Not two seconds later, two medi-warlocks came rushing in while carrying a magical gurney. They rolled Ron onto it, smearing blood all over the black and white tile floor. Harry stood, aching, watching Ron be carted inside. Unnatural coldness, much like when he would be in the vicinity of Dementors, washed over his mind and body. Not even the copper tang of stench on his robes could break the enormous grip on his heart.

"You're injured. Come inside."

Harry blinked and looked to his left. An elderly medi-witch was standing at his shoulder, gently holding onto him. He hadn't realized he was swaying back in forth, standing stock still, staring at the closed double doors.

"I – " Harry couldn't talk, explain everything including what he was feeling. "I – "

"Let's get you checked out. Come with me," the elderly witch prompted his arm gently to move him, make him walk into the ward. They were in the same emergency ward, across the expansive room, the separating sheet ignored so the various healers could move unimpeded. She motioned him to sit up on the sterile bed across the room. Every time she moved to stand in front of Harry, he'd move aside, trying to watch what the Healers were doing to Ron.

"Sit Still, Mr. Potter. I have to make sure you're not injured."

"I'm not," Harry kept his eyes on the bed not three meters away. So many Healers were in the room tending Ron. In their haste, his arm slipped down, a glint of reflected light on the hammered goblin silver wedding band he wore on his left hand. He told Harry one early morning, after a mission that went south, that he never took his ring off. He'd promised Hermione that it would only come off if he quit breathing. Everyone in attendance at the wedding heard him and celebrated this moment as part of his vows.

It looked like it might happen this night.

"There's so much blood," he said to himself while watching healers working frantically to staunch his wounds. "How can one man have so much?"

"Mr. Potter, please, look this way."

Harry turned and saw caring eyes and a warm expression. How could this medi-witch focus on him when his best friend and part of his heart was lying on another gurney not three meters away, dying from a terrible mistake that should have never happened in the first bloody place?

"Those are the best healers on staff, Mr. Potter. They'll save him. They've done the occasional miracle with someone. I know they'll do it again for him."

"You can't know that!" Harry felt mortification flush across his face for yelling at the matron medi-witch tending him. "Sorry. I shouldn't yell at you. You're not the reason why we are in here."

"I know." Harry tried to turn but the witch in question stood in his way, forcing him to look upwards toward her face. "The sooner you let me finish making sure you're ok the sooner you can help him." She pointed her wand at his chest, performing a complicated incantation silently. Gold threads wound around his head, chest, and shoulders, coiling inside him like he'd taken a long pull from a good bottle of mead.

"Hurry, we're losing him," an ethereal voice erupted in the silence.

"Ron!" He tried to stand and felt his knees give way. He grabbed onto the side of the examination bed desperately, feeling his eyes closing and his breathing slowing down. "The hell you do to me, witch?" He growled before collapsing back onto the side of the bed behind him. His hands were failing him at the one time he needed them most of all. "Ron," he yelled but it came out slurred.

"Nothing, Mr. Potter. Magic is imbued into the bed. It's to prevent falls for patients. You're to stay there 'til I release you. Now sit back on the bed and the feeling shall pass."

Harry did as asked, and sure enough, the fatigue and wobbly knees quit bothering him. "That's my friend there, my best mate!" He bit his tongue because he raised his voice at the medi-witch trying to see to him. "Sorry, but –"

"I understand Mr. Potter. They're doing everything they can for him. Everyone here knows how close you are to Mr. Weasley. We know that he's -"

"It's not like that," Harry blushed, "not like that at all. I mean, I am married to his sister and all."

"Really?" she wove her wand around his head while watching the gold glitter shimmer from his hair. "The Prophet said that you two were having an affair and that the Weasley girl, the one who is the Harpy's Chaser, is a beard for you; same with Miss Granger."

"They're vicious lies," he snarled. "It's not like that," Harry kept staring at the gaggle of Healers tending Ron. "I'm closer to him than my wife, I admit that. But we're not like that." Harry peered past her hip and saw clothes flying off of his friend's torso, all soaked. "I love him as a brother and I know he feels the same towards me. His wife knows that too, along with mine. It's not a closely guarded secret, I reckon."

