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This was probably the hardest thing Ginny had ever done.

She had set deadlines and let them lapse. She had talked herself out of doing this a thousand times. She had turned to Ron, who she let mollify her. She had owled Bill, her smartest non-prat brother, who informed her that the entire wizarding world needed the great Saviour Harry Potter to be perfectly okay, that no one would admit there was a problem--especially if Harry refused to admit there was a problem in the first place. She watched Harry lose himself in Quidditch, obsessing over every detail to such a degree that seemed unhealthy; she watched Harry work until three, four in the morning on his notes for the DA. Ginny knew that he circled the school in the middle of the night...he didn't sleep enough.

She heard him call out in his sleep: little mumbles. Pleadings. Begging. Sometimes, he would cry. But last night...Harry's nightmare was so violent, he woke up so terrified...it was time. She had to tell someone, the only person other than her mum who knew that The Chosen One was still just a seventeen year old boy.

So Ginny knocked on the Headmistress's door, her hand shaking. Ginny rarely ever showed nerves, and she felt embarrassed, entering at the woman's command with shaking limbs and a dry mouth. Her voice was dry and hoarse as she said, "Are you busy, Headmistress? I was wondering...if I could talk to you about something. About Harry," she added, looking at her favourite professor in the school--well, she had been--and then dropping her gaze down to her feet.