing her thighs together covertly. ‘How many?’
‘It’s hardly legible now,’ Harry said, smirking. ‘Just covered in stains.’
‘Really?’
To prove his point, Harry tapped his wand against the mirror so it would hover above him hands-free. He reached over to his bedside table and held up a creased letter. Ginny’s breath caught in her throat. There were splatters of what could only be semen dotted across the page, including a big one in the center that blotted out half a paragraph.
‘I’m actually kind of annoyed at myself,’ Harry said, tapping the largest stain with his wand. ‘I can’t really read the middle part anymore. I should’ve wiped it off while the cum was still drying, but now it’s kind of an oily stain and I don’t know the charm to get it off without messing up the ink.’
‘Harry,’ Ginny interrupted. ‘Put the letter down and take off your trousers.’
He jerked his head up from his inspection of the paper. ‘Are you going to show me the bathtub?’
‘Yes,’ Ginny said. ‘But I’m also going to humiliate you a little bit.’