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.
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.
To Be Continued.
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