If everything hadn't already been a disaster before, it certainly was now. All of MLE was a ruckus as the not-so-secret news that someone was selling cases to the press was screamed from the rooftops. Ron would have gladly added to the shouting with, 'Shut it and find the damned mole!', and, 'I leave for three bloody hours' … if a hand hadn't gripped his collar as soon as he'd arrived back from Ginny's, dragging him into an office.

He blinked, shout still on his lips, as the door magically shut behind him. Hermione's door—with the literary quotes thumbtacked amid bits and bobs of photos and memories. If it was Hermione's door, this was Hermione's office. Which meant—

"Screw the mole!" his wife said elegantly as he turned, her grip releasing his collar and a tight look to her face. "Screw this mess!"

"Ah, dear?" Ron backed a step away, rather scared of the glint in her eyes. She walked to her desk, grabbing a long sheet of paper and a separate list. He took a second glance: George's list?

"Susan and Kingsley are on top of that mess," Hermione gestured impatiently at a chair as she checked for any listening or spying spells, "we won't be missed. But this nonsense has gone on for too long! We're not leaving this room until we have a plan to get Harry back, do you hear me?"

Ron was still standing. Gawking at her, a bit, because her features were shining with fierceness and determination and sweet Merlin was he in love with this woman. If he swept her into a kiss he blamed his frayed nerves, or how she shone with hair a mess and fiery eyes.

After a minute Hermione pulled away, a flush in her cheeks and batting him off with a smile. "That won't help us find him!"

"Sorry, sorry." He wasn't. "George's mad list? You realise half of them were drunk while writing that."

"Madness is exactly what we need," was the simple reply.

As they sat down and started to go through it, he couldn't help but agree. He also had the best sort of déja vu, thinking of the old days where the three of them would pace the Gryffindor common room, puzzling out whichever mystery they'd stuck their noses into. Hermione would rush to the library with a squeak, Ron would run after her with a joke to make everything seem okay, and Harry would switch up the plan at the last minute with a bonafide miracle.

Except, this wasn't Hogwarts. This wasn't a faceless mystery, and the two of them knew the proper—the professional—ways to nab the bad guys. But those weren't working at the moment. So the adults bent over the list, tsking and sighing and exclaiming over the outlandish possibilities. Because one thing was clear: this was Harry they were dealing with, and anything related to him played by another set of rules.

"Think they're onto something with the Master of Death stuff?" Ron prodded several bullet-points that went into this. "Harry always said it was a meaningless title. But could there be something there?" He caught Hermione's look and backtracked. "Not that I agree with—uh, that's Audrey's handwriting—that Harry's the Grim Reaper. Or think that—jeez, how drunk was Bill?—Harry can talk with 'Death'. But it's the Deathly Hallows! Something there, eh?"

Hermione twirled a quill, her earlier enthusiasm somewhat muted. "If you're asking if I think it makes any difference that Harry is technically the 'master' of all three objects, no, I don't. Mainly because he didn't have any on him when he disappeared."

Ron scratched his ear. "He might've had his Cloak?" Hermione looked at him. "Which wouldn't really make a difference, right. But what about the other two? We could—"

"If you're suggesting we do a spot of grave robbing and dig up the Elder Wand," Hermione cut in, "I wouldn't be against it. But I don't suppose you have a plan of what to do with this extremely powerful wand?"

"An extremely powerful accio? Okay, fair enough. But I wasn't talking about the wand."

She blinked at him. "The Resurrection Stone? That's been lost since the Final Battle. Harry didn't know where he dropped it in the woods."

'Not according to our drunken conversation after the battle', Ron thought to himself, surprised Hermione didn't also know this. But, after all, it'd been a fluke that Harry had told him the vague location. "Err, that's true. But say we could find it. Couldn't that be used for proof of life or death?"

Hermione shook her head, not catching Ron's hesitance. "Even if we did have it, I wouldn't want to be the one who used it. Don't you remember the story? Of the Peverell brother who wasted away among ghosts?"

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it. He'd been about to argue and tell her that he could maybe sort of find the Stone. But at her words an image of his brother had filled his mind. He wondered if Fred would look like his teenage self, or the man he was supposed to have grown up to be. He gave a shudder at either thought. "Maybe, maybe we shouldn't search the forest."

"The point," Hermione pointed her quill at him, not knowing of her husband's internal debate, "is that I hardly see how being Master of Death matters in this or any context! It certainly doesn't make Harry immortal, after all. So I'd prefer to look over the more critical suggestions."

"Right. Of, of course."

But…soon after, when Hermione's cleanly crisp paper had turned into a mess of blots and crossed out suggestions, and where his hair was standing on end and ink marks trailed up and down her tired face…Ron could see barely any resemblance between this and their Hogwarts days. Because sure, Hermione could still research and he was still trying to ease the tension. But they were missing the bloke who always stumbled onto the impossible.

Didn't matter though, they still had to find the idiot. So Ron was pacing Hermione's office. He'd been doing so for the past ten minutes, running a nervous hand through his hair. If he looked into a mirror, he'd be appalled that his messy hairdo now resembled Harry's. Hermione wasn't pacing. She stared at the large piece of parchment before her (as she had been on-and-off for the past hour), restlessly tapping a quill at the bottom. The tapping was producing a growing pool of ink, while the only other marks on the sheet were a few bullet-points and sentences angrily scratched off.

