A/N: So I've been a busy wee no-maj, but that's no excuse for letting this story hang. Nor is it an excuse to have lost track of a number of reviews! Though I am SO INCREDIBLY SORRY AND THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH! I'm also sorry that, according to your messages, I accidentally foreshadowed that the rest of the Potters or Hermione had been taken. They're all safe, I hadn't meant to hint at that!

As should be clear by now, I can't write children. I try, I do, but I can never keep their ages/social development straight. Further complicating that I screwed up and blanked at the start that Rose and Albus are canonically the same age. Oops? I'll fix it eventually, but for now please just nod along with the screw-ball kid antics. Thank you abcd-hp for pointing this out!

Finally, an enormous THANK YOU SO MUCH to areyousatisfied, Sindhuja, Fred, HappyTerrier (awesome name), noting, Maiden of the Heavens, conjurewithrisk, nellysh, Mists, ComicTransMS, MissMiaIrisPotter, abcd-hp, and Lise Steiner for taking the time to review! I am incredibly appreciative and, though I replied to some of you, my organisation system is rubbish and I know that some of your messages fell through the tracks. I cannot apologise enough, but I do hope you enjoy this new chapter.

Orla Quirke sent Ron one of the most desperate, pleading looks he'd ever seen. He easily dismissed it, sipping his tea and glancing around the room. It reminded him of McGonagall's Headmistress' office the few times he'd seen it: organised high-end items, with drabs of exploding tartan in hidden nooks. Or hidden wild haggis. He'd never been there long enough to find out if the last actually existed, and she'd given him a dour look the one time he'd dared to ask. (In his defence, the roly-poly thing that'd hid by the portraits could have been little else, and ex-Headmaster Dippet had given him a telling wink as the Scotswoman snapped at him about entertaining ridiculous stereotypes).

There was no haggis in this room and the only tartan was sheaves of Burberry over the armchair. Ron entirely blamed Gabrielle and osmosis for any and all knowledge of designer brands—mad mini-Veela with her Hermès and Louis Vuitton obsession.

"Sir? Sir!"

"It builds character," Ron told his potentially-new Auror partner, mind having drifted to the hilarious sight that had been Fleur's and Hermione's joint confusion when presented with Gabby's sprawling collection of Chanel perfume ("You do not use it Fleur, mon dieu! You do not touch it! 'Ow are we related?"). His gaze shifted to the diplomas and hand-shaking photos above the mantlepiece, getting back on track. "He can tell you aren't a cat person, give it time."

In answer, the tabby cat reclining on Orla's lap attempted to scratch her again. He hissed when she shakily tried to lift him. He also made no attempt to stop using her as a chair.

"Don't you have a cat?" She'd quickly gotten all body parts out of reach of the claws. Well out of reach: her hands were flung up in the air. "You must know how to handle this. Get him off me!"

"Eh, Cocoa's being friendly." To demonstrate Ron got up and scratched the cat's belly, making the animal roll over and stretch with a low purr. He wondered if Abercrombie was more capable of handling pesky felines. Shame he was out with a nasty bout of dragonpox. The wizard moved to the fireplace, leaving Orla with a dour tabby flexing his claws. "He likes belly rubs, don't go near his tail or paws. They don't like that. Or scratch the top of his head and behind his ears. Roughly though, it's one of the places he can't reach. Do it right and he'll adopt you." His focus had turned to the pictures, gaze narrowing. "Notice anything about these photos?"

"A cat's attacking my blouse!" Orla scampered as Cocoa climbed on top of her. "Oh god, he's going for my head! No no no, I don't want him adopting me! No Cocoa! Bad Cocoa!"

"He can smell fear." Ron didn't look over. "Lo, the photos of Tremaine. The ones in the back show our victim and Shacklebolt, alongside other leaders and big-wigs. But d'ya see which ones are at the front?"

"Get him off me!"

"Her with her husband and her cat, or helping the homeless and shaking hands with veterans." Ron fell silent as Orla's struggle with the tabby escalated. "I don't think Tremaine's selflessness is an act. You know how rare that is?"

"He's poking my hair!"

"Stiff upper lip, Quirke." He eyed the photos more closely, where the ones containing prominent figures were almost all pushed to the back (in favour of family photos or charity shots). But there was one exception. He took the frame in question down, gazing at the two people smiling at each other at an official looking table. "She knows Harry."

"What!" came Orla's aggrieved voice. Cocoa had decided to use her head as a recliner and was currently licking her nose, paws swiping at her ears.

