A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Now, with Ron, we're back to the present moment you saw in the first chapter.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

PRESENT MOMENT

So now, as Ron stumbled through the forest, the reek of dead bodies and burning skin wafted through the air. His senses seemed to center on one particular sensation at once: the horrible whimpers escaping Harry, the overwhelming pain spiking all the way down his spine, the Swahili screams of the Ukamilifu, the lashes leaking warmth down his back, the magic spattering the forest and staining the trees…

Mother Nature had no mercy in her heart for the red-haired boy in hand-me-down robes

If he closed his eyes and sunk into the sweet depths of his mind, he could feel Hermione's hand pressing against his, interlacing their fingers, one by one.

"Come home to me, love," she would say, and she'd brush his messy red hair away from his face so she could look him in the eye. "I know you've got that same hero complex as Harry, but I don't care about that." She would tell him to sit down and take a deep breath. "I believe in you, Ronald Weasley." She wouldn't kiss him; she strongly believed that reinforcing emotional support with physical attraction was harmful to long-term romantic relationships. Instead, she would hold him, sliding her arms around him. He would press his face into that sweet place between her neck and her shoulder, sinking into her. She always smelled wonderful, like strawberries and home, and he—

—took a deep breath, but all he inhaled was smoke and distress. Hearing a bloodcurdling scream, he ran faster; his bare feet split open on the rocks and twigs on the ground. Ron didn't know if it even qualified as running anymore, for his legs acted of their own accord, hobbling hysterically away from his attackers.

Harry's body was hot against his shoulders, the weight of his friend's life growing heavier with every step. Ron was by no means a superhero; at some point, he had to break. His strong, even breathing mutated into shallow wheezes; his seemingly limitless strength drained until he had to force himself to put his feet forward, one in front of the other. The agony of carrying Harry was overwhelming, painful tremors tearing down his back and ripping through his muscles. The pain was a rusty executioner's axe; it slashed him over and over again, unable to kill him in one stroke. His back was Pompeii, quaking and shuddering involuntarily, but still he ran. The pain would split him in half, but he had no other choice.

One more step, he thought. One more step, and he'll be safe.

Ron didn't know how much time had passed, but finally they escaped the Ukamilifu and stumbled upon an abandoned Muggle house in the forest. It looked like it had been on fire, the walls and roof coated in ash and streaked with burns, but it was still standing. The immediate stench of corpses made him want to retch upon entering, but Ron didn't care. This was shelter. This was safety. Ron slid Harry off of his shoulders, depositing the man on the carpet. Then Ron dropped to his knees, fatigue washing over him, and sprawled on the floor next to Harry. He just wanted to sleep. Or cry. Maybe both.

But then Harry started to moan in pain, stirring in his discomfort, so Ron gave himself five seconds of self-pity and then rose again to tend to his friend. Harry Potter was not going to die today. Not on his watch.

Ron struggled to his feet and crouched to drag Harry towards the wall; his friend was still lifeless in his grasp, barely able to respond. Ron sat against the wall, able to replenish some of his strength by leaning against it, and he propped Harry up into a sitting position so that he could unwind the bandages. Most of the bandages were tattered remains of the upper half of Harry's Auror uniform, torn into strips to use as clean bandages. "Harry, can you sit up?" But Harry couldn't hear him, let alone obey his commands. Drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness, Harry was barely lucid.

Since Ron was all alone again, he envisioned his wife beside him, instructing his actions. "He can't stay like this!" Hermione would say, utterly outraged. Her hair would be wild, but she'd pull it back to keep it out of her eyes. "Honestly, Ron, didn't you ever pay attention during our Healing unit of Defense Against the Dark Arts? It was half of our grade!" She would place his hands over hers, guiding him to unwrap each strip of cloth. "Inflammation," she would remind him, examining the wound, "is a primary sign of infection."

Ron peeled away the final bandage to find Harry's wounds pink and swollen, Ismat's stitches straining to hold each gash closed. Ron swore. Loudly. And repetitively. There was only a little left of the disinfectant potion, but Ron used the rest on Harry, knowing it was vital to his survival.

Harry was not going to die. Harry was not going to die.