They'd gone long past the point where Ron had caught hold of the idea of getting all of MLE and the former DA into a massive grid search of Britain, and had phrased it in just the right way that it took the sleep-deprived Hermione twenty minutes before dismissing it as ridiculous.

In the present, Ron muttered to himself as he paced. He suddenly pivoted to Hermione, an excited grin back in place. "House Elves!"

"No."

"Hear me out, it—"

"It won't work." Hermione's head was in her hand. She stared daggers at the all-but blank paper, as well as the blotted and crossed-out list from George.

"House Elves," Ron repeated, not standing down. "Remember when Dobby found us at Malfoy Manor? He was able to find us and get through the wards! So we go to Kreacher, say 'Master Harry's' in trouble, and Poof! Barely any danger, he'll be careful. Or—wait, hear me out! Kreacher doesn't even have to go. But he can tell us if Harry's alive! Give us a hint about where he is."

Hermione closed her eyes tiredly. "That's a very good idea—"

"Hah! See?"

"—which I tried yesterday. Just like you've surely already tried using your deluminater to locate him," she finished, a note of apology in her voice. "Harry freed Kreacher ages ago so there's no magical connection between them, like there apparently had been between Harry and Dobby. Kreacher is very sad and wants to help, but hasn't the faintest where Harry is."

"Oh." Ron deflated. "Think we could try the other missing people?"

"None of the Sweeney victims had House Elves," her correction was gentle. "We always check at the beginning of missing person investigations, remember?"

He did remember. That didn't mean he liked the answer. "How about a different 'magical connection'. Wait, yeah! A way to track bloodlines! You're brilliant, we can find it. No problem!"

"That doesn't exist."

"Don't be like that, you can find some old spell that does it. Or potion! I'll help! I will legitimately help you research, I swear."

"No," Hermione repeated with a stretched strand of patience, "I meant that it doesn't exist. It would have never been legalised by the pureblood-dominated Wizengamot."

"What?"

"A spell that can track down descendants of bloodlines, verifying any 'illegitimate' children?"

Ron opened then closed his mouth, at a loss. "We could create one?"

"You clearly have no idea how difficult spell-crafting is. If you must, bother George about it. But he'll tell you the same." Hermione tapped her quill irritatedly, back to glaring at the uncooperative paper. "Privacy concerns aside, what I would give if the Ministry had reliable tracking of births and deaths alone! But it's always been an impossibility for the same reason: the pureblood families never wanted legislation with the potential to poke into their private lives. Once upon a time, it was even spectacularly controversial to make a spell for Hogwarts to be able to send letters to all magical children."

Ron paced around again, muttering under his breath. "Damn purebloods, ruining things for the rest of us. Privacy concerns, hah!"

Hermione gave a flicker of a smile at her husband's not-entirely-sarcastic response. "Quite." She saw him growing excited again. "If you say another word about stealing a time-turner from the French—"

"DIVINATION!" Ron spouted out with a cry, leaping about. Hermione's head sunk to the desk. He waved at her frantically. "I know you hate the subject, but it's real! Even you have to admit there are some genuine Seers."

"I never said there weren't any," she mumbled, voice muffled from beneath her hands and rolls of hair. "Not that it will do us any good."

"Of course it would!" Ron scoffed. "We steal a Seer, she peers into a tea cup, and we get Harry's location. There you go!"

"Do you know why I dislike Divination?"

"Because Trelawney's an old bat."

"Because it's an imprecise science!" Hermione's head tilted so that her words became clear. "Divination and prediction is all rather sketch, as two answers can—at once—be both wrong or both right, or either. It doesn't matter how good the Seer is. Even if they told us some information, it would be as likely to be from a different potential future than the one we are actually heading down."

He deflated. Then sunk into a seat, staring at the useless paper. A few minutes of silence crunched by. "Maybe it's hindsight talking, but this was easier at Hogwarts."

Hermione gave a vaguely hysteric cry. "Where luck and coincidences abounded! How three teenagers took down a Dark Lord, I'll never know."

"Multiple times," Ron pointed out grumpily. "Well, not three teenagers. One. I didn't even see Voldemort until the Final Battle. You know, sometimes I look back and wonder: was it always him? All the really bad luck and all the really good luck, all the connections that we just fell onto? Harry was the one pulling off miracles."

"Who we're currently missing."

"Yeah. Yeah, we are." His head bent over and hands grappled his hair. "That's the problem, isn't it? How do we conjure up some impossibility to find the impossible bloke?"

A few moments of silence passed, then one of them started snorting. Chuckling. Soon laughter was churning up from both of them, the ridiculousness of the situation sweeping to the forefront. Ron didn't know why he was laughing (none of this was remotely funny), but as he wiped mirthful tears from his eyes, he let out something between a sob and a guffaw as he thought that Harry would have found this hilarious.

The man had always had the most sarcastic, dark humour.

It was a grim, stale smell. As though his nose had been dunked in a pool infested with maggots. Because it was all at once so much harder to breathe and it wasn't like he was drowning, though he sort of was, and it was bad enough earlier but at least Harry had been here then and he had this…thing about him. Made people think there was still hope.

Lockhart was snivelling: he ignored the prat, hands desperately squabbling at the rocks. Ginny couldn't be dead. She couldn't be! She was his infuriating baby sister who'd been, quiet, this year. He hadn't thought anything of it. Hadn't noticed a thing.