"A photo of Cecilia Tremaine and Harry Potter." Ron waved the picture in question. He also gave Orla a pointed glance until she gingerly attempted to separate the cat from her hair. He returned to frowning at the picture. He'd been wrong: Ginny was in the frame too, with a hand on Harry's shoulder and snickering as the other two laughed. Tremaine's face could barely be seen through her brown hair cascading about as she shook with laughter. They were all dressed formally. Between chuckles Harry gave his wife an adoring look, smile crinkling further at her saucy wink. The photo restarted and the three burst into laughter. "Maybe some committee they were on? Or a—"

"It was a charity dinner for St. Mungo's Children's Wing last Summer," came a hoarse voice from the doorway. Ron glanced up, meeting the scraggly and exhausted face of Jason Tremaine. "We were big donors, along with the Potters. Fancy dinners aren't my thing, but Cecilia had wanted an excuse to wear her new dress robes. Came home raving about the Potters. She'd been an admirer before and was thrilled he actually cared about the kids; that's pretty rare at these functions." He scrubbed his chin, demeanour further drooping. "We were both sad to hear about his…about his disappearance."

Ron replaced the picture as the wizards returned to the couch. He made a slight diversion to rescue a grateful Orla from the cat, who cheerfully wrapped himself around his arms. "Mr. Tremaine—"

"Jason. It's Jason." A hand was scrubbed through his brown hair with strands of salt and pepper. He had the look of someone young who'd decided to appear dignified before their time. Classically handsome, worry lines stretched his face. They weren't too deep (unlike his laugh lines), as though he wasn't used to stretching his features like this.

"Jason," Ron returned to their discussion, "like I said before, we're here to support you and do everything we can to find your wife. If you need another break, it's absolutely fine. This isn't an interrogation. Would you like me to call someone? Family, a friend?"

Jason shook his head, petting his arching cat as the feline jumped to him. "Is, do you think—" the words struggled to come out, "tell me it's not the same people. That awful spree, tell me it's not them!"

Ron let out a slow breath. "I'm sorry. I can't do that."

"The Sweenies stopped!"

"They were taking a break," Orla spoke up, flinching as Jason's suddenly harsh stare met her's. "Criminals sometimes stay low after a high-profile crime. We knew they were going to start up again after Halloween, though we weren't expecting them to take three people."

Jason didn't miss her slip. "Three? Who else was taken? The Sweenies always take one! This isn't like them, that's proof! These kidnappers must want a ransom, we have tonnes of money from my family! Cecilia must be fine!"

Ron let out a low exhale. There hadn't been a ransom demand and he had little hope that would change. "It is a partly different MO but…Jason, Mr. Tremaine, look. We're treating this as a worst-case scenario and assuming this is an escalation by the Sweenies. If it means we're being overzealous, that's fine with us. We'll also look at different avenues of investigation, but we want to cover every base. Alright?" A small, jerking nod. "None of these three disappearances have gotten out to the public yet. While I fully intended on telling you everything, the highest priority should be learning how Cecilia vanished and how we could find her. That's why we were asking you those questions before." The other wizard gulped before mutely nodding, eyes downcast and hand resting on his cat's purring stomach. "You're right, this is a change for the Sweenies and we're investigating that. The other new victims—both of whom were also taken on their way to work this morning—are Vanessa Franklin and Sebastian Oliveby. Franklin is a pediatric Healer at St. Mungo's who volunteered at an orphanage outside of the city. Oliveby is a social worker in Surrey whose pay checks largely went to charities."

His eyes had darted up at the Senior Auror's purposefully calm words, frightful and wide. "Cecilia's a pro-bono lawyer."

"I know."

"We take in foster kids!"

Ron scrubbed the back of this neck, all of this hitting too close to home. He avoided glancing at the picture. "All three work with disadvantaged kids. A preliminary look at their records show that they're spotless. That is, there's no skeletons in the closet." Jason's horrified expression hadn't changed, so he wasn't too put off about the lack of privacy. "If this is the Sweenies there's no reason for them to 'seek out' sympathetic victims, as the press already hates the kidnappers."

"But why?" Jason asked in a croaky voice, head turning from one Auror to the other. "Why them? Why my wife? You said it, she's never harmed anyone. She never would! She got up early, was walking through Diagon, and then, and then…"

"We're looking for a pattern," Orla said soothingly, looking about ready to get up and give the lost man a hug. "This case has only just begun. The entire department is looking for her, don't lose hope. We'll figure this out."

Which was bollocks, Ron knew (while he gave a firm nod of agreement). They weren't any closer to finding the victims. Better yet, the pattern was bloody well obvious! The victims right after Harry were charity workers, each with a golden heart and a soft spot for orphans. It was more of the same, except that they'd been specifically targeted. There was no denying it. Which changed everything: the Sweenies were laughing at them.

