You'd think lying in a pile of a pile of leaves with his arm at a sharp - unnatural - angle and two out of three children wailing in distress, would put a damper on Harry's Gryffindor chivalry, but then you wouldn't be his wife.

So Ginny's not all that surprised when Harry's scrabbling for his wand with his left hand, the bone mending spell already on his lips. But she is prepared.

In a slashing movement, she summons the wand toward herself and tucks it behind her ear - too many grabby hands around for back pockets - and kneels at Harry's side. "I am going to heal your arm and then we are going to get Ron over here to build the damn treehouse."

"I can do it."

"Your compound fracture says otherwise," Ginny drawls, unimpressed, though she does run her fingers through his mussed hair, wild and splayed around his face.

"S'not compound," he lifts it and winces, "No bone."

"That is becoming more and more likely," she grumbles, a low threat in her voice, "Now hold still."

"And anyway," Harry continues as she eyes the trio of Potter children who seem recovered enough, given their current 'dog-pile' of sorts, "So what if I broke my arm - I'm still doing it."

"I'm going to break your other arm."