Harry had been gone ten minutes. There was no sound from beyond the rockslide and he was scaring Lockhart by screaming out in frustration, but none of that mattered. Where the hell was he! Not ten, twenty minutes by now. Surely. Half an hour? The minutes had slowed down, and damn it why couldn't he move the rocks faster! It was still hard to breathe. The stink rattled his throat with nausea.

Why hadn't he been standing closer to Harry? Why wasn't he in Harry's place? Ginny was his sister! If anyone was going to fight a basilisk…

Not, not that anyone was fighting a giant snake. They were alive, obviously. They were alive. They were alive.

Lockhart was making a choking sound. Ron spun around to shout at him but the words died on his lips. Because Lockhart was no longer leaning against the cave. It was another man—no, a boy. Harry was there, slumped over, green eyes shining with pain. He was whimpering, a hand clutching something embedded in his arm. A white thing. A fang.

"No no no!" Ron rushed to him, heart stilled or pumping furiously, tugging the basilisk fang out and flinging it wildly aside. His fingers fumbled over the rushing blood, trying to block the open wound. "S'NOT WHAT HAPPENED!"

"I…I'm sor…sorry," Harry's voice was faint, a whisper as Ron gave up on the arm and clutched at his friend's face, "was…was too late. Ginny, she's…'m sorry…'m sorry…"

"She's alive, IT'S FINE!" Ron roared, screaming at Harry as his eyes flickered open and shut. Ink, dirt, and blood covered their skin. He couldn't tell if Harry was twelve or twenty-six. "DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES, DON'T YOU DARE! YOU'LL BE FINE!"

"…'m sorry…"

"Shut up, SHUT UP! I'M WHO'S SORRY! DON'T DIE, PLEASE DON'T DIE!"

Ron awoke with a gasp. His mouth tasted like dust, he felt as though he'd just ran a marathon, and there was a faint prickling of a dream. A nasty one, he thought. One that was already fading fast. It had…been about Hogwarts? A nightmare, definitely that. His rushing heart told him that much.

He closed his eyes, scrunching his nose as he tried to recapture the scene. It had involved Harry, he was pretty sure of that. Something bad had happened to him. He recalled blood on his hands, adrenaline in his veins. All of which was maddeningly weird, because he hadn't gotten nightmares in years. Not since the dreams about Fred had faded. So why was he…oh.

The nightmare remained beyond Ron's grasp, but the recent events trickled back into his brain. His head fell to the pillow with an almighty groan. He only faintly noted that sweat was dripping down his skin.

Lisa was going on (and on and on) about the Rippers. About their lack of recent activity. About how she had a bad feeling. About how people had stopped listening to her. About how the press was out for blood, but only for anything relating to the missing people. About how, no matter how horrific the Sweenies were, the department couldn't single-mindedly focus on that one spree.

Ron came close to telling her why no one gave a damn about the Rippers and that he didn't want company right now, thank you very much (and to get the hell out). But he was trying to be more polite these days and she was a friend, so he bit his tongue and let her rant. After a few minutes, it honestly became nice to not be hearing about the Sweenies or minor cases for once.

She drew breath. He thought she was going to continue her spiel that they ought to reexamine the mysterious poisons that had killed the magical creatures, when she instead let out: "Do you smoke?"

"Ah, no?"

Lisa came out of her rant. "I didn't think so. Why the lighter? You've had it this whole time." She gestured at his right hand. It'd been sitting on his desk, loosely holding an object.

"Not a lighter." Ron hesitated, for some reason not wanting to tell her. "It's called a deluminator." Instead of explaining what that meant he clicked it twice, capturing then releasing the office's lights. Lisa's eyes widened, a small smile forming.

"Wicked. Is it one of your brother's inventions?"

He was about to answer positively when the truth slipped out. "Albus Dumbledore invented it and left it to me in his will. I recently dug it out of my old school trunk." She was staring at him. No, gaping. "Before you ask, I didn't know him well. Came as a shock."

"Albus Dumbledore gave you that?"

"It's been useful." Ron wasn't sure if he meant this sarcastically or not, though twirled it around his fingers. "Anyway, what was that about poisons?"

"You aren't getting out of this! Deluminator, you called it?" Lisa eagerly leaned forward to peer at it. Ron remembered that she'd been in Ravenclaw. "I don't think I've seen it before."

"It's been in my old trunk, like I said."

A question lurked in her gaze. Ron peered back at her, not about to answer. A staring contest commenced, though she broke first and she leaned away with a grumble.

"Be secretive, what do I care. So! You must see my point about the Rippers—"

Ron didn't have any time, not really. But Rose was on another 'playdate' with Fred and Roxanne (he never thought he'd be this grateful to George and Angelina), Hermione was taking a much needed nap, he'd side-stepped the reporters (now insisting he make a statement about Harry's death), and he was off resupplying their kitchen.

His first detour wasn't truly a detour. Hermione's favourite ice cream was right by the milk, after all, and only one aisle down was the cookie dough she always craved with pregnancies. Then, if he was getting treats for his wife, something was obviously needed for Rose. So the mangoes and Kinder Eggs were hunted down, tossed into the cart. A new toy for Crookshanks was also grabbed, though he had a feeling the toy mouse would be more enjoyed by his daughter than by the 'wiser-than-thou' cat.

