The end, when it comes, is sweet and painful, but very, very long. She always thought of death has something blissful and sudden, but now she begins to realize that it's not nearly as simple. It's not just the end, it's the beginning of something new, and terrible, and yet at the some time so completely wonderful. Or so she hopes. Because, really, she doesn't have a clue as to what's going on. All she knows is that she's dying, and that she just wishes it were over.

It's not even the pain that bothers her anymore; it hurts like hell, but she barely notices as she watches the lights swirl above her, and the sky open up, and the stars come down to smile on her, and she thinks she sees a face, but she could be delusional, because a voice in the back of her mind, a voice with a conscious and a logic (and that stupid, matter-of-fact, know-it-all quality that reminds her so much of her mother) tells her that it could only be the adrenaline rush, not some heaven-sent vision, not something glorious, but simply the chemicals in her brain, making her see what she wants to see. And then she hates that voice, that small part of her that's still rational, still normal, because it's the voice of reality, and the voice of everything she could be, and she doesn't want to think about everything she could be, because she's not what she could be, she's what she is, and what she is is dying, and that's what's important.

But still. She kind of wishes that things had turned out differently.

And then, as soon as she wishes it, she feels terrible – how could she have wanted things to be different? She has the man of her dreams, a cause to die for, a world to save, and a family to protect. It's a good life, one people would kill to have, and the funny thing is, here she is, dying because of it. Oh, the bitter, bitter irony, and she lets out a coarse, dry, half-laugh that soon turns into a spluttering cough has her lungs protest against the sudden use. And searing pain suddenly burns in her chest, and she falls back down, down into the grass, and continues to watch the chaos going on around her.

Nobody will notice that she's dead, not for days. Nobody will even notice that she left the Safe House, defied all orders, all cautions by her friends and family (and Harry. Oh, Harry) and joined the fight. Because who would think that Ginny Weasley, poor, poor and pregnant Ginny Weasley, would risk her life, and the life of her daughter (because it's a girl, damn it, and her name is Amelia, so you can go fuck yourself, Mother, except that she never actually said it, never actually uttered the words, because Ginny is a good girl, a good, good girl.) and fight for a cause that had no hope in winning?

But she's a Gryffindor, after al, and if they were going to lose, she wanted to die fighting. But now she isn't fighting, and yet she's still dying, and she somehow doesn't think that's very fair. Nobody talks about death and war this way, except for maybe Wilfred Owen but he was Muggle, so what does he know, anyways? And yet—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est

Pro patria mori

She doesn't think it's fair to die, but now that it's happening, she wouldn't mind it just being a little quicker, please. Somehow, in the depths of her delirious mind, she wonders why God, or Merlin, or whoever the hell was up there, and sitting on their ass and doing nothing, why couldn't they just make it end quickly? In a flash of brilliant light, perhaps? Give her that last shred of dignity, as she falls to her death. Is that too much to ask? She just wants to get it over with, to fall, to die, to end quickly. She wanted to do bravely, and nobly, in the charge, or at the hand of some fitting Death Eater. But, no, she got the short end of the stick (or wand, she laughs, but it's not terribly funny, because there's nothing funny about dying. Except when there is) and got a knife to her gut, effectively killing her, and her child, and she just thinks about how stupid everything is. The fighting, the killing, the war… everything. But especially her. Oh yes. She thinks that she is especially stupid.

After all, she got her happy ending, but then she had to go and be hero about it, and now she's dying, and it isn't a hero's death, and she resents herself for it. And then, just has she feels her blood slipping away, and her vision blurring, and instead of darkness, she sees the light, she smiles.

It's about bloody time, mate…

A/N: Yes, another angsty short story from your's truly. This was supossed to be about a girl dying from a drug overdose, but it's funny how these things get warped in my twisted, twisted mind. The words are from Wilfred Owen's Delce et Decorum Est, which is an amazing poem. It's creepy and awesome, at the same time. So yes. Can you tell I'm very anti-war?