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this is it, this is war

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At some point in the war Ginny forgot Harry. She doesn't feel guilty about it, it's not like she tried to forget him; it just happened. She's sure he doesn't think about her a lot either, wherever he is, fighting the very incarnation of evil. Besides, maybe they don't want the same things out of life, after all. For one, she wants to live.

Luna didn't forget Harry. Ginny wouldn't be surprised to hear that she calls him at night in her quiet prayers, as familiar as she is when she addresses whatever god it is she believes in: "You know, Harry's a good guy. I like him. He picked up my books once, when Goyle tripped me. D'you think you could maybe let him live?"

Ginny decided a long time ago that the best course of action was believing in herself. Still, sometimes her fingers prickle with the urge to go up to her and say, I like the way you pray.


Could she do that? Could she even do that?


There's something beautiful about it, charmingly fierce, about the idea of women holding a siege. Ginny prefers to think about it like that: they're the ones holding the siege, and the others are the losing party, powerless in front of their inevitable demise. It makes sense. Everybody knows the good guys always win.

Yes, there's something beautiful about that. It's the colors of their hair, maybe, redwhiteyellowblackpink, or their faces when they fight.

(Or maybe it's the dirt under their fingernails, at night when they come back to their bed, that mixes with the blood.)


It's like this:

"Can you teach me your Hexes? They're beautiful."

Only Luna would use 'beautiful' for a Hex.

"I don't know. Can you give me something in exchange?"

Luna, when she smiles, has a tiny vampire tooth on the top right of her mouth. How come Ginny never noticed that before?

"What do you want?"


It's like this:

"What are you going to be if you die?"

"What do you mean?"

Luna looks at her, her eyes like water. Ginny brings a finger to her own lips, unconsciously, to check if Luna's gaze didn't leave a drop of water there.

"If you die. What are you going to be?"

"What about you?"

"I don't want to be an angel."

When Ginny dies, she's going to be a parcel of this darkness. She'd like to know how it feels, for once.


It's like this:

"Can I kiss you?"

Ginny couldn't tell who asks. Maybe her. Maybe she wouldn't ask, just do it.

"You can try."

Kissing Luna is like kissing a ghost, only with sugar and lemon added.

"So? Did I succeed?"

Someone laughs. A passing pupil throws them a glare, there's a war going on out there, you know.


It's like this:

Dean and Neville and Seamus and Padma and Parvati and the room that molds itself to their communal desire. Laughter, etched like a healing balm over bruises and blood-swelled skin.

Luna takes Ginny's hand.

"We could die tomorrow," she whispers in Ginny's ear, like it's something to be excited about, a secret, an hymn.


It's like this:

Somewhere in the universe there's a picture of Luna with her head thrown back as she straddles Ginny's hips and whispers things Ginny would rather not listen to. Their kisses are something between bruising and so soft they don't leave a trace; half-kisses for halflings, sounds fitting.

"I love you," Luna breathes.

It doesn't mean anything, that much Ginny knows. Luna loves more than she can afford.


At some point in their shared, short, somewhat sacred history, Luna traces a little cross in blood on a step of the big stairway. When Ginny asks what it is, she twirls her hand, her code for you wouldn't understand. "Blocking," she says.

Ginny does understand.

Then something explodes, glass shatters, and she doesn't get the chance to tell Luna that she's already fallen.