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It's a strange feeling, knowing that you're going to die.
Ginny's felt it before, of course. Back in her first year, covered in ink and chicken's blood, scrawling her own eulogy onto the cold, stone walls. She'd known then, what her fate was, and she'd faced it. Not unflinchingly, she'd been scared out of her mind, but she still faced it, because who else would? Brave, they called her, and she hadn't believed it until she was older.
It's a similar situation, living in Hogwarts under the Carrow's reign of terror. Constantly on edge, constant fear, constant constant constant. And that's the worst part, really, that it'll never end. The Carrows are impressively relentless. She'd almost admire it, maybe, if they weren't torturing her and her friends.
She's sitting in the common room waiting for Nev and Seamus to return from detention, staring out the window and smoking a Muggle cigarette. A reckless and rebellious indulgence, but those two words are the greatest compliment to a Gryffindor in this political climate. Tonks had passed a few packs to her with a wink, baby bump starting to show from under her terrifically ugly Christmas sweater.
"Someone's gotta smoke them, c'mon," she'd insisted, when Ginny tried to half-heartedly refuse. "Just don't tell your mum, yeah?"
She's switched out her schoolgirl skirt for a pair of Ron's old trousers, partly for comfort and partly to hide the ugly bruises and cuts from the first years. In her mind, they're eleven years old, and already being subjected to the worst year Hogwarts has seen yet. Let them keep a shred of their innocence.
The common room is mostly empty, save Parvati, tense as a wire, and Lav, chewing her nails anxiously. Ginny had sent the rest of the troops to bed, figuring that the boys wouldn't need nor want a spectacle. Demelza and Ritchie were reluctant, but conceded. Ginny's sort of the leader nowadays, so none of the younger years really challenge her. Some days it grates, most days she's relieved. Arguing takes up too much time, time they could be using for something useful.
Ginny hears the portrait hole swing open behind her, and springs to her feet. The other two girls do the same, Parvati with an armful of different medicines. Nev and Seamus stumble through, gripping each other's arms, but not terribly injured. Not yet, atleast. Seamus's eye is swollen shut, and Neville's got a huge gash on his jaw, but nothing life-threatening.
Lavender starts forward immediately, conjuring up an ice pack and leading Seamus over to the couch. Neither of them exchange words. They have the sort of friendship where they don't need empty promises and hushed platitudes. Ginny envies them.
Parvati is on her tippy toes, cleaning Neville's wound. He's wincing, a little, but manages to look over at Ginny and glare. She realizes she's still holding her cigarette. Extinguishes it, then tucks it into her pocket for later.
Ginny quickly studies the two seventh year girls. Lavender is rubbing her temples, most likely to ward off an incoming headache, and the bags under Parvati's eyes could carry a week's worth of groceries. She should probably send them off to sleep, before Parvati collapses at Neville's feet.
"Parvati, you should go," Ginny says as gently as she can, taking the medicine and cloth from her. "You look dead on your feet, c'mon."
Parvati opens her mouth to protest, then yawns. The five of them start to crack up, a little, because there's not much to laugh about nowadays, so Parvati's perfectly timed yawn will have to suffice. Plus, the five of them haven't really been getting on lately, so laughing is better than having another pointless row.
Rueful, but still grinning, Parvati tugs Lavender up the staircase, back to a dorm that is missing one teenage girl. Hermione's absence has left a gaping hole, one that her two roommates are desperately pretending isn't there. It's not really working.
Each Gryffindor dorm has lost a few players, Ginny's included. But some losses ache more than others. Those three were never outwardly close, but there's a certain camaraderie that must form after sharing a room for six years.
Ginny cuts off that train of thought, because thoughts of Hermione make her heart ache, and not in the productive way. They'll also inevitably lead to thoughts about someone else, which Ginny can't exactly afford at the moment. Time and place.
Nev takes a hold of her arm, guiding her to the couch by the fireplace, next to Seamus. It's silent for a while, the only sound in the room being the crackling fire. Seamus turns his head to look at the two of them, eyes hard.
"Think I'll turn in," he says after a few moments. His face is set into a scowl, as it usually is nowadays. "Gonna have a shower, wash the Carrow filth off me."
"Night then," Neville says, Ginny echoing him. Seamus thunders up the stairs to the boys dormitories, probably waking up half the house. Some things never change.
It's almost peaceful, sitting there with Neville, if they could ignore the war and the resistance and the general atrocities being committed daily at Hogwarts. What used to be a home for many has now turned into a prison. Ginny has never been under the illusions the rest of her classmates have, regarding the safety of the castle, but that doesn't make it any more bearable. The others have been holding out hope that someone will do something, someone will save them. Ginny knows no one will.
"Neville," Ginny says, guarded yet vulnerable. She rubs her thumb and index together, a nervous tick. "I think we're going to die."
Neville looks at her, anguish in his eyes. He's always been so hopeful. So dangerously optimistic. She's let him be, mostly because if there's one thing Neville is, it's stubborn. But the list of losses keeps getting longer. The missing Muggleborns, Luna getting snatched right before Christmas break, Ron and Hermione, and, of course, Harry. The ghosts of those three have been haunting the halls, burning a hole into Gryffindor like that stupid tapestry at Grimmauld Place.
"I think we're going to die," she continues, because that's what she does. She continues when no one else will, where no one else will. "In this haunted fucking castle, and no one will know."
"Ginny," Neville pleads, hands scrambling to grasp hers. She's viscerally reminded of Harry, once again, fumbling his way through their relationship last spring. Nervous smiles, hesitant hands, the barely visible layer of shock on his face, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to hold her hand, to kiss her, to touch her.
"We can't lose hope," Neville is saying, eyes shining, dragging her back to the ruthless present. "That's what they want. They—they want us down, want us to feel hopeless. We can't give them that, Ginny."
Ginny stares at him. Squeezes his hand. "You should go to bed, Nev," she breathes, trying to summon some of her general-esque authority. "Sleep on that cut, yeah? It'll look better in the morning."
"I don't care how it looks," Neville dismisses, but he stands up anyway, stretching his arms behind his back. Cruciatus cramps, no doubt. "You coming?"
She waves him on, pulling her cigarette out of her pockets. "Gotta finish this." He clucks disapprovingly, but doesn't protest. As he climbs the stairs, Ginny can hear his joints cracking, can hear the barely audible gasps of pain. Fucking Carrows.
Ginny leans over the fireplace, lighting her cigarette with the embers. She takes a long drag, watches the sparks flicker and dance and die. Rubs her cheek. Neville's words ring and bounce around in her skull, like one of those Muggle sports balls Dean used to bounce off of walls when he was bored.
Despite Neville's attempts at reassurance, the feeling is still there, twisting her insides, squeezing her lungs. She doubts it will ever go away. But one can hope.
Ginny flicks the cigarette butt into the last embers of the curdling fire, then stands up, brushing soot off of Ron's trousers. She makes her way to her dormitory, going through the motions of changing and lying down, but doesn't sleep. She stares at the top of her four-poster bed, wand crossed over her heart, counting to seven over and over again.
Days and nights later, when her and Neville are stood in the Scottish snow in nothing but their knickers, Ginny will curl her frozen lips into a bitter, bitter smile and say, through chattering teeth, "What'd I tell you?"