A/N: This is my first attempt at Harry Potter fic, so I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thanks to my beta doraemon for all of the great help.

It's like I'm lost,

It's like I'm giving up slowly,

-Addicted, Kelly Clarkson

Hope.

What a foreign concept.

I didn't always feel this way, you know. There was a time, not so long ago, that our world was filled with hope. Voldemort was killing hundreds of Muggles and wizards weekly it seemed, but we all refused to believe that our futures held any of this torment. We just knew that the world would right itself again and we would all live remarkable, long lives filled with family, friends, and love. Sure, all of that hope was placed on the shoulders of a boy who couldn't even perform magic legally outside of Hogwarts, but it existed. It was real.

Nothing seems real anymore.

This was how he found me. I was sitting against the north wall of the attic atop number twelve Grimmauld Place, avoiding yet another Order meeting, and completely lost to the thoughts that plague my mind nearly every minute of every day. I'd been hiding out here for hours, yet he was the first person to come looking for me. Being the youngest of seven children, I'd perfected the art of fading into the background (which proved an invaluable talent when Fred and George were searching for a younger, unsuspecting sibling to test out one of their new inventions), but he always finds me. Always.

Sometimes I question how I managed to get myself into this situation. I may only be twenty-years-old, but there was a time in my life when I knew what it felt like to be truly loved. During that time, I could never have imagined living my life without that love, but the circumstances surrounding my current "affair of the heart" are about as far away from love as one can get. I had my fair share of boyfriends during my tenure at Hogwarts but I never pictured myself the type of person to be in a physical relationship with someone I didn't love. A "scarlet woman" as mum would say, if she could speak, but she hasn't been the same since that day.

None of us have.

Some days, if I close my eyes and reminisce about how things used to be, I can fool myself into believing that nothing has changed. Today my memory picks Ron and Hermione's wedding day: the last day I was truly happy. I remember it was a beautiful afternoon in August, a tad over a month into the famous trio's first summer post-Hogwarts. The sky was the warmest blue I had ever seen and there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. We held the ceremony in the garden behind the Burrow and all of our family was in attendance. I remember watching Hermione walk down the aisle toward Ron, toward her future, the happiest I had ever seen her. She looked radiant and as my eyes traveled to my brother, I thought I saw him wipe a tear from his cheek.

Harry pulled me aside during the reception, proclaiming that he had something important to tell me, and I'd never seen him look as determined or as anxious as he did then, standing before me with trembling hands and a nervous smile. He took me for a walk around the grounds of the Burrow, told me he loved me, and then, under the brilliant sun on the most beautiful day in my memory, Harry Potter asked me to marry him. It's funny because it was nearly three years ago, but it doesn't seem that long ago to me. I can remember what we wore, the words he used, and the way I felt when he used them as if it were yesterday. I said yes, of course, and just as I was imagining what the future held for us, fate reared its ugly head. It was then, in a moment that I should remember as one of my happiest, I heard a scream, and the sky above our heads turned from a brilliant blue to a menacing green.

"Ginny,"

I'm drawn out of my thoughts by the soft and worried tone of his voice and I brush my fingers along my cheek in an act to wipe away tears that don't exist. I look over at him, leaning carelessly in the doorway and I know he cares about me, as hard as that is to believe. I'm reminded of it every time he buries himself inside me, whispering sweet nothings and empty promises. He tells me he loves me and all I can do is stare into his tortured eyes and say nothing. He can't love me, not because I'm too haunted to love, but because he is incapable of the emotion himself. I'm not sure why he feels the need to say those words because he knows how I view our relationship. He knows I'm only using him because he's doing the same thing. Using me. So here I am, stuck in this never-ending cycle of self-destruction and there's nothing I can do about it. There's no way out.

Harry's dead, Voldemort is still at large, and I can't feel anymore, at least not on my own. I've forgotten how. We still hold Order meetings once a week during which Professor Dumbledore speaks of hope for the wizarding world. He tries to convince us that Voldemort can and will be defeated, but I know better. I've heard the prophecy. There's no hope left because it died that day with Harry and his two best friends: Hermione, my friend, Ron, my brother and Harry, my everything.

As Draco approaches, he asks me why I'm hiding, but I can't give him an answer. He's lost just as much, arguably more than I have in this war, but I can't discuss my fears with him. I want to tell him that this, whatever this is, is over and that I never want to see him again, but then he looks at me with such lustful, wanting eyes and something inside of me won't refuse him. He leads me to the dust-covered couch in the corner and I can think of only one thing. At least I'll be able to feel again, if only for one night.