A/N: Since the first chapter, people have been commenting with vague panic about who the 'possible major character death' would refer to, and what I meant by saying this fic might be EWE. Triggbc, the second reviewer, was even worried I'd kill off Harry or Ginny! Which, very good guess, by the by.

To be clear: this isn't me saying that a major death will definitely happen, or that Harry's the doomed one. As the story mainly follows Ron's point of view, you lot will know as much (or as little) as he does. So this fic isn't really a 'Who dun it'. It's more of a, 'WTF's going on?' and 'Is he alive?'

"'Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?' Harry interrupted again.

'So he can sneak up on people,' said Ron. 'Sometimes he gets bored of running at them, flapping his arms and shrieking…'"

—Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

There was coffee. There was so much coffee. By the time it was early morning rather than late night, Ron was ready to snog whichever brilliant soul had spiked the latest round with Firewhisky. Hermione would have surely been less grateful if she'd noticed the addition, but she was currently preoccupied with banging her head against the table (fluttering papers about as she did so). In Hermione's defence, a good number of those around the conference table were tempted to do the exact same (or were in the process of such). Some had succumbed to worse…

Because, by 10 pm, the Aurors and hit-wizards had been racing about every which way, torn in securing the Ministry, interviewing the panicky guests, and jumping into the investigation. It took little time to trace Benjamin Barker as well as a wizard who'd been watching the outside of the bathroom. Both had been caterers for the event, the second having given his name as Jonas Fogg (another false name). The company barely knew them, they kept to themselves, but there were accompanying addresses. Nellie Lovett remained a ghost.

At 11, Kingsley Shacklebolt broke out of the body-bind Lisa had put him under (after his third attempt to escape his protective detail). It took a horde of Aurors to bundle the furious Minister back up, and even then most came out of it with a severe limp or bloody nose. Perhaps more important than a Minister under partial house arrest, MLE personnel had been sent out on raids to the suspects' addresses.

It was at midnight that things calmed down a touch. 'A touch' meaning that the addresses weren't so much houses or flats as they were PO boxes…boxes filled with mail. These had even more possible addresses and Sweeney Todd pseudonyms, none of which the MLE were hopeful about (yet they had to pursue). Reporters had also encircled the Ministry where the lock-down continued.

By 1 am, Hermione had gone over the Pensieve footage enough times that she was wobbly whenever she returned to the real world. She began insisting that Lovett was definitely a woman. According to her, she hadn't 'walked right' when she'd been imitating Harry—she swished her hips and took smaller steps than a man typically would. If the metamorphmagus hadn't been born female she identified as one. Ron was a twinge incredulous, until Hermione dragged him by the collar into the Pensieve enough times that he'd admitted defeat. But this didn't help much. Britain was a society steeply entrenched in pureblood politics and keeping inherent family magic a secret. As such, there was no registration for metamorphmaguses and no way to track them (female or no). There were some open with their gift, such as Nymphadora Tonks, but they were few and far between. Much to the MLE's displeasure, there was also no spell to detect or track this magic.

At 2 in the morning, the senior MLE staff had situated themselves in a conference room—mainly to keep others' safe from their irritated hexes. This sometimes backfired, seeing as how Dmitri's and Lisa's argument about whether Lovett was still in the Ministry had led to angry curses being flung at a furiously transforming vampire bat. The hit-wizards were miffed that the continuing raids was obviously a planned wild goose chase. Tempers were so high that scorchmarks on the door denoted McLaggen's one and only entrance (as the cheerfully rested man's flippant attitude hadn't been met well by his groggy coworkers). Susan (out-of-sorts with being handed leadership and from dealing with the reporters) had been the one to aim a particularly ferocious hex at his head.

Which brought them up to 3 am, where they were more tired and cranky than violent. Clouds of memos buzzed around the room, a frantic WWN announcer was blaring from the corner, and piles of paper and suspect files had been endlessly passed around between the main Aurors and hit-wizards.

Ron glanced around, taking in the disheveled scene with its momentary silence (as everyone gulped down enough caffeine to jolt them awake). He looked at the papers piled up before him. He rubbed his eyes. "Okay," he voiced a thought he'd been thinking for ages. "Anyone else pissed that they're clearly, obviously playing us?"

There was a chorus of grumbled agreements and head desks.

"Or how much goddamn planning went into this," Hit-Wizard Murphy Stone bit out. Every inch of his muscular physique looked ready to punch someone (out of sheer frustration, if nothing else). "Thirty. At least thirty deliberate dead-end leads, half with ties to that blasted musical! And you know they filtered into the crowd only so we had to interrogate every guest. Not even Fudge was this much of a disaster!"

"Because there weren't any clues with Fudge. No leads, like the rest of the vanishings," Ron scrubbed at his face, forcing back a yawn that scratched its way out. "This was a complete change of MO."

