If he'd been highly invested in winning, much less in winning fair and square, Harry might have argued. As it was, all he really wanted at the moment was to stop holding still, to be racing around the pitch. So he lowered himself along his broom and took off, taking complete joy in the glory of flight. Later, maybe he'd be sad at the fact that he might have been the one in this stadium, a professional Quidditch player, if his life hadn't been shaped by Voldemort's choices from the very beginning. But there was no path now that would lead him here, to this career, and he didn't want there to be. His days of real competition in Quidditch were over, but that didn't mean he was done flying.
He laughed when she caught up to him, knowing she was showing off, but not trying to shame him. And he pushed himself and his broom harder, faster, remembering days of racing Malfoy and Cedric and Cho to the snitch. His focus sharpened, as if the little golden ball were flying in front of him, and he didn't think the couple of inches he regained on Ginny were because she was letting him catch up.
Still, he couldn't have beaten her to the snitch, if that was what they were chasing. When she won, he circled around, laughing, and lifted one hand from his broom in a futile attempt to straighten his hair, even more mussed from flying. "You're really good," he said, green eyes lit up behind his glasses. Right in this moment, despite everything else, despite the fact that he'd just lost the race, he felt truly happy and carefree.