Hermione had been so stressed lately. She'd been crying, too, and after paying for the groceries he spotted a large Waterstone's down the street. He got some of the popular history books she liked: wasn't sure what she already had, so headed for the new releases. Then picture books for Rose. Then colourful bookmarks for both of them, because dear Merlin was his wife and daughter identical.

But those histories could get grim, couldn't they? Best to also pick up something light. Ron knew full well that Hermione had Mills and Boon books hidden in her bedroom dresser, so with a mild flush he grabbed the romances. Romantic comedies, though, that was the ticket. Something to make her laugh, even if the stories turned out to be ridiculous. It seemed like it'd been ages since she'd laughed. Even before Halloween, long before. With the stress of the pregnancy? Balancing being a mum and a Ministry Director? The crime sprees hitting the UK? Him dragging her into his pointless fight with Harry?

Ron took a long look at one of the steamy romances before putting it back on the shelf. He told himself it was because he was already buying a near library of novels. He thought about picking up some flowers as well. Orchids, she liked those. Maybe a bunch of sunflowers while he was at it: they were Ginny's and his mum's favourite.

"Hello?" The house wasn't quiet, but no one answered the door so Ron let himself in. There were giggles from the children's playroom and he was about to head that way, when he heard a clamouring from the kitchen. This made him raise an eyebrow. He'd expected Ginny to be living off of take away, their mum's cooking, and cereal. But to hear noises from the kitchen when Harry wasn't there…? He set the flowers on a side table, making his way over. The moment he opened the door, he stared in disbelief.

If Ron had wanted more proof that the world had gone insane, he had it in ample supply. Ginny was in front of him, covered in buttery flour, and was either trying to bake a cake or massacre a mixing bowl. He'd bet both. Though he properly stepped into the kitchen he didn't have the nerve to talk for a few minutes.

As she'd been ruthlessly ripping apart almonds with an honest to goodness butcher's knife, he'd been too scared to risk speaking up. Now that she was only wielding a spatula, he figured he'd take the chance. He wondered if maybe he should have brought in the sunflowers?

"You're baking," Ron tried not to sound too incredulous, because the glint in Ginny's eyes made it clear that even the spatula could become lethal. "You're cooking? You?"

"I bake," she said shortly, not pausing in her mad mixing. Only a small portion of the batter was staying in the bowl.

"No, you don't." To prove this, Ron waved at the stacks of burned biscuits (as well as other less discernible 'dishes') behind her. "Are you trying to burn down the house?"

"I'm baking!" Ginny huffed, giving a particularly sharp jab with the spatula. Another wave of batter spewed out of the bowl. "It's a cake. It'll be delicious."

"Uh huh." Ron struggled not to breathe in too much of the smoky air. He realised why Harry had used to lightly joke about not letting her anywhere near his kitchen. "I get it, I do. You want to make a treat for your kids? That's nice. Really, it is. But you aren't…Ginny, you can't cook."

Only the sound of mercilessly beaten batter punctured the silence.

"How about we go to the Burrow." Ron felt an edge of worry. One that had nothing to do with Ginny murdering him with kitchen utensils. Or, at least, almost nothing to do with that. "It'll distract yo…your kids. You know how mum deals with stress. The Burrow's practically bursting with food these days!"

"I'm baking a cake." Ginny sent a glare as her brother hedged off. "It's chocolate and treacle. I tried making a damn tart, but the stupid bloody thing wouldn't work. Why such a complicated dessert is his favourite is beyond me! Completely stupid, idiotic, stupid thing!" Each exclamation was punctured with a furious jab at the batter.

"Tart." Ron's stomach fell. He took another glance at the burned and molten dishes, some of which were still smoking. "Treacle tart? Gin, you…"

"Don't call me that!" She snapped, swinging the spatula and flinging even more batter at him. "But yes, treacle tart. It failed, like I said, because it's a stupid dessert. Before I realised it was so stupid, I thought it'd be a nice surprise for Harry."

His mouth felt dry. He didn't wipe away the mess of chocolate from his robes. "Ginny, look." His words were gentle, said in a tone he'd almost never used with his little sister. "You know how serious this is."

"It's Harry." Ginny cut in matter-of-factly, returning to her 'cake'. "If he waltzed in tomorrow with the Holy Grail or whatnot, I wouldn't be surprised. Nor would you. Nor would anyone, actually, because it's Harry!"

Ron couldn't find a reply. He didn't want to remind her that they hadn't found any of the other missing people. Nor did he want to tell her of the familiar sink in his stomach that appeared whenever Harry was doing something ridiculously dangerous. Or took too long to emerge from a maze. Or was drowning in icy water. Or was hanging limp in Hagrid's arms. He really didn't want to bring up any of that. Mainly because he knew his sister could relate all too well…and because he truly knew how few leads there were.

Ron silently cursed his friend for, yet again, getting into trouble where they couldn't help him. Not that he actually blamed the bloke for getting kidnapped from a highly secure Ministry gala—except that he kind of did, because this was just the sort of thing that'd happen to Harry.

Ginny had started baking! This had gone too far. It'd serve Harry right that, if he came back, he'd find she'd burned their house down.