Dmitri gave a humourless laugh from across the table, teeth a touch too sharp (Lisa gave them a wary look). "It's the Sweenies' coming-out party."

"Come off it," Hit-Wizard Nicole Gladstone dismissed, words muffled with her head on the table. "They were already the most high-profile criminals London's seen this century."

"Yes, London," Dmitri argued. "They just went international! Didn't you see the newspapers the States are printing? This is front page. When Europe and Asia wake up, it'll be the same!"

Su Li's gaze had been on the window, frowning as she watched the start of dawn over the city's skyline. "Or what if the changed MO is something different. Yes, of course it's them laughing at us and putting on a show. But the Sweenies made a direct allusion between Harry and Judge Turpin. Turpin's the main target in the story and the villain from Sweeney Todd's point of view. Much of these dead-end leads involve neo-Death Eaters. What if Harry's always been their target?"

Stone stared at her. "Then why the hell would they first kidnap dozens of others!"

"Because that's what they do," Hermione reluctantly pulled her head up. "Death Eaters don't care about collateral damage. What they do care about is inciting terror. If Su's on the right path, then it's not that they only wanted to get Harry. Harry was their coup de grace."

"Perfect their technique by taking people we'd overlook," Ron groaned, "start a panic by scaling up their attacks, and then make it clear no one's safe. The press' already thinking there's a new Dark Lord lurking about—they'll be properly hysteric now."

"I know no one wants to think this," Susan said grimly, "but could we have a Dark Lord on our hands? It'd be a brilliant move, capturing Harry Potter before coming out into the open."

The MLE personnel exchanged uneasy glances.

"It's a group," Ron said with more confidence than he felt. "What we know about them, there's no sign of a clear leader. Doesn't mean they don't have a leader of some sort. But they…look. People like Voldemort and Grindelwald had inflated egos to match their power. We would have heard something."

"Dark Lords typically foster cults of personality," Hermione took off from Ron. "A dictatorship, of sorts. Only 'sneaking around' isn't what they do, as the entire point is to gain followers. They broadcast their names, shout it from the rooftops. The Sweenies more closely resemble a faction of terrorists. Or a group of serial killers, whose main goal is to secretly murder."

"Serial killers, eh?" Stone barked. "So we're admitting the Sweenies are surely killing their victims?"

"No, we're not!" Ron said just as harshly back, sleep nagging at his brain. "Hermione was using an example, that's it! We have no bodies and no evidence that anyone's dead. No," he continued quickly, cutting off Stone as he opened his mouth, "I'm not counting what Lovett said. She even admitted they were putting on a show, of course she'd tell us they were killing Harry! We have no idea what's happening to the victims. So don't anyone hint to the press that we have a Dark Lord or serial killing group!"

The passionate statement was met with silence. Ron could tell that plenty were less than certain. But they were all at least in agreement about one item: the last thing they needed was mass hysteria, and they were already close enough to that without any official hint that there was a new Voldemort.

"Ron's right, there's no need for speculation," Susan pacified the room. "Maybe we should return to the footage: not of the direct criminals but the areas around them. We might have missed something."

"Or take another look at St. Mungo's," Lisa pointed out. "All we got was Barker and Harry entering before immediately flooing out. Smart, since we can't track that. But maybe they're playing another game? Saying that Harry should be in hospital? Not quite a Sweeney reference, but similar."

Ron eyed Lisa, catching onto a phrase. "What was that?"

"Like, word play. Them talking about hospital and his death—"

"Right. Right, thanks." Ron nodded, tuning out the ensuing conversation. He began looking through the pile of papers before him, taking up a particular page. Scrutinising the transcript he soon found what he was after:

L: 'I still don't see what's wrong with my plan. Perfect distraction. You go with grandpa to the hospital and I stroll into dinner. Where I grab "my wife" and shag her senseless.'

B: 'Stop talking. Will you do your job?'

And then, there. Further down:

L: 'Hence the emergency floo. No offence, but I'd prefer he be seen by a Healer at the hospital.'

Ron kept searching through the transcript, looking with a fresh eye for more evidence of his sudden idea. He saw it soon enough:

L: 'Blimey, don't get your wee knickers in a twist.'

"Hermione," Ron interrupted Dmitri's rant that they should be looking for CCTVs around the PO boxes, drawing the room's attention, "about Lovett. You're sure she's a woman?"

Hermione was startled at the non-sequitur. "Quite. She wasn't a bad impersonator but wasn't moving like a man."

"No, she's a horrible impersonator," Ron put the transcript down, flashing a brief grin. "Was having too much fun to take it seriously. On top of that, she doesn't have a great handle on Britishisms."

A pause.

"On what now?" Lisa leaned forward, as did many of the others.

