The mud squelched underfoot as Ginny made her way along the worn path through the forest behind the Burrow. The steady rain dripped from the trees above, saturating her hair and clothes. There was no one else around, and the sound of water made everything seem peaceful and serene. The rain smelled heavenly, and it was nice to be out of the house, away from her brothers and their midsummer activities.

The woods were empty—gloriously, beautifully empty—the perfect place for Ginny to do a bit of thinking. Peering into the midst of the greenery, she spotted a relatively dry place under a sycamore with wide, cheerful green leaves. With a sigh, she sat on the soft forest floor, leaning back against the smooth bark and listening to the pitter-patter of the water falling around her.

Then she thought. She worried about her parents, always occupied with Order business. She wished for Harry’s company. He, however, was imprisoned at Privet Drive until the end of the month. She was annoyed with the constant feeling of apprehension everyone seemed to have hovering over them, all the time. She felt it, too, but she fought against letting it consume her. And Phlegm was simply abominable—so spoiled! She thought about Dean and the ‘break’ they were taking that month. Her life felt frustrating and repetitive, as though she was never accomplishing anything.

She wanted to be happy with everything her life did have. She could vaguely remember two years before her first at Hogwarts when everything had been fine—just her and Ron and freedom. But school began and Ginny’s dream world had crashed down before her eyes. She had been desperate for any kind of salvation from being ignored and trying to live up to everyone’s standards. Then Tom came and Harry followed, pulling her out of her unhappiness.

Now, three years later, she was alone again but content enough with herself that she could be happy without a hero, secure in her own thoughts.

The only problem she encountered was in convincing everyone else of that. Worried over by her parents and carefully guarded by her brothers, Ginny felt constantly overprotected. After all, she was a Gryffindor just like the rest of them. It wasn’t that she was looking for danger, but more that they expected her to be unable to deal with it if--or when--she found it.

It wasn’t fair, really, for Ginny to lump all of her family into one category, but she often felt like they belonged there when they fussed just because Ginny was youngest, and a girl. She wondered what kind of freedom she could have if she swapped places with one of her brothers, just for a day—Ginny wrinkled her nose in disgust at this idea, recalling the state of her brothers’ bedrooms. She supposed she would just have to establish herself and let everyone else accept it.

She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, gazing off into the mist descending on the woods. The sounds of the forest happenings were muffled by the fog, the trees and the rain, making Ginny's surroundings eerily silent.

Suddenly, Ginny spotted something that nearly made her heart stop beating.

Scrambling to her feet and hurriedly brushing the leaves off of her robes, she drew her wand and backed up against the tree. She could feel the cherry wood of her wand slipping in her sweaty hands. They were shaking. She gripped her wand harder and took a tentative step forward. Her feet sunk into an unnoticed patch of mud, and she quickly pulled them out, cursing her clumsiness.

A figure lay sprawled on the ground, a black cloak entirely covering its body. Ginny approached it cautiously; it appeared to be unmoving, as though unconscious—or otherwise. Carefully, she inched forward, approaching the prone form.

Bloody fog, she thought, squinting at the figure. Nothing definite was visible through the mist.

She had learned through experience that trust shouldn’t be handed out without consideration of the consequence. She didn’t know if this person was male or female, Death Eater or Order member, Muggle or wizard, or even dead or alive. She thought it was logical that an Order member was injured—or not concentrating—and undershot their Apparition to the Burrow, but why would anyone be coming to the Burrow in the first place? Had something happened at Grimmauld Place?

Ginny forced herself to breathe, ignoring the pounding of her heart and the questions buzzing through her head. The only way she could discover who had suddenly appeared in her forest was to go over there and find out. Inching forward with painstaking slowness she took deep breaths and held her wand defensively out in front of her. She shivered: the mist of rain was beginning to soak through to her skin, adding to the chill of apprehension gripping her senses.

She had reached the other side of the body. Muddy hair obscured a hidden face. Ginny knelt in the damp leaves, placed her left hand on the ground, and reached out her wand to brush the damp hair out of the boy’s eyes. It was a boy; she could tell by the little she could see of him. Her hand slipped slightly, and her wand let out a tiny spark that alighted on his forehead.

His eyes fluttered open, registering the scene in front of them. Ginny jumped to her feet and backed up a step, holding her breath as though she could become invisible that way. She thought she could feel her heart quickening its pace, if that was even possible.

Ginny and the boy stared at one another for a moment, he disoriented, she suspicious. Then—

“Stupefy!”

Ginny’s wand arm began to tremble, and she realized she was still holding her wand out in front of her, pointed at the intruder. With a shaky breath, she dropped her arm and stared at the figure in front of her. He looked almost unreal, so peaceful was his countenance.

But Ginny had Stunned him, so he was her responsibility now. She glanced warily around her, but there was no one to be seen. She supposed that if there had been anyone there, they would probably have made themselves visible by now. Involuntarily, her eyes switched back to the boy on the ground.