"Ah, well," the medi-witch completed her assessment before stowing her wand. "Well, let's get your tidied up some. You look grotty and wretched."

Harry looked down in the harsh sterile lights of the Auror emergency ward and bit off a rather pungent curse. His boots were entirely soaked along with the knees of his trouser legs, the arms of his jumper up to his elbows, along with his hands entirely caked with dried blood. Ron's blood. He'd not held him the last time he was like this, paralyzed with inaction when he was badly splinched.

"What's happened to him?"

"Splinched," said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron's sleeve, where the blood was wettest and darkest.

Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron's shirt. He always thought of splinching as something comical but this... his insides crawled unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron's upper arm, where a great chunk of flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.

"Harry, quickly, in my bag, there's a small bottle labeled 'Essence of Dittany - "

"Bag, right."

It was pure dumb luck that Hermione kept her head when they were losing Ron the last time and he was paralyzed with fear. The fear was still there, coiled around him like Nagini in Bathilda Bagshot's house that fateful Christmas night. Only this time there was nothing to let the fear go until Ron woke, if he ever did.

"Ron bought me these boots," Harry said to no one in particular. "Christmas gift in 1998. The goblins were still being tossers and he had saved up galleons. I asked for some trainers, cheap ones, just to get through training, and instead, he took me to this place Hermione took him and got these for me."

"He obviously cares for you," the medi-witch regarded Harry kindly, "and you for him. If you promise to stay put, I'll go pick up some spares for you. You're a, what 30 x 32? And a Medium shirt? Size 10 boot?"

"I guess. I've not bought clothes in a while. Anything you get me will be fine."

The matron toddled off while Harry sat glued to his bed, watching a gaggle of lime green robed healers working feverishly on Ron. The mission and everyone else could fuck right off if anything permanent happened to Ron. Watching Cedric die in front of him was bad enough. So was Sirius. Countless others. So many faces drifted across his mental eye, each one wearing a sad smile.

None of them held a candle to Ron. Ron, his best friend, the one who stood there when he was his worst and being a git and still being his brother, he needed Ron desperately, like that night he pulled him from the lake when the locket was trying to strangle him.

His enormous laugh when he found something so funny.

His electric smile when he was caught out thinking of Hermione, and getting the mickey taken from him by the other blokes in the department.

Ron's natural talent in the kitchen, taking over when Kreacher was off duty, whipping up meals for the four of them at odd hours of the night and morning and cooking for them without complaint.

His raucous bawdy humour which made Ginny laugh and Hermione roll her eyes fondly at him.

Everyone laughed at Ron's uncanny ability in impersonating various people in the department, using considerable cheek, bringing tears and laughter to the eyes of everyone listening. He is a natural comedian much of the time.

The fact that Ron, no matter how much he bitterly complains about the pay, the hours, the work conditions, the missions they go on – he goes anyway and gives 110% on every single mission.

Ron, standing in the finest wizarding robes money could buy, watching Hermione being walked down the aisle by her father, her Mum sitting on the front row, proud as she could be, even if mum and daughter were still at odds most of the time. Harry smiled watching the tears of joy flowing down his friends face and feeling no shame to show how happy he was.

Ron standing there looking like he'd won the life's lottery when Hermione said yes finally.

Ron looking like complete shite after helping rescue his Mum, impersonating her while others extracted her out of captivity, and taking a beating few lived through.

So many important moments in his life were shared with this larger than life friend and yet he's lying on the gurney, Merlin knows how bad off, and he'd never told Ron how much he meant to him, how much –

"Mr. Potter, a change of clothes. We'll send the other items out for laundry and send them by parcel to the address on the records."

"That's fine," he intoned wordlessly while watching the Healers. Each second felt like a lifetime. Taking his eyes off of the healers would be so many lifetimes. He watched with anticipation, racing to strip out of the soiled jumper, dress shirt, and vest underneath. He shoved the white t-shirt on, hoping he didn't miss anything.