Ron's expression turned into a smirk. "Lovett made stupid language mistakes. Only caught it when you said that thing about 'should be in hospital'. That's what the English say and what Lovett didn't say. She added a 'the': 'to the hospital'. Then, when she did use Britishisms? She overused them. I'd get if she was cursing too much—hell, I do that—but she was exaggerating even minor words. She put on an over-the-top Scottish accent in the dining hall and an over-the-top English one in the bathroom!"

Another pause. Followed by everyone pouncing for the transcripts.

"If it helps," Ron continued as the others scoured the pages, "I'd guess English's her first language 'cause there's no blaring problems on that end. Though I'd call in a linguist, I bet our mysterious metamorph woman is an—"

"American!" Hermione crowed, looking more awake than she had in an hour. Ron gave her an exasperated glance.

"Thank you, love, for stealing my punchline."

"No no, I'm sorry, you are absolutely brilliant!" Hermione looked at him with shining eyes. "I just noticed something else. She said the floos were on the first floor."

"They're on the ground floor," Stone's forehead creased. "She made a mistake?"

"Yes, but not what you're thinking of." Hermione was growing more excited by the moment. "Lovett knew exactly where the floos were, she was just calling the ground floor the first floor. She's American! Their 'first floor' is our 'ground floor'!"

A slow smile had unraveled on Susan's face. "Plus, though we don't register metamorphs, you know who surely does?"

Ron leaned back in his seat, giving a small laugh. "Never thought I'd say this, but thank Merlin for America's paranoia. Think they'll give us a list?"

"With conditions or for a price? Sure." Hermione didn't seem put off. Indeed, she was looking bloodthirsty. Her husband gave a silent sigh of relief.

Susan raced off for the American Embassy, Hermione was given consolatory but hedging responses from the CIA, and when Shacklebolt questioned the NSA it took many hems and haws for them to even admit such a registration list existed. By 5 am the entire leadership was even more weary, as Susan had been banned from the Embassy and Shacklebolt had almost initiated an international incident (by losing his temper and declaring that they'd leave NATO if the Yanks weren't more helpful). Ron was on their side, he was, but it only furthered his belief that bureaucracy made people batty.

After these incidents, Hermione had attempted to persuade the European Union to levy some power on the States. Brussels' leaders then riled her up enough that the sleep deprived witch had shouted that she would bloody well get the UK to leave the EU, what with all the good the blasted 'European Project' did them!

…Ron had dragged his protesting wife out of that highly insulted board room, making a mental note to bring this up whenever she mentioned his bad temper. Still, a break was obviously in order. It was thankful that this corresponded with a faint lull back at the Ministry. As soon as Hermione calmed down (with the help of maybe one or two snuck potions) she agreed that someone needed to make a trip to the Burrow. Ron would have joined her, but he was exhausted and knew if he didn't grab a nap he was bound to collapse. Hermione was more furious than tired, so it made sense for her to be the one who visited the family and checked on Rose. So Hermione flooed off and Ron kicked two snogging Junior Aurors off a couch in the break room.

He groggily woke up an hour later, stretching and banging against Hermione's leg. With a tired squint, he realised his head was now in her lap. She was looking down at him, apologetic and red eyed.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to wake you," Hermione said in a fretful whisper, as though there was any hope he'd go back to sleep. She'd changed out of her dress and now wore jeans and a cotton top. "I just got back and you looked so peaceful and I—"

"It's fine, don't worry." Ron winced, straightening up. He remained close to his wife, moving so that he was leaning against her. A part of him noted there was no one in the break room except them. "Any more news? How're things at my parents'?"

"No news," she sighed. "The Burrow's packed with people. The kids were asleep but all the adults were crammed in the kitchen, WWN blaring. About pounced me for information when I came in! That's one good thing, I suppose: not much has leaked out." She blearily scrubbed at her hair. "Molly was lovely, forced them off and handed me an overflowing plate. I brought dinner—breakfast?—for you, by the way. As well as a change of clothes."

"Rose? Ginny?"

"Rosie was asleep," Hermione smiled at the name, the movement creasing away some of her worry lines, "curled up with Jamie, Freddie, and Roxie. George told me they'd fallen asleep after arguing about which House they wanted to be in at Hogwarts. Our lovely daughter," she sent him a look, "wishes to sneak into Hufflepuff. This is so that no one will expect when she, ahem, 'takes over the world'."

"That's my girl," Ron said proudly, not knowing how much he'd needed this conversation. He stifled back a yawn. "The other three?"

"Roxie agreed with Rose. The boys are of the same mind, but felt that Gryffindor was the better choice for their goals. Apparently, they cited us and the Twins as 'precedence'." Any humour fell at this mention of Fred and Harry. "Ron, Ginny didn't say much. She was one of the few who didn't start shouting questions when I walked in."