Except, not if Harry came back. When. Because he was going to, obviously, and when he did he was getting a permanent security detail. He wasn't going to be happy about it, but screw him. The moment Harry showed his head, Ron was going to stuff these burned tarts in his mouth. If the trauma from that didn't stop his habit of being idiotically reckless, he didn't know what would.

"Come on, you dratted thing! Harry Potter. I want to find Harry Potter. The connection should work both ways: Harry James Potter! Take me to Harry!"

"It's not just you," was Susan's quiet voice, sitting in the chair across from him. She was loosely holding a vial, cradling it in her palm.

Ron felt a stab of impatience. "I know, it's fine."

"You aren't the first questioned and you're far from the last." She looked about as exhausted as Ron felt, her usually vibrant hair laying in limp ringlets and with no make-up around her blotched eyes. "Everyone's taking it, we need to be as thorough as possible. This isn't about our prob—"

"I know, Bones," he tried and failed to hold back his annoyance. He contemplated grabbing the vial of Veritaserum and just taking the dose himself. "I'm glad you're rooting out whoever sold the story! I don't mind taking the potion."

Her expression was even more pinched. "Because it's not about you, I swear. I won't ask anything not related to—"

"Bones," Ron said tightly, "I don't know how much of a protest the others made. I'm sorry about that, but right now I don't give a damn. The newspapers are screaming that Harry's dead, you lot are keeping things secret from me, and I just want to get this over with." Without speaking further, he simply stuck out his tongue.

Susan made a noise halfway between amusement and weariness. But she did give him three drops and his mind went mercifully blank, so he found he didn't mind. He was dimly aware that an enchanted truth quill perked up on the table, dipping itself in ink. "What is your full name?"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley," his mouth said, teeth and tongue sliding over each other.

"Do you understand that while this is an official interrogation, there is no assumption of guilt, as everyone with knowledge of the Sweeney disappearances is undergoing a similar questioning under Veritaserum?"

"I understand," because Ron did, and at the moment his blank mind couldn't think of anything he'd like more than to tell Susan this.

"Before this, did you verbally agree to be questioned under truth serum?"

"Yes."

Susan consulted a sheet, checking the precise wording. Some vague part of Ron's head wondered how many of these questionings she'd already done. She still seemed nervous and uncertain. "Briefly explain how much knowledge you have of the Sweeney spree."

"I was the lead investigator on the cases," the words flowed out of his mouth without thought. "I know everything the MLE knows that happened up to Halloween. After that, I know roughly what occurred."

"You were the lead investigator?"

His mouth and teeth and tongue supplied the truth. "Due to my actions before Harry's disappearance, you've been edging me off of the spree since you became Head Auror. It's a toss-up whether this was because of my irresponsible actions, the press' focus on my family, or you needing a scapegoat for the lack of leads on the Sweenies."

Susan was silent for a long moment, staring at his emotionless face. After, her words were softer. "Ron, have you ever sold information concerning an MLE case to the media?"

"No."

"Have you ever unofficially discussed anything pertaining to the Sweenies to a reporter?"

"Yes."

"Excuse me?" This was met with silence. She sighed, rephrasing. "What did you discuss and to who?"

"I talked to Ginny Potter after Roger Davies disappeared," Ron easily answered. "I was exploring the idea that his vanishing had to do with his Quidditch career and my sister's an expert on the topic. I've also been giving Ginny updates on Harry, as much as I can."

"Did she ever print anything that used this insider information?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Susan again fell into silence. A nibbled lip. The paper with the agreed-upon questions was set aside and the scurrying quill was flicked off. This being done, she turned back to Ron with an undefinable expression. "Have you been rallying the Aurors against me?"

"No," his mouth didn't mind supplying the truth. Some bit of his mind protested, but the rest eagerly suppressed it.

"Have you been talking to the press about me, or to this department behind my back?"

"No."

"Do you want to be Head Auror?"

"No."

"Are you jealous of Harry Potter?"

"No."

"Did you have anything to do with Harry Potter's disappearance?"

"Yes."

Susan jolted, eyes wide. "What? How!"

The answer was as simple as the rest. "I tricked Harry into attending the Halloween gala through emotional blackmail. If the Sweenies' target had always been Harry, then this didn't matter. But if their plan was to grab the most high profile person at the gala, I was directly responsible for his disappearance."

Susan looked about ready to cry. "But, but you…" she swallowed, gathering herself and strengthening her resolve. "Have you ever done anything illegal?"

"Yes."

"What have you done?"

"In 1992, I broke the Statute of Secrecy by flying a car to Hogwarts. Later that year, I took illegally brewed polyjuice potion—"

A suppressed groan. "Notable illegal activities, please."

"Throughout 1997 and 1998, I snuck around Britain with Harry, who was Undesirable Number One. We committed various crimes during this time, including sneaking into the Ministry of Magic and freeing an unknown amount of muggleborns, and breaking into Gringotts and destroying a good chunk of it and Diagon—"

"Stop. Just, stop." Susan's head sunk into her hands. Her next words were muffled. "Have you committed any crimes since you joined the MLE, not including unofficially talking to your family about cases, apparating in and out of the Ministry, or doing minor pranks on your coworkers?"

"No."

This answer gave way to the longest silence yet. It was so long that the Veritaserum trickled out of Ron's mind, leaving him gasping and clutching at the chair's arms. As he caught his breath and his balance, memory of the past ten minutes organised themselves in his thoughts. He closed his eyes to keep from glancing at the miserable-looking Susan, muttering a low curse as he did so.

