"Come on." Charlie reached for Ginny's arm--normally it would have been her hand, but the contact was reassuring. It proved that she was alive. Mircea fell into place beside them as he led her back to the Regulator camp that had been his home for the last week.
The tent was surprisingly homey. The little cot had a knitted afghan over it that Ginny might well recognise as being the style her mother knitted. There was a camp chair that Charlie had had since his days in Romania, and a few recent issues of the Daily Prophet. Charlie scooped them off the cot and gestured to Ginny to sit down while he conjured a tub and some hot water for her.
"Sandwiches are in the outer pocket of my knapsack," he told Ginny. It leaned against the tent pole. What looked like a dirty shirt was hanging out the top of the main body; it looked like Charlie had given up on closing it. "Whatever's in there is yours. Maybe there's an apple, too."