Ron hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. He'd spent all night in the prisoners' hut trying to keep Harry from dying, talking to him, tending to him, and keeping him awake (because Ron wasn't sure if Harry fell asleep if he would ever wake back up again).

Twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours of battle preparation, vicious combat, debilitating incarceration, and devastating loss.

Ron just wanted to go home.

But instead, he rummaged through the belongings of the Muggle owners, locating a damaged first aid kit. The entire kitchen was blackened and crumbling, destroyed by the fire that had wrecked the house, so all of the food was gone. However, the water still worked in a couple of the faucets, so Ron pulled a vase from one of the untouched rooms and filled it with sweet water, gulping it down frantically. He found some towels in a burned closet and hurried back to Harry, stripping him of his remaining clothing and drenching the towels in water before draping them over his feverish friend. He made new bandages using fresh strips of clothing stolen from a dead couple's bedroom. He tried several healing spells to fix both his and Harry's injuries, but most of them had been caused by unique Ugandan dark magic, so none of the British healing spells he tried worked.

The stolen wand he was using grew hot in his hand as he worked, disobedient and obstinate. Ron hissed in pain; the wand was now too hot to hold, burning through the skin of his palm, but he had to keep going. He was levitating Harry now, bandaging him with gentle care, and once he finally finished, the wand had left a painful, swollen welt in his hand.

Finally, once Harry was asleep on the carpet, a pillow beneath his head, Ron relaxed, slumping against the wall. There was a cool cloth resting on Harry's forehead and fresh bandages around his wounds; there was nothing more he could do except hope.

Now, he focused on getting the hell out of this place. He couldn't Apparate; he knew that Apparating with Harry in this state would easily kill him. And even Apparating alone… He considered leaving Harry behind to contact the Ministry, but in his present state—exhausted and injured—he would never make it all the way to London. Most likely, he would Splinch himself or pass out halfway through the journey; he could even die trying to go that far in his condition. He remembered learning how to send messages through his Patronus, but how far could his Patronus go? Certainly not all the way to London from the middle of Uganda. But it was the only possibility he had.

Ron took a deep breath, winced, and thought of his happiest memory.

Her hair was up in a twisted bun, several curls falling free. Her long, milky white dress accented the smooth curve of her waist, sparkles winding around the torso to meet her toes at the bottom of the skirt. She held a bouquet of white and periwinkle flowers in her hands, and Ron watched until her eyes fell on him.

She grinned excitedly as soon as she saw him; when she did, Ron could tell that she was just as nervous as he was. Sure, they had a few rehearsals, but the real wedding was not the same. Not at all.

Her fingers trembled. Ron pried her tense fingers away from the bouquet and handed it to one of the bridesmaids. He took her hands in his and held them until they began to relax, steadying. "You okay?" he whispered.

Her whole face lit up in a beautiful smile. "Better than okay, you moron. I've never been happier."

Ron just couldn't help it; he snuck a quick kiss on her cheek, even as she squealed in protest. "We've gotta wait, Ron!" He grinned wickedly and kissed her again; her laugh made him feel like flying.

Harry, the best man, cleared his throat from beside him.

Ron flushed with embarrassment, and Hermione's small fingers found his large ones. She raised their interlaced fingers and kissed them. "We're ready," she said, her eyes tracing Ron's.

He slipped his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Definitely."

"Expecto Patronum!" The dazzling Jack Russell terrier burst from the end of his wand, tail wagging wildly, sinking into a playful pose before him. Focusing impossibly hard, Ron ordered, "Find Her-Hermione." She was one of the only people that brought him enough happiness for his Patronus to be fueled for the entire ten thousand kilometer journey. "Tell her…" The silver dog cocked its head at him, its stubby tail slapping against the carpet. Knowing that 'less was more' when it came to Patronus communication, he shortened his message. "Uganda. Escaped Nguvu. Forest…" He swallowed hard. "Harry is dying. Send help."

The terrier nodded once and bounded out of the house excitedly. So Ron collapsed on the blood-spotted carpet next to Harry, watching his best friend's chest move up and down. He prayed it would keep doing that.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Next chapter coming within the next couple days.

Challenges used:

Are You Crazy - #57 (No Mercy)

If You Dare - #866 (All night)

Your Favorite House - #22 (milky), Gryffindor

Fanfiction Writing Month: December [1680]