Ron was silent for a long moment. "I'm sorry I didn't go with you. What did you end up telling them?"

Hermione squeezed his hand, massaging his fingers. "I kept it vague. Told them that there'd been raids and the lock-down had been mainly lifted." She chewed her lip. "I said most of our suspects looked like dead-ends but that the investigation was only just beginning. I, I didn't tell them what Lovett claimed."

He nodded, understanding. "It was surely nonsense anyway. She was bluffing, only wanted to scare us."

"I, I guess." A quick breath. "Yes, of course you're right."

It was back to reviewing useless witness testimonies, tightening security, conducting even more 'raids' of PO boxes, and 'negotiating' with the American Ambassador (Susan had gotten her ban revoked, though the Ambassador's arms were still tentacles). It was properly the morning of 1st November before there was another lieu. Some Aurors were preparing for Shacklebolt's planned press conference, but one Senior Auror had something else in mind.

Ron felt like a walk and apparation over the floo, he felt like avoiding his family for as long as possible, and he didn't fancy popping to the Burrow (without announcement) into what was surely a lion's den. He thought this was a good plan. He thought it was rather brilliant, actually. Unfortunately, he was tired enough to forget about the reporters. He remembered them the moment he stepped into the overflowing Atrium:

"Weasley, Weasley! Any statement from your family?"

"Witch Weekly here! Tell your side of why you were shoved aside for Bones!"

"Witnesses reported you assaulted Reginald Ripley! Is he your main suspect?"

"—the Sweenies?"

"Has Potter been killed like the rest!"

"—knowing the Sweenies slipped through your fingers?"

"—Dark Lord surfacing—"

"—tragic widow, have her children been told?"

Ron barged through the screaming press. Pushing through head down, he tried to tune out the shouts. A thought flurried to the front of his mind: he wished he had Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

He blocked the view of two colliding cameras, struggling to get through the gridlocked Atrium. People slipping and sliding on the candy rocketing out from the fountain helped, but it was slow going. Oddly, he found himself distracted from this chaotic scene. Had Harry had his Cloak with him? Ron wasn't sure, the bloke had a habit of carrying it on him. Maybe Ginny knew. No, wait, Lovett hadn't found it. What about his wand? Broken, no doubt. What else would he have had on him? His badge, a wallet with pictures of his kids, some knives.

Ron felt a trickle of relief, even as he fought through the shouted questions, batting reporters, and flaring cameras for the exit. Aside from the wand, Harry hadn't lost anything that precious to him. So once they found him maybe there wouldn't be irreparable damage. He was queasy thinking about it in these terms, but he also didn't want to imagine Harry's face if his dad's Cloak had been lost.

Wait, no…his wedding ring. He'd forgotten Harry's ring.

"Weasley, WEASLEY! ONE QUESTION!"

"—Temporary Head Auror Bones has made no further comment since her announcement of an 'incident' at the gala. There have been scores of witnesses coming forth, but the Ministry will be making an official statement any minute now. If you're just tuning in this morning, last night Harry Potter was—"

Ron stood by the kitchen door, hand on the knob. The hallway was deserted though he could hear children's shrieks from the living room. He could make out Rose's voice, too, and it took everything he had not to rush to her. But WWN was resounding from the otherwise silent kitchen and he knew he had to get the interrogation over with.

Taking a deep breath he opened the door and stepped into the crowded room. He began speaking before any of the startled people had realised he'd entered. "You aren't pouncing me like you did Hermione. This night's been hell, I'm dead exhausted, and all I want to do right now is hug my daughter. If all of you stay quiet I'll tell you what's happened."

No one made a peep. George and Angelina peered at him from over a huge parchment they were scrawling on, his mum had Andromeda's hands in her own, his dad seemed to have been talking in a low voice to Bill in the corner, and the other Weasley adults—except Ginny—were huddled around the kitchen table and a WWN radio. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt had just begun to speak:

"I am saddened to have to address the nation today. Rumours of recent events have already spread far and wide, and I unfortunately have to confirm them. Last night, Head Auror Harry Potter was kidnapped from a Ministry Gala. The Magical Law Enforcement has evidence that the 'Sweenies' were behind it."

Ron sunk into a chair, rubbing his face and not looking at his relatives. "Harry vanished and the kidnappers used fake names from Sweeney Todd. That combined with other details makes us sure this was the Sweenies, not copycats. But the group's signature changed. Instead of leaving no leads, they gave us an abundance of false clues. I've lost count of how many useless raids were conducted, and don't start me on the gaps in security. But there's, there's possibly a real lead on one of the criminals. I dunno. It's a disaster, honestly."

There was a long, tense pause. Another thought came to mind and Ron pried his eyes open to peer at his family.

