I had a request to write a little ficlet about how Harry got the scar Rita says he has during the Quidditch World Cup commentary , and Ginny's reaction to it, so...here we go! Just a little bit of fluffy nonsense :)

"The famous lightning scar has company: Potter is sporting a nasty cut over his right cheekbone…"

The 2014 Quidditch World Cup was not, truly, a holiday for any of the Potters. (Well, except maybe for the kids.) A few days sightseeing around Argentina, falling in love with the country (as they did with every country they visited), then on to the campsite ahead of the final match: Bulgaria versus Brazil. Ginny had to work reporting for the Prophet, and quite a few other papers worldwide, too. Her writing was recognised as some of the best in the business; she didn't merely report on what had happened in a match, she made people feel like they were really there, watching the game with her. Her interviews were just as prized - she was able to draw out confessions from her subjects whilst still keeping things light and human. When she'd played Quidditch herself, first for the Harpies then for England, she'd been regarded as one of the best players in the world. But in the few years she'd been working for the paper, she'd won more prizes—and been more proud of them—than in all her time as a Chaser.

Today, she was interviewing Viktor Krum, ahead of the final match in two days' time. His coming out of retirement had shocked the world, and no one had found out the reason behind the decision. Yet. Harry had no doubt that Ginny would find out what he was up to. Harry was, ostensibly, working in the morning, too, but on nothing so exciting as Ginny's assignment. He was, however, working in the same place as her for the first time since their Hogwarts days, and this was proving mightily distracting. It was very challenging to get anything done knowing she was close by.

He risked another glance pitchwards, and saw the two of them talking together. Krum appeared to be offering Ginny his broom, and… Harry held his breath. He hadn't seen Ginny fly properly for a few years now, and he missed it. Sure, she knocked around in the garden with the kids, and sometimes flew to work in London, if the weather was nice but she hadn't flown professionally, that he'd seen, in such a long, long time. She appeared to be declining, at first, perhaps out of politeness, but Krum insisted and, even at this distance, Harry could see her resolve weakening. She accepted the broom from him, hovered on it just above ground level, toes skimming the grass, then launched off so fast she was literally just a blur. She swooped and dived, turning and rolling and–

"Of course, we have not wanted to risk another incident such as the Nargle/Snorkalump catastrophe that occurred at Reykjavik's Gobstones Tournament in oh-eight, as I'm sure you can appreciate," intoned the official from the Argentinian Ministry. He was an owlish little man, and his general demeanour made Percy Weasley look relaxed and laid-back. "Security has been absolutely paramount."

Harry had to admit that this is true, and he should know. He had been asked by the Argentinian Council of Magic to offer an impartial overview of the security arrangements. Or rather, they had asked the British Ministry to supply an Auror for this purpose, and as he was planning on attending the game anyway, it was a case of two birds, one stone. He had to admit that it was an extremely easy job: the Argentinian Aurors were second to none, and had done their job so well, he had no suggestions to make. Any possible threat had been anticipated, and eliminated. The hardworking staff had done an entirely commendable job in all ways except one: they had handed him over to possibly the dullest man in the country who was talking him, monotonically, through every single stage of the arrangements, and Harry was so bored he was starting to think it likely he would fall asleep standing up and literally sleepwalk through the rest of his tour.

Ginny's flying proved a more than welcome distraction. Harry wasn't the only person watching her: spectators, arrived early to set up camp were oohing and aahing, whilst those on the pitch itself—members of the Brazilian and Bulgarian teams, groundsmen, even the people selling food from trucks positioned around its perimeter—stopped what they were doing to stare. Harry felt his heart swell with pride as he overheard scraps of praise for her flying. Even when he couldn't understand the actual words of the many languages being spoken, he could gauge the tone of their speakers; sense the amazement in their gestures. Everyone was impressed, and it took all he had in him not to shout out that "That's my wife! Look! Isn't she incredible?! Don't you wish you were married to her?"

He thought for a moment she was coming in to land, but it turned out she was just pulling off a particularly spectacular Wronski Feint. He heard gasps from a group of people decked out from head to toe in Brazilian colours standing nearby, and smiled to himself, knowing that their cries will have been echoed by anyone with a view of the pitch. He knew that, ahead of him, the Argentine official was still burbling on, but though his feet were following him dutifully, his eyes were fixed on Ginny, and his heart and mind were up there with her. He missed flying with her; when they got back home he would—


"And that was when you walked into the tree?" Ginny asked, lips twitching, as she sat on the floor of their tent. Harry, resting on his camp-bed, mumbled something in the affirmative, looking shamefaced. "I thought all those people running up to me when I landed were coming to tell me how wonderfully I was flying," she sighed. "But no. They were there to tell me that my husband had knocked himself unconscious oogling me. Honestly."

"You were flying wonderfully," he offered.

"I know I was," she said mildly. "Viktor told me so. Tried to tell me I should come out of retirement, too…" She looked off into the middle distance wistfully for a moment, and Harry caught his breath. "But I told him no," she said firmly. "I love working at the Prophet and writing. I love that I can do it from home, mostly, and spend time with the kids. And, frankly, I'm scared of the sorts of shenanigans you'd get yourself into if I left you unsupervised for ten minutes again!" She eyeballed him, and he shrank back, grateful that Ron and Hermione had taken the children off to play whilst 'Daddy has a little lie down', so that they didn't have to witness this embarrassing scene, on top of the one where he'd been hauled off to the medical tent on a stretcher, blood pouring from the cut on his face, to be examined by a team of Healers clearly flabbergasted by the fact that this feeble specimen was the person who had defeated Lord Voldemort.

"I'm fine, honestly," he said. "It was just a little bump. I've had worse."

"I know," she replied. She'd been there for most of them, too. "The Healers have said you'll be absolutely fine after a little rest—no long term damage at all, except maybe a scar where that branch cut you."

"Well, it won't be the first," he laughed, then quickly sobered. "I've no doubt it'll be reported by my good old pal Rita as evidence that there's some new threat coming because something terrible has attacked me. Do you remember that time I broke my leg tripping over the cat and she convinced the world I'd been kneecapped by some Death Eater wannabe? The Ministry were denying that one for months!"

"I do," Ginny said gravely. "We'll have to head her off at the pass, so she doesn't cause mass panic about a threat here. Hmm."

"We could tell her it was just a tree," Harry suggested.

"Nah, she won't buy it. I know! We'll tell her I cursed you. She'll love that—marital strife andviolence. She'll have a conniption!" she said, brightening considerably.

"An excellent plan," nodded Harry. "Now, when exactly do you want to go about cursing me? Because I'm thinking, the kids will be off with Ron and Hermione for at least another hour, so before you get to it, we've got plenty of time to—"

"Oh no!" said Ginny, shaking her head firmly. "You're supposed to be resting! Lying down!"

"I don't propose getting up…"

"And I," she continued. "Have an interview to conduct. It got interrupted, earlier." She stood up, heading for the entrance of the tent. "Be good, though, and don't walk into any more trees, and I'll make sure to use a nice curse, later." She wiggled her fingers at him.

"Wicked witch!" he called after her retreating figure—and she wiggled her bum at him, too.