He calls for her, his voice low, not really expecting and answer, half-afraid of actually getting one. He calls for her again, louder this time, just in case she didn't hear him over the call of birds, the comforting sounds of the forest around them. Or rather, the clump of trees, it isn't really a whole forest. Nothing the Weasley's own is really a whole anything.

The fortress in front of him is a sort of haphazard cross between a fort and a treehouse. Built precariously up against the broad trunk of a tree, a box—not even a box—constructed carelessly with planks, and random smatterings of nails. A child's summer project. Scrawled across it's door, in garish red paint, 'NO BOYS'. Not just a child's, but Ginny's summer project.

Harry suddenly feels very young, and carefree, and most definitely not sixteen looking at this hobnob of boards, and knows know why she always runs off here.

He calls a third time, and the door (a drawbridge, or an attempted drawbridge) bangs open, and her voices echoes out. "Watch your head."

And he does.