"This isn't another Dark Lord," he continued more harshly than he'd meant to. "I don't know what the media's been saying, but we have no evidence of that. There's also no proof this is a serial killing group! If I have to hear that one more bloody time—"

"You think he's alright?" Andromeda cut in, stricken. His mum tightened the hold on her hand.

"Our papers have been filled for the past months with this group's crimes. From the disappearance of Charlotte Fawcett to Cornelius Fudge, our community has been horrifically shaken. There are few of us who have not been impacted. Still, there is no pretending that this latest disappearance doesn't change things. Head Auror Potter is a beloved hero for us all, a good man who encompassed a revolution. Harry's also a close friend of mine, and though we've had our disagreements I wish nothing more than for his safe return home. My heart goes out to Ginny Potter and their children, as well as the Weasley and Tonks families. I ask the public and media to please grant them privacy during this trying time."

Ron's throat suddenly felt dry. Did he think Harry was alright? An image of Lovett pronouncing Harry's death played in his mind…of the potion that had made Lottie convulse…of how easy it was to vanish a corpse…of criminals gleefully baking meat pies… "Yeah, of course he's fine. These are kidnappers, not murderers."

Angelina gave a jerking movement, staring at Ron with wide eyes. George gave his brother a considering look. The rest of the family was relieved.

"Still, as much as it hurts, Mr. Potter is only one of thirty-three who have been taken. As I have said before, we do not believe that this is the work of a new Dark Lord. A psychopathic group is responsible. While we are taking it extremely seriously that the defeater of Voldemort was captured during a memorial for the First War, we are judging these to be closer to acts of terrorism than orders from a rising megalomaniac. I urge the British public to apply rationality to the gossip which has been endlessly spewed. I also call on the press to manage the yellow journalism that has been besmirching your pages. This situation is bad enough without irresponsible reporters writing up nonsense rumours and spreading hysteria."

"Look, just listen to Shacklebolt. He isn't that full of it, no matter how annoyed Harry is at him," Ron gestured at the radio, getting back to his feet. He could have been at the announcement himself, though he'd had absolutely no desire to go. He'd wanted to stay well away from pitying and questioning stares. "I know Rose's in the living room, but where's Ginny?"

"She's in there as well," Audrey said in a small voice. But the statement was overshadowed by his mum jolting up from her seat and rushing towards him, apparently startled from his rise from the table.

"Oh Ronnie," she wrapped him in a tight embrace. He returned it gladly: he couldn't remember the last time one of his mum's hugs had felt this good. The exhaustion almost sank back as warmth filled him. Eventually, she was who ended it, reaching up to place her hands on his cheeks. "Have you eaten, or had any sleep?"

She'd been crying, it was obvious this close. She also needed more sleep. This was what made Ron realise that, really, he shouldn't be nearly this tired. He'd done all-nighters plenty of times before and they'd never left him feeling anywhere this worn out.

"The MLE has been working non-stop for months to bring these criminals to justice and to find our missing friends and family. The temporary loss of our Head Auror is keenly felt, but Interim Head Susan Bones has all of my confidence, as does Director of Magical Law Enforcement Hermione Weasley."

Ron pulled back from his mum's hold, gaze apologetic. "I'm not hungry, thanks mum." His dad was stepping forward along with George and his lengthy parchment. Though the hug had been wonderful, he was feeling even worse every moment spent here. "I'm fine, everything's going to be fine. Just—I'll go see Rose. Thanks for looking after her, I just…I don't really have much time. I'm sorry."

Ron wouldn't say that he fled from the kitchen. It was a fast pace, that was it. As the door slammed behind him he leaned against the hallway wall, head tilted back with closed eyes. He needed to catch his breath. Merlin, he needed to sleep. Why was his chest this knotted?

"Hey," came a voice by him. Ron gave a pitched breath followed by a low sigh: he hadn't realised anyone had followed him, and if that didn't say how out of it he was, nothing would.

"What, George?" So maybe he was testy. He didn't look at his brother. "I'm fine, okay? Bugger off."

There was a scoff. "Sure, you're fine. That's why you're hyperventilating out here."

"I'm not hyperventi—what the hell do you want?"

There was a pause, a long enough one that Ron opened his eyes, looking over at his hesitating brother.

George pulled in an aggrieved sigh, gesturing at the parchment he held. "We've all been going spare here. Angie especially." 'Because of Lottie Fawcett,' was the unspoken message. "To stop people from pouncing you lot at the Ministry, I figured a distraction was in order."

Ron groaned, knowing full well where this was headed. "What did you explode?"

"Not that type of distraction," George gave a wry grin. This fell as he glanced at the paper, fidgeting. "Listen Ron, all jokes aside. You know I absolutely respect you and your job?"

"Uh, sure?"

