Author's Note: This is my first attempt at a Harry Potter fanfic. It's a oneshot, told from Ginny's perspective, during the 7th novel. Just a few of her thoughts...drabble I thought should've been in the story. Please Review!

"Ginny," said Harry, "I'm sorry, but we need you to leave too. Just for a bit. Then you can come back in."

I paced the familiar marble hallway, waiting for Harry to leave the Room of Requirement. I wrung my hands together, feeling completely and totally useless, not for the first time in my life. My nails were brutally short, and jagged at that. Chewed to the bone, destroyed, in essence, by the only action I seemed to be able to take while shut in that tiny room. I wanted to laugh as I heard Harry repeat himself.

"You've got to come back in!"

He disappeared, and I aimed a kick at the door masking as a solid brick wall. Pain shot through my toes, and I regretted my decision. Instinctively, I leaned over to massage them, and glanced down the hall. Wisps of light danced across the floor, flickers from the candles mounted to the walls. I'd always loved Hogwarts. I'd wanted to go here, for as long as I could remember. Somehow, it didn't seem fitting that those I love would fight to their deaths, defending the school, defending the boy, no the man, I mentally corrected, that I love, while I was forced to wait upstairs like a good little girl.

Fight or Flight? The words reverberated in my mind. There was never a real contest built there, I pondered the irony of the statement. It was a term mostly used in Muggle medicine, a sentiment used to explain the human body's response to trauma. Quite simple actually, it fights the infection, struggling to remain alive, but often making things far worse. Or it flees, sending its hapless victim into a desolate coma. I wondered which the better choice was, and vaguely, I wondered how my body would react. Damn it, I was a fighter. I wasn't the shy girl I'd once been. A girl who'd stuttered over her words; who spilt things on herself whenever Harry Potter shared airspace with me. I'd never felt the need to prove to myself that I was truly a fighter, that I was capable of holding my own in a struggle. And now, more than ever was absolutely the time for heroics. I would stand up for what I believed in.

I took off down the corridor at a sprint, six years spent wandering the school had given me exceptional knowledge of passageways. And I knew right where I was headed. In the distance, I caught sight of my reflection in a window. My hair flew wildly like fire behind me, deep brown eyes set and determined. My face wasn't pretty, it was angry. This didn't have to be the fight of a lone man. I would stand by his side. Though I was sorry I hadn't spoken to Harry, I'd seen him, touched him. He was alive. It was enough. It had to be. Somehow I needed find solace in that miniscule bit of information.