I don't like Ginny much, but I felt she had to be in my drabble.
Disclaimer: Yet again, I (sadly) do not own Harry Potter or anything associated with it.
His hands were cold and wet, his breathing labored. He could taste the blood in his throat, not bitter or salty. He was dying avenged, glad. Nothing could save him now. There would be no flash of green light to blind his eyes. Nothing to connect his death to the thousands already slain – his parents, friends, strangers.
Now, in the dark graveyard he would die, smiling over the bodies of his enemies. Now he would be remembered not as the Boy Who Lived, but the Man Who Died, doing something that could never be forgotten.
His breath came out sharply now, touching the cool air, just barely. He savored his last moments – the sounds of the last spells being cast, the last feeling of the grass beneath him, his last glimpse of the moon.
And in his last moments he saw a face looking down at him – a hallo of red. And last of all, he felt drops fall to his chest and heard a voice saying that she loved him.