"I'm sorry…"

"For interrogating me?" Ron gritted out, still not looking at her. "No, you aren't! You're sorry you didn't find anything incriminatory!"

"I swear, I didn't—"

"We're friends, Bones! What the hell was that? 'Am I jealous of Harry?' I don't want your bloody job!"

"This, I…"

He wrenched his eyes open, glaring daggers as he stood. "Brilliant of you. I agreed to the questioning, after all, can't officially complain. So what if you didn't ask the questions I'd agreed to? I was a trusting idiot and didn't sign anything!"

"I'm so, so sorry…"

Ron noted with a spark of indignation that she'd begun to cry. He wanted to shake her, shout at her. Because how dare she? Boo hoo, she had to deal with reporters when she had stage fright. She'd signed on as Deputy Head, she knew what she was getting into. She should grow a spine and stop seeking a scapegoat!

But he'd never been good with crying women. Not when he was feeling dreadful himself, and damn it if the Veritaserum hadn't revealed a few truths he hadn't been aware of.

"I'm not the mole," he said tersely, stepping away from the desk and his boss. "I'm not the bad guy. I'm not planning on spreading this around the office, but keep attacking me and I'll change my mind. Ta, Bones."

"Ron, wait." He only reluctantly stopped, not glancing back at her wavering voice. "I, I know I must be the last person you want to hear this from. But…the gala wasn't your fault. You must know that."

He stiffened. "I thought I did," was his growled reply, making a fast pace to the exit. "Another truth? You're nothing compared to him. Stop trying to take his place."

Ron exited and slammed the door before Susan could utter a word.

"You stupid lighter! Yep, that's what I called you. Useless, you are, like I give a damn about the lights! Yeah yeah, Harry's supposed to say my name. But I'm saying his name! Harry Harry Harry. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived, Wizarding Saviour, and all around git. Lead me to where he is!"

Another Sunday. Another huge family dinner. Things had…not calmed down, not at all. But was calm enough that Rose no longer had to be constantly babysat by his siblings and parents. It was calm enough that Hermione had taken a shower, put aside the work, and convinced Ron that seeing his family wouldn't be absolutely dreadful. It helped that he knew there was a taboo over mentioning what the reporters were claiming about Harry. He'd heard that the one and only time Bill had brought up the leaked Pensieve footage with their parents, his mum had nearly hexed him. His dad had pulled his startled oldest son aside and warned against any further mentioning of Lovett's dark claim.

It was quiet. A gathering of Weasleys was bloody well quiet, and Ron felt like he'd been swept into an alternative world as he stepped into the Burrow. Even the kids were subdued, though most were like Rose and were whispering about what treats or stories Uncle Harry would bring back. Vicky was biting her lip. Teddy and Andromeda weren't there, nor was Ginny and her kids. Percy took him aside and murmured that they hadn't been able to drag her to the dinner. She said it was because she had her hands full dealing with work and her children.

"She didn't…" Percy hesitated, glancing around the Burrow's hallway. Oddly, no one was eavesdropping on them. He turned back to his brother. "Have you talked to her?"

"A bit?" Ron wasn't used to Percy acting like this. Rather than his usual serious and detached older sibling, concern etched his face. "She's still not upset?"

"Ginny isn't worried!" Percy pulled him farther away from the crowded living room, voice lowering. "I tried to explain how serious this was, that these Sweeney people aren't something to laugh at. That there are whispers, do you understand? More like shouts! Of that nasty business with the magical creatures, Ministry security being dashed, that horrid video, and murmurs of a Dark Lord—"

"There's no Dark Lord," Ron rebutted, glancing into the living room where Hermione was giving him a curious but understanding look. He got the sense they'd already had this conversation. "Ginny's fine, stop fretting over her. Harry hasn't been missing a month, she's not in denial or something."

Percy gazed at him, expression tightening and softening all at once. His glasses were askew on his nose. He looked remarkably like their father. "Has Ginny talked to you about her work?"

Her work? At the…the Prophet. Ron swallowed, not having really considered this. "Have the other reporters been giving her trouble? I know she hates her editor but, they've been surrounding the Ministry, not our family. There must be some unwritten code for personal stuff?"

Percy hesitated. "She's been working mainly from home, that's all she'll say."

Further comment was broken by the Tonks' entrance. Andromeda seemed aggravated and Teddy petulant, hanging back behind his grandmum. It was all too clear who'd been dragged to the event.

"It doesn't mean he vanished."

Heads jerked around. The statement had sliced through the family dinner, where the only previous noise had been small snuffles and the scraping of forks (playing with rather than eating food). It had been the quietest Sunday evening any of them could remember. The only 'interruption' had been Molly pausing after serving dinner to look around at them as her eyes filled with tears. Arthur had followed her rush into the kitchen, only to poke his head back into the concerned room to say she'd be fine and they should continue the meal.

Almost everybody had, at some point, went into the kitchen to check on her. But each returned to the table soon enough with a slouch in their step, even more reluctant to talk than before.

"It really doesn't." Bill hesitated, glanced at his wife, then thickly continued. "The vanishing wizards? With Harry, his capture was caught by security footage. There were witnesses to some of it. That's different to what happened to the vanished people with the Sweenies. So it might not be the same thing?"