"And that I honestly wouldn't interfere in an MLE case—'cept, you know, if the Ministry was taken over by wankers?"

"George, I'm going to find Rose in five seconds. One—two—"

The parchment was thrust into his hands.

"We came up with alternatives," George said bluntly, no amusement in his voice. "Take it seriously, toss it in the bin: up to you."

Blinking, Ron peered down at the long list. His eyebrows raised at some of the bullet points. "'Grave rob Dumbledore and snatch the Elder Wand'? 'Brew a tonne of felix felicis and roll with it'? 'Bribe the Hogwarts ghosts to make a canvas search of Britain'?"

George scratched his head. "We got a bit tipsy around the middle there."

"I can tell," Ron looked at Audrey's looping handwriting which detailed a theoretical fishing pole that could be thrust through the Veil of Death (or, according to her, more of a possible, 'Veil-to-another-time-or-dimension-and-maybe-not-so-much-a-portal-to-hell'). "So, these are…"

"Ideas on how to find Harry. Yeah, I know." George waved off Ron's look. "Again, not trying to interfere with you lot. But we were talking, see, and figured that a ridiculous number of his adventures end with some deus ex machina thing."

Ron raised an eyebrow, feeling the smallest prickle of amusement. "His 'adventures' and…deus ex machina?"

"Come on, the bloke's the so-called Master of Death! Screwy things are always happening to him," George glossed over. "Maybe Ginny's right and he'll come waltzing back any minute now. But if not, these are some off-the-wall ways to rescue Boy Wonder."

"Uh huh," Ron rolled up the parchment before minimising it, sticking it in his pocket. "Thanks George. No, seriously, thank you. I'll look it over and show it to Hermione."

George let out a low exhale, clasping his shoulder. "I know you're just pacifying me, but thanks mate."

Children were racing every which way through the living room, hyped up as they could only be after a family-wide sleepover at the Burrow. There were shouts of greeting as Ron walked in, enthusiastic enough that he instantly learned two things: the kids hadn't been told anything, and they were surely all full of Halloween sugar.

Ginny looked…not better, not at all, but she had on a fake smile. She was clutching Al to her chest and, out of all the kids, only Jamie seemed confused (taking glances at his mum while he played with Rose, Fred, and Roxanne). To be fair, Teddy and Victoire were also out of sorts. But when they looked up from their talking at Ron's entrance, their expressions were more fearful than confused. Then Rose was running at him and everything else faded.

"Dada!" his little girl squeaked as Ron wrapped her in his arms, lifting her up. "So so so much fun! Love slum'er parties!"

"That's great sweetie," Ron swallowed. As Rose chattered on about all she'd been up to that morning, his gaze shifted to Ginny. She hadn't gotten up and hadn't glanced at him. He walked over to her, balancing Rose as he did.

She gave him a glance as he came up: her smile twitched. She was still in her dress from last night, though her feet were bare—her heels had been kicked off somewhere.

"Not much yet," Ron answered the unspoken question, sitting beside her on the couch. He took it as a good sign that she didn't shove him off the cushion. Al yawned, slurping at his hand. Jamie, Teddy, and Vicky were sending him odd looks. "Lots of raids, tonnes of dead ends. Maybe one good lead, Hermione's working on it."

"Okay," was the short reply. Ron tried not to gape. He also scrambled for something else to say.

"Do you want something?" was his stab at a sentence. Ginny blinked at him, confused.

"What?"

"Something, like water? A book? A, err, bottle for Al? Chocolate?" Ron mentally shook himself—he thought he was better at this comforting stuff. But it apparently worked because, after a moment, a true smile (albeit faint) appeared on her face.

"Ron, never change. You're hopeless," Ginny said fondly. If it was any other situation she would have giggled. "Oh go on then, hug me. You look like you need it more than me."

But before Ron could answer or move, Rose perked up. At the mention of a hug she squealed, jumping forward to wrap her baby cousin in a hug with dozens of kisses.

The adults blinked at their kids. "Well," Ginny said drily, watching her son's dazedness as he was 'attacked', "that wasn't quite what I—umph."

Because Ron had promptly bundled her into a hug as well. Ginny rolled her eyes but patted his back. "Sweet Circe Ron, you're as bad as your daughter."

"Shut up," he muttered. "I'm comforting you."

"Your hugs are as tight as mum's, I swear—"

"You aren't supposed to talk through this!"

"You aren't supposed to strangle me!"

"This is hardly strangling, don't be stupid. If anything, I'm squashing our kids."

"Oh yes Ron, that's mounds better. Not to mention you're squishing my unborn child."

"She's being cushioned by Al and Rose, s'all good. And they're giggling, see? Nothing to worry about."

There was a lengthy pause. Neither noticed the looks they were getting for the extended hug, or that Rosie had grown bored and had pulled herself and her drooling cousin out of the sandwich onto the neighbouring couch cushion.