"That should do it," someone spoke up from the other bed. Three Healers, in matching green robes, stepped back, looking like they were assessing on how well they crafted a broken masterpiece. They stepped away from Ron and Harry got his first glance at his best mate.

Harry gasped. Ron was as pale as an Inferius, with a bedsheet pulled up to under his arms lying on his chest. The old brain scars stood out vividly on his arms, looking almost angry compared to the sallow pallor of his skin. But his face was the worst. His eyes were bandaged over and his nose was such an unnatural shade of purple that an aubergine would cringe. His cheeks were still crusted with dried blood and the only ear he could see was mottled horribly. Why hadn't they healed his bruises?

Anger raged through his heart and soul, desiring nothing more than to bludgeon the one who did this to Ron, without concern or care except that he would get into trouble. If Jones didn't murder Trowbridge he'd do it without remourse.

George would finally be able to make one ear jokes to Ron.

That rude thought doused any anger he felt instantly.

Trowbridge would wait. Ron needed him.

Harry took his glasses off and wiped them on the clean vest in his hands before putting the slightly cleaner glasses back on his face. "Healer, there's a problem," Harry spoke up.

The three of them turned and saw what Harry had seen: ichor oozing from his ear.

"Damn it! Get Greengrass up here Now!" the lead Healer yelled at the other medi-witch in the room. She raced out at a full sprint.

"What's wrong?"

"Get him out of here!" the other Healer yelled, pulling his wand out of his robes and closing off Harry's view of what was happening. A white opaque dividing curtain snapped into place.

"Someone tell me, what's wrong?"

"Come with me, Mr. Potter."

"I'm not leaving him here."

"If you don't leave now I will stun you and keep you out."

"No, don't. I can't leave."

"Get him out of here," the third healer yelled, turning his head towards Harry.

He knew that look all too well: Fear, Panic, Anger, Terror, Impotence, Panic.

Harry felt something snap in his chest, like a thin twig was stepped on under his boot-clad foot. The room went cold and grey between heartbeats.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't watch if his best friend was going to perish this night.

"I'll leave," he said finally.

His best friend needed him and he couldn't bear to see him perish. He was such a fucking coward compared to Ron. Ron shouted down Voldemort but he couldn't watch his friend at the worst moment of his life.

With a gentility that would make any Mum proud, the medi-witch escorted him from the room, listening to the healers barking orders at a third medi-witch present, getting supplies for immediate surgery.

Harry walked with leaden steps towards the waiting room, a place he was all-too-familiar with. Softer chairs had replaced the hard plastic ones, where the family could take a kip if necessary along with a Floo-connected Fireplace and a desk full of parchment, quills, and inkwells.

Fuck. He'd have to tell Hermione if Jones or Robards hadn't already reached her. Shit.

"Fuck, why did this have to happen right after your birthday, Ron?" Harry grumbled. "Last weekend was incredible and now this? Fuck!"

Even the frightening concept of telling Hermione didn't remove the grey from his vision. Nothing mattered.

He should be scared. They were married less than a year now, only because Hermione finally figured everything out and pulled her fingers out and said yes. She'd be a terror and yet he wasn't scared of her reaction.

Losing Ron terrified him more than anything else, even facing down Riddle out in the forest the second time.

And Mom and Dad. They needed to know. Hell, the entire family needed to be told.

Harry stood in the middle of the room, trying to strain his ears to hear what might be happening in the ward. But he knew better. The room was magically sealed, blocked off from the waiting room. Only silence talked to him.

His heart beat against his ribs, reminding him that while he was still whole, Ron wasn't.

Bugger. He had to tell everyone. Who did he need to call first? He checked his watch and saw it was after 2 am. No one would be awake, not even George who was a notorious night owl, working in his invention lab for the shop, or Fleur who was finally getting sleep since Louis was sleeping through the night now, even if her husband was away in China on a trip for the bank.

The fire roared to life and Director Robards stepped out, brushing the dust off of his robes and away from his boots. "How is he?"