He didn’t seem as menacing as he always tried so hard to appear. He, in fact, looked lost and slightly perplexed, as though he was startled to find himself where he was, facing Ginny of all people. She stood for a moment, peering at him. There were quite a few things she could do with him now: she could turn in to the Order and have them question him, but he appeared to be hurt or exhausted, and, no matter who he was, the last thing she was going to do was put anyone through any sort of unnecessary trauma. She’d had enough of that herself.

His innocent expression didn’t phase Ginny in the slightest, but all she was worried about was getting him back to the Burrow. What if her dad saw him, though, or even her mum? They would be incomparably upset. Ginny sighed wearily. She would just have to take care of him herself, and he would have to leave soon, anyway, as Harry was due to arrive the following week.

Well, she’d already be receiving a warning for underage magic, so she might as well not worry about it for the rest of the day. She concentrated on her task, beginning by calmly binding the boy’s hands with an Incarcerus spell and, with a decisive lift of her wand, levitating him off the ground and heading towards home. Her locomotor mortis spell seemed to be working successfully. All she had to do was get by her mum, who’d been cooking when Ginny had left.

Ginny tiptoed to the back door, the hovering body in front of her, his wet blond hair plastered to his head in the rain. She carefully opened the creaking back door and stepped cautiously inside, left hand on the ropes binding Draco’s wrists. She heard her mum snapping instructions at Fleur in the kitchen.

Ginny didn’t have enough time to roll her eyes. She had to get upstairs, and quickly. Guiding the boy’s body upstairs, gingerly stepping over the creaking steps, Ginny proceeded cautiously. The air was full of dust, floating in the rays of light streaming through the windows of the upstairs bedrooms.

Finally reaching the landing to her room, Ginny stopped to let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. It wasn’t until this mysterious boy was lying prone on Ginny’s bed that she stopped to consider where she was.

She sat down in a chair in the corner of her room. Her senses came back to her in a rush: the familiar smell of her room combined with that of the cinnamon pie Fleur was burning downstairs, the wet chill of her dripping robes, and, most importantly, the sight of Draco Malfoy, hands tied, on Ginny’s bed. She closed her eyes, thinking. What was she going to do with him? She shakily rose to her feet and approached him, checking him over for any obvious injury.

The rainy light trickled through the window, illuminating his defined face with an almost angelic glow. He’d been unconscious when Ginny found him, so there had to be something wrong besides terrible Apparition skills. Ginny checked his head for cuts, to no avail. She moved on to his shoulders and arms, difficult because of the heavy robes.

Scowling at herself, Ginny undid the clasp at the top of the cloak. Why was she doing this? She didn’t owe him anything. It wasn’t her fault he’d landed in her forest. Yet she felt that kindness toward people who needed her help was compulsory. She hated Malfoy for who he was and how he treated her friends. She hated everything about him. But he was hurt and lost, and Harry wouldn’t be there for another week yet. Everything was quiet for a while, and there was a boy on her bed who was hurt.

Setting her jaw, she pulled Malfoy’s cloak out from under him and spread it on a chair to dry. A fire crackled in the tiny fireplace in Ginny’s wall, warming her chilly back. She was shaking. Striding over to her bureau and pulling out another robe, Ginny cast a wary glance at the boy on her bed. Then she slipped into her bathroom to change.

When she emerged, dry, she decided to check Malfoy again for lasting injuries. She unbound his hands and leaned in to examine his arms. They were bruised in odd patterns, particularly his left arm. The newly purpled bruises began on his upper arm and continued down to a darker one at the elbow. With the care she’d practised during years of healing her brothers’ scrapes, she gingerly turned over his arm—and jumped back in alarm when she saw what was there.

Her heart pounded in her temples and little spots speckled her vision. She didn’t know this boy, but she knew his manner—he was always pretending, always pretending to be so unafraid. What about this, though? Was this fear, or was this courage? Was it both? Where could Ginny really draw the line? She didn’t know this boy.

She shook her head and made up her mind to awaken him so she could obtain some information, or at least make an attempt at doing so. Ignorance, she thought scornfully, is only bliss until curiosity takes over. And Ginny’s curiosity was overwhelming.

“Sluiten,” she whispered, sealing the doors and windows. Turning back to fact the bed, she pointed her wand decisively at Malfoy’s chest.

“Ennervate,” she whispered, her lips cupping the words.

Malfoy’s eyes blinked open, and he turned his head to see where he was. His eyes alighted on Ginny, and he looked first shocked, then slightly relieved, then simply in pain.

He opened his mouth to speak and could barely manage a croak. Then he attempted to push himself up with his right arm, favouring his swollen left, and didn’t succeed. He collapsed back to the pillows, closing his eyes and breathing shallowly.

“I’m going to go get you a glass of water,” Ginny soothed, her voice calm, feeling her way around Malfoy’s temperament. He opened his eyes and adopted a rather unattractive grimace. Ginny slipped quietly out of her bedroom, tiptoeing as though she were treading on glass.