Silence resettled, only to be punctured again.

"Could be a kidnapping," Percy spoke up, forming the words carefully. "A 'regular' kidnapping. This might have nothing to do with the Sweenies and everything to do with him being…him."

"Exactly!" Bill grasped onto the agreement. "It's a different thing. Even if something happened to all those others—though we don't even know that for sure—Harry was kidnapped. For all we know, they're just slow about sending a ransom demand. Bloody incompetent criminals, most like."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. They both knew how unlikely parts of that were, but neither wanted to dismiss the possibility. Nor did they want to shatter the optimism that had hit the table.

"Even if it's not about ransom," Audrey chimed in, "who's to say they're as good at keeping people hostage as those other blokes? Ginny might have the right idea. Harry could easily come waltzing back any day now!"

Hermione hesitated, having halted in their doorway and not walking all the way into their house. Ron, having set down Rose as she scampered off, turned back to his wife. "They mean well."

"Yeah, course they do."

She walked in, closing the front door behind her. Her footsteps were light, breathing light, touch soft. "They're only grasping onto things."

"I know. I'm not upset."

Hermione stared at him, gaze lost. "You need to get more rest."

"I sleep plenty—"

"You say that like you think I'll believe you!" She cupped Ron's chin, peering at him with large and exhausted eyes. "Come to bed, love."

Ron forced out a chuckle, cradling her fingers in his. "Course. Don't worry so much."

Ron didn't get any sleep that night. It took Hermione an hour of restless rolling before her breathing quieted. He gave it another ten minutes before he crept out of bed and silently made his way downstairs. The case files were scattered over the dining room table. He wasn't supposed to have these, but his 'unofficial Auror spy network' was finally coming in handy.

He collapsed onto a chair, pulling a file towards him with a yawn.

It was Diggle. Ron was surprised but unsurprised when he heard, when he joined the rest in lingering in the main MLE corridor as Diggle was taken away for further questioning.

"Liked the traditional ways," Dennis muttered as the crowd talked amongst themselves (after the person to gawk at had passed with accompanying guards). "Didn't like you lot shaking things up. Was fine with favouritism, but thought he was on the wrong end of it."

"Why now, then?" Ron whispered back, watching the door Diggle and the guards had passed through. "If his problem was with Harry…"

"Wasn't just with Harry. Or with you." Dennis shook his head. "Wasn't fond of having to answer to two women, especially Hermione."

"Because she's muggleborn?"

It was the first time Dennis hesitated. "Because she ticks off all the boxes. Bones was ranting that Diggle said some nasty stuff under Veritaserum."

"Like what?" A hefty silence. "The hell did he say about Hermione?" Dennis looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "Creevey, if you don't answer me…"

"I'm sure you can guess," Dennis groaned. "What do you think he said?"

Her door was open. He knocked on the side of it, watching as she paced.

"Whatever you want to say, it's not needed," was her terse greeting, not glancing at him. "Diggle's been selling information to the media, we've found out, end of story."

"Hermione."

A hand wound through her hair. Nettling it, knotting it. "He thought we were playing favourites and didn't like perceived nepotism when it didn't help him. That's it."

Ron stepped forward. "It isn't. What did he say about you?"

"Nothing."

"Hermione, you can't—"

"It's nothing!" She spun to face him, expression fierce. "Nothing I haven't heard before or that I won't hear a hundred times again. It's nothing!"

Ron fell silent for a long moment. "Okay," he moved towards her, taking her hand, "okay, it's nothing."

"Thank you."

"But if it's all the same to you," he pretended not to hear her groan, "I'm feeling rather put out and want to stay here for awhile."

Hermione stared at him. Her lips twitched and her wand flicked at the door, closing it. "You're incredibly silly."

"You're incredibly stubborn. What a match, eh?" He leaned closer, arms wrapping around her as noses touched. "If you tell me that it isn't bothering you, I'll believe you. Look at me and tell me that, and I won't say another word."

She stared at him before blinking rapidly. Looked back down at his mouth.

He manoeuvred them towards the couch. "I can take a guess what he said, a damn good guess, but I'm pants at Legilimency. If you tell me what's bothering you, maybe I can help." They sat on the cushions, Hermione's head sliding down to rest on Ron's shoulder. He bundled her close to him. "I won't bore you with a reminder of how brilliant and gorgeous you are. Or how sexy you are, even when curled up in bed with a messy bun, reading a book thicker than my head. Or, no, especially how you look curled up in bed."

"Ron."

"Or," he continued right ahead, "I could say you're the most determined, scarily ambitious person I know. After all, you have nine in-depth plans to become Minister of Magic! Ten, if you include the wonky one involving flobberworms and banana peels."

"Ron," some energy had returned to her voice, "husband, we agreed to never mention that."

"Doesn't take away from my point, which is that you're too perfect to be real. What'd you do to be this amazing? Sell your soul with some horribly dark curse or ritual? Ohh, did I marry a Dark Lady? Fancy that." He grinned, face pressed against hers. "I probably shouldn't be turned on by that, but you…"

"Stop!" Hermione muffled a small laugh and Ron jotted up a victorious point. "Can you not be ridiculous?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Thank you, but I meant what I said." A sorrowful type of seriousness returned to her voice. "I'm used to people like Diggle. It's only that…every time I think we're improving this world, we seem to be stumbling back to square one. Which I understand. I know it all only seems darker. But is the world really changing?"