Harry could hug Director Gawain Robards with the lack of ceremony or protocol. He needed the focus to keep from melting down. "I dunno, sir. He seemed to be stable but then something happened and they kicked me out. I – "Harry's voice hitched, hard. "I dunno if he's going to make it." Two tears escaped. He didn't bother wiping them away.

Vile words dripped from his lips, words that Ron would appreciate being spoken on his behalf. Of course, Harry learned them from Dudley and Ron.

Robards nodded. "He will. He's got a good fighting spirit about him. Anyone who tells Jones off is made of stern stuff."

"You could be wrong."

"I rarely am. Jones tells me quite a bit if you can believe that. She praises him often, even when she wants to kick his arse to Glasgow."

"Way Ron says it, she hates him so much. She rides his arse so hard he can't do his job and he can barely tie the laces on his boots without getting his arse reamed out by her."

"Nah, she doesn't. She's hardest on those who are the best." Robards looked at the opaque windows into the ward, seeing nothing. "She's training him for promotion, just like she is for you. Bugger, I wish someone would come out here and tell us what's going on."

Harry grunted in agreement. "But she's 10 times harder on him than she is on me."

"He lacks something you have in abundance: confidence. But he has skills you don't, such as his planning and how to adapt when things go sideways. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's a seer, the way he can see events unfold before they happen and change the situation for the better. His mind works differently, piecing things together to make an analysis and a determination that is almost never wrong. That's why I put the two of you together on most missions. You balance one another out brilliantly."

"Does he know all of this?" Harry felt his emotional walls shaking.

"She'll praise him in debriefings but instead, he'll only focus on the negative. He'll chew on that 'til he's green in the face. I've watched him perform brilliant magic but because he didn't fill out the arresting paperwork exactly right and get called on that, he'll be upset with that over the accolades and praise."

"Yeah, he's been like that a long time, I reckon."

"Well if he didn't have such a complex he'd probably be senior now."

"Really?" Harry turned back towards the glass wall, blocking their view. Harry felt the first cracks breaking in his heart. "Shite, sir, he knows and I still feel like a nancy boy, wishing to have told him how I felt, how I should have spoken up to keep Trowbridge off the mission tonight. I didn't, because I trusted Jones, and look what happened."

"Trowbridge is facing an inquiry. His actions injured an Auror on a mission. If I have anything to say about it, he'll be demoted and put on duty in Azkaban. He's dangerous with a wand and if we didn't need warm bodies on duty in places I'd personally make him redundant."

"He hurt Ron. I want to do things to him that would get me made redundant and thrown in Azkaban."

"He's not worth your anger, Potter. Besides, there probably won't be enough left once Jones is done with him. He might turn in his wand after this. He should. He's been on thin ice for a year now because of repeated problems. I dunno how he stayed on with the Ministry this long, frankly."

The fireplace roared to life with green flames matching Harry's eyes. He watched as Hemera Jones, his Senior Auror, and mentor, stepped out of the fireplace looking grotty. "How is he?" with no preamble and her usual gruff way of speaking. She looked worse for wear, with her braids appearing to be halfway ripped apart, her jacked shredded, and her boots caked with mud. "We cornered Grey and got her subdued. She's safely contained but she nearly tried to bite me. Good thing that I'm faster than a werewolf bite." She saw Harry staring widely at him. "Now I can respect Weasley for what he did to help kill Greyback. Fighting off a werewolf with only one hand and a wand is hard as shite."

Robards looked at her jacket. "You still need to be checked out. I don't want any accidents after tonight."

"Sorted, once we know about Weasley. Anything?"

Harry answered first. "I dunno. I've been out here for an hour with the Director. They've not said a thing."

"Nothing? For an hour? That's odd."

"Yeah, I know."

The fireplace roared to life again. Harry stopped when he saw who it was: One very irate and utterly pissed off Hermione Granger-Weasley. "Where the hell is my Husband?" Her eyes narrowed. "Why the hell did I have to find out about him from her and not you?"

Harry recoiled.

"Oh, shite," was all he could say.