"I'm sorry, sis," Ron murmured, his voice low enough that only Ginny heard. "We'll find him. He'll be fine, you'll see."

"I know," was Ginny's soft reply. And if she was a bit too calm about all of this, Ron was just glad she wasn't crying. He was about as good at dealing with sobbing women as he was with comforting hugs.

It was still a mess. Everyone was racing around, shouting orders, apparating to check on useless lead after useless lead. Ron was at the centre of it until…there was a moment of quiet.

Not for everyone, just him. A minute where Ron found himself in an unwanted break, waiting for a stack of papers from the Ministry's caterers to get to him and where he…where he could only stand there. Wait. Think. Overthink. Obsess.

Ron drummed his fingers against his arm, impatient at the records' slowness and frustrated at the thoughts bubbling up now that he had time to dwell on them. Because he knew all too well it was his fault Harry had been at the gala, he didn't need constant reminders.

But his thoughts didn't care, being too busy giving him more and more reasons why he was to blame. He'd convinced Harry to go to the nonsense memorial. He'd tricked Harry into giving a speech. He hadn't noticed the blue residue. He'd waved off Harry's headache. He hadn't considered Lovett's obviously fake name. He'd thought nothing of his best friend disappearing for a bit.

…he was the one who'd been acting like a jerk. Who bothered their best friend about taking a promotion? What sort of prat pranked someone instead of admitting he missed working with them? Who did all of that without feeling a shred of guilt?

A tablespoon of tact? Hah! Hermione had overestimated.

A sick feeling rumbled in Ron's stomach, the impact of an earlier action truly hitting him. "Christ," he grimaced at the floor and clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. "I brought his parents into this. His parents! What was I thinking? How the hell could I…damn it!" His hand slammed the edge of a table, taking no notice of the pain.

Some best friend he was.

But even these thoughts were preferable to those lingering in the back of his mind. The distant memories that jolted Ron with déja vu:

Feeling relieved when Harry told him about his horrid relatives when they'd first met. Because at least he wouldn't make fun of Ron's hand-me-downs. At least someone else had a mad family.

Feeling the 'Potter Stinks' badge hit his skin and ding off. Looking at Harry's angry face, seeing his frightened best mate, and turning his back to stomp off up to their dorm.

Feeling rage and hunger and horror and helplessness build up within him until: "Your parents are dead! You have no family!"

Feeling reluctant and uncertain, but pulling Harry away from the Burrow dinner to the empty living room. The Auror seminars on how to handle child victims had gotten to him. On how to recognise abuse. Quiet and underfed kids, flinching at touches, with little self-esteem and rare smiles. Kids who distrusted authority. Kids who were wary but crafty. Harry seemed happy now, albeit confused. Ron took a deep breath and wiped that away: "What the hell did your uncle do to you?"

Feeling peeved while Harry's grin faded to uncertainty. The man had been expecting a good-natured laugh or a full-hearted congratulations. What he got was hurt silence before:"Head Auror? Are you mad!" harsh words flooded up before Ron could reign them in. "What's wrong with your job now! Hah, what am I saying. Too good for Harry Bloody Potter, yeah?"

Ron rested his head against the wall, barely noticing when the records were plopped before him. His hand throbbed, he didn't care. He wasn't sure if he wanted to scream, sob, or sleep for a year. Maybe all of them. Probably all of them.

He wondered why Harry had stuck with him for so long. Had he ever apologised? Properly apologised, that is. For any of it. Because he always regretted the blunt questions and insults after he said them, but it never stopped the next one from slipping out. Sure, he did it to everyone: short temper and all that. But it was different with Harry. He'd always been the one bloke who never needed (or expected) an apology. So Ron could say whatever he wanted to him with no repercussions.

No repercussions.

A deep breath. Another one.

No, Ron realised. More than collapsing or shouting (maybe even more than apologising until he was blue in the face) he wanted to hold Rosie and Hermione and never let them go.

The noise of the Auror offices darted back into his brain, unpleasantly shaking him from his thoughts. Straightening and cursing, he grabbed the files and strode off to whatever the hell he was going to try next. Because, emotionally clueless or no, Ron was finding his best friend before the idiot got himself killed.

It was lunch (past lunch) and Ron had no appetite. The UK wasn't going to war with the US and their seats in NATO and the EU remained in place. But that was about all that was good. The States was still barely budging on their records, they had no other decent leads, and the media firestorm was only growing more intense. Lisa thrust a sandwich in his hand.

It was the afternoon, it was November, and Ron teamed up with Susan to force Hermione out of the Ministry for some sleep.

It was dinner (past dinner), and Susan teamed up with Dmitri to force Ron back home. Well, to the Burrow. He stayed just long enough to avoid the flung questions and find out that Hermione had picked up Rose earlier.