"Of course it is," he mumbled to her. "Look at all you've done! All the rights you've passed into law."

"But it isn't enough. I always think it's heading in the right direction for Rose to not have to deal with this nonsense. I keep thinking: if I was smart enough and fast enough? Things like this take generations, but after the war everything was being shaken up. I thought it'd be enough."

"Oh come on, our kids will live in a peaceful world."

"Really? A world where Harry can get kidnapped and Diggle can make a fortune off of it?"

"A world where Diggle's being arrested and where we'll find Harry. Listen!" He turned her chin back to him, her eyes glistening. "There are set-backs. But I know it's getting better and I honestly don't think it'll matter for Rosie. Worst case, she'll kick any bigots in the shins and lecture their ears off."

She answered with a weak smile. "I was under the impression her overprotective father would take care of any ruffians."

"Have you met our daughter?" The light tone and chuckle took away any semblance of a hard meaning from the words. "She's like every Granger and Weasley girl: tough to the bones and with a nasty right hook."

Hermione paused. "If you've been teaching Rose to punch—"

"Like I'll have to teach her. I wasn't joking about Grangers/Weasleys! It's something in the genes or water, I'm positive. Sure, Ginny was more fond of biting than punching, but Rose's all you."

"Biting…?"

"I've never shown you my war scars? Blimey." Ron rolled up a sleeve, pointing at a narrow etch of a line. The scars left by the brains from long ago were wider and deeper, and he stubbornly ignored them. "She was more destructive than Fred and George put together. My baby sister, age five: really wanted the last chocolate biscuit. Scar down my left leg?"

"You don't have a scar down either leg. Also, that on your arm is a paper cut." She too ignored the brains' scars; just like they always ignored the jagged 'Mudblood' etched on her light brown skin.

"Scar down my left leg," he emphasised, "Ginny, age ten. Was annoyed she wasn't going to Hogwarts too, so she gripped onto me like a grindylow the whole day before. Scars on my palms—"

"You don't have scars on your—"

"Scars on my palms: Ginny, age eighteen. She didn't take lightly to me playing the protective big brother." Ron gave a floppy grin. "Apparently I got it topsy-turvy and warned Ginny to not hurt Harry. She thought I was saying the opposite, so gripped incredibly hard with her insanely sharp nails. She apologised after, so there's that. But yes. Biting. Or long fingernails. So I'm rather hoping Rose's inherited your right hook, because that's mildly less terrifying."

Hermione had softened over the past minute, leaning into him as her breath tickled his neck. She didn't protest when he moved them, cupping her head into a kiss. Arms wrapped around him, his hands curled up in her hair, and for a blissful moment he forgot about everything else.

As she shuffled and looped her legs around him, he trailed kisses down her neck and wondered if he'd said the right words. He'd distracted her (as she was currently nibbling his earlobe), but he was second-guessing his joking these days. She was right, there were larger issues at play. He wanted to help, of course he did. But he wasn't a role model or an activist: that had always been Hermione. Or Harry, when society forced him into it. As for him? He wasn't sexist, wasn't racist, and didn't give a whit about blood. But he'd won the societal jackpot for all of them.

His fingers roved the crease between her blouse and skin, picking at the fabric without touching the buttons. She'd stopped kissing and now leaned against him with heavy breaths. He couldn't see her expression, only her hair that he'd undone from a braid.

"I love you," he said softly, firmly, mouth on the top of her head. "The world's complicated and messy and moronic. But I love you and I'll always be here. We'll be okay, you'll see. Us, Rosie, and the baby."

When Ron got home he took something from his pocket and stared at it for a long, hard moment. He clicked it, capturing the light in the hallway. He flicked it into the air once or twice, clicked it again, and strode forward with a sour look. There was a pressure behind his eyes which he furiously blinked away. Crookshanks—reclining on his back—gave him an annoyed mew for not scratching his belly as he passed.

Useless deluminator. He was chucking it back in his old trunk.

It was nearing the end of November. Their baby was due just before Christmas. They hadn't decided on names yet and hadn't discussed it in a while.

There were clamouring reporters, there was a stoically-in-denial sister, there was a mother who'd barely left her kitchen since Halloween. There were friends he still hadn't called back. There was a wife, a daughter, siblings, and little kids scampering underfoot. There were atrociously long days which were glaringly loud and offensively quiet at the same time…

There was a fidgeting Susan Bones standing in his office door. By the time Ron noticed her and had turned in his chair, he got the sense she'd been there for several minutes. She'd lost weight. Well, he had too. He couldn't remember the last time he'd lost his appetite.

"Whatever it is, we don't have to talk." Ron swivelled back around to his desk as he kept his tone calm. They hadn't spoken much since the truth potion incident and he was all for leaving it buried. "The reports of inferi on the Isle of Skye was nonsense; muggle prank, full report's been filed. If you're here about the Veritaserum, I don't want to hear it. Ditto about my sister, or reporters, or Hermione's stubborn refusal of pregnancy leave."

"The Sweenies struck again."

He froze, hand reaching for a quill. He scowled down at the parchment. "Bound to happen eventually. Good luck on that disaster."

"Ron, they took three people."