Then, he was home. It felt weird walking through the doorway. He went upstairs to check on Rose, who was sleeping, and saw that the master bedroom was empty. Hurrying back down he was amazed that he'd missed the bright light shining from their living room. He was even more amazed when he entered and saw his wife.

The thing was, Ron had hoped Hermione was sleeping. But he'd expected to find her buried behind a wall of books. She was seated beside stacks of scrolls and tomes, true. But that was just the general state of their cluttered living room. But now, aside from a pile of crumpled up parchments which should be binned, there were none of the usual signs that she'd gone off on a frantic research mode.

That alone made Ron worry. Because that meant maybe she wasn't in a 'frantic research mode', and he wasn't sure how else she would handle a crisis. But, apparently, it was like this. His wife was sitting on the couch, staring at the flickering fireplace: no book in her hand.

He took this as a sign that she'd finally lost it.

"Why am I shocked?" Hermione murmured, revealing that she did know Ron was in the room. He shoved his current worry over her mental state aside and cautiously walked in. Seeing that she wasn't about to erupt in shouts, he sat down on a lumpy cushion and took her hand in his.

"We all are," Ron said extra gently, because even with everything else the thought of a crying Hermione terrified him. He'd far prefer her frantically reading. Or frantically screaming (at him or otherwise). Because then he'd know to either be quiet or to argue back until both were calm. But even after years of marriage, he still hadn't the faintest how he was supposed to combat tears.

"It doesn't make sense!" she gave a sniffle, making him stiffen beside her. There were only a few loose sobs, shock being the most blazen expression across her face. "We should have expected this to happen. At least at some point! It's a miracle none of us were taken during the war—oh, you know what I mean. Then with our jobs…"

It dawned on him what she was talking about. His voice became even softer, trying to soothe her using logic. He figured this was a decent idea. "You know Harry hates security details. Who knows how many guards he's shaken off over the years?"

"That's not the point!" Hermione exclaimed. Ron was somewhat encouraged by the anger rather than defeat in her tone, but was less mollified by the tears now streaming down her cheeks. "We've laughed about it, laughed! Did we really think nothing could happen? That we could all coast by into peaceful lives? We never took the background threats seriously. Of course someone would kidnap him! I'm only shocked it didn't happen earlier!"

Ron opened his mouth to protest, before closing it. As happened so many times when talking to his wife, he couldn't think of a way to refute her. Because she was right. Per usual.

The Aurors and hit-wizards provided security details for most high ranking magical figures. For almost all of them, actually, at least on occasion. Now that Ron thought about it, he could only think of one wizard who routinely turned down any guards for himself—saying that he found them annoying and cumbersome. Usually security was pushed, at least for big events. But even the Minister of Magic was unlikely to argue with Harry Potter, not when the man had dug his heels in.

So now they were (he was) blaming Harry's stubbornness for his disappearance. Blaming the missing wizard. Just when Ron thought he couldn't feel any worse.

"For ransom alone…" Hermione's shuddering voice broke, shaking him out of his guilty thoughts. "I don't even want to think about if this is for revenge. Because, what these people must have planned? Or have done already?"

Ron slumped against the back of the couch, the exhaustion catching up with him. "We're morons, aren't we."

"Complete idiots," Hermione agreed, her voice still not sounding like her own. "But not as bad as that stupid, naive prat who thinks he's, he's immortal or some nonsense! Because good god Ron, when I see Harry I'm going to kill him for frightening us like this! That or, or body-binding him and stuffing him in an unplottable room in an unplottable house until he agrees to a security detail! Because I'm, I'm that worried and, and…"

"Breathe, love. It's okay," Ron murmured, pulling his hiccoughing wife to his chest. "We'll find him, you'll see. Everything will be fine."

"Death doesn't discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates,
In every picture it paints
It paints me and all my mistakes."
—Aaron Burr, Hamilton

A/N: Should be clear, but this isn't going to be one of those bash!Ron fics. Yeah, I have him regretting saying a bunch of stuff to Harry. But you know when something bad happens and you replay every single thing you could have done differently? That's what Ron's doing, taking things out of context in the process. Also, my headcanon's that Ron had an epiphany about the Dursleys while learning about child abuse as an Auror. It's not much of a leap that a shocked Ron would bluntly confront Harry…which couldn't have ended well.

Next, the whole 'exaggerating Britishisms' thing is a tongue-in-cheek joke, as I'm sure I accidentally do it in my writing. It's also because I couldn't resist having an American baddie. After reading so many fics about American Mary Sues entering Hogwarts, it was bound time my home country had some fun playing a villain.

Finally, pardon the EU/NATO joke! It won't be part of the story, I just couldn't resist poking fun at Brexit.