"Excuse me, Mr. Tremaine?" Orla's voice jolted him from his thoughts. "I have a different question. Had you or your wife previously met Mr. Potter before that photo was taken?"

He blinked at the change of topic. "No. In passing, I guess."

"In passing?"

Jason's shoulders moved in a shrug. "Cecilia's a Harpies fan. She was raving for a week about having gotten Mrs. Potter's signature a few years back."

Orla nodded, brow scrunched. "Does she also like the Falcons?"

"Huh?"

"The Falmouth Falcons." She wasn't put off by Jason's shaking head. "This next question might sound odd, but stay with me. Have you or your wife come across any magical creatures in the past few days?"

Ron raised his eyebrows, as did Jason. "Ah, no."

"Even something small, say a dead flobberworm?" Orla pressed.

"Really, nothing. Though I can't speak for Cecilia."

After, in the corridor outside the flat, Ron motioned for Orla to pause. Jason had seen them out, his voice having grown more hoarse and the grip around his cat more tight.

"You were helping on the Ripper case?" Ron asked, continuing on before she could answer. "Stupid question, course you have. Everyone on the force has. Better question: you're sniffing for a connection between the Rippers and the Sweenies?"

"Yes sir." A fidgeting foot and nibbled lip. "Sorry if I overstepped."

"Don't be daft. You've overstepped plenty of times, but that wasn't one of them. Why do you think there's a connection?"

She glanced around, not as comfortable as he was with chatting in the hallway with flats on either side. "It's a bit much of a coincidence, don't you think? Two crime sprees hitting London at once?"

"It's London. There's always more than two sprees going on." Ron surveyed her. "Plus the crimes weren't happening at the same time, there was an overlap. The Rippers started earlier and have since hedged off."

"I know. It was just a thought."

He softened, remembering he wasn't always clear when playing devil's advocate. "It's a good thought. Might be something, might not, but it definitely won't be anything if you can't support it. Why do you think there's a connection?"

"It's only a feeling," Orla let out a low swoosh. "That's all."

"Your gut, huh?"

"Yeah."

Ron gave her a faint smile, liking her more by the minute. "That feeling's saved my neck plenty of times."

"Your first major investigation?" Ron said when they were back at the office, tossing files over his shoulder and assuming Orla would catch them. Her squeaks and clamouring answered both in the affirmative. "Don't worry, that's not a bad thing. It's good to have someone with a fresh eye." He glossed over that she wasn't actually his Auror partner. She was fine, she'd learn.

"Sir? Should you be toss—eek!"

Ron turned after the last file, seeing that she had indeed caught them (though looked a touch flustered). "It's just parchment, don't fret. Some crumpling won't ruin them."

She remained doubtful, setting them gingerly on Ron's crowded desk. She then straightened the lopsided pile sheepishly. He chuckled at the sight.

"You'd get along with Hermione. The moment she stepped into this place she was attacking the 'shoddy organisation'." He flipped open a folder, scanning it. "A year in and she was already flipping things on their head! Think Harry and I were the only ones she never converted to her spelled filing system."

"You don't like that system? I did wonder about the physical folders."

"Being able to see and match up details of any criminal cases, all with a flick of my wand at my desk?" Ron gave a bark of laughter. "Course I like it. My wife's a genius. But see, I learned something very important back at Hogwarts: an annoyed Hermione Granger is a sexy Hermione Granger." He halted, not having meant to say that. But a glance at Orla's bright face reminded him that she was MLE's resident romantic and matchmaker. "Anyway, me sticking to the 'old-fashioned' folders started as a joke. Though I'm fond of it now."

"And Mr. Potter?"

"What?"

"You said he also didn't use her system."

Ron started, not having noticed he'd mentioned the man. "Harry and Hermione are like siblings, have been practically since we all met. They're also the most stubborn people I know and tend to get competitive." He scratched his ear, trying to remember. "I think Harry justified sticking to folders by saying it'd be good for Hermione to have some disagreement. But that was also right after she'd 'accidentally' dyed his hair blue before he was accepting an Order of Merlin. So, there might've been another reason he stuck to the folder system."

He slowly realised that Orla was staring at him, slack-jawed. He was confused before the reason dawned on him.

"Oh! Right, the prank wasn't a big deal." Ron waved off. "Harry hates these awards. As do Hermione and I, really, so we've made a habit of sabotaging the acceptance ceremony for the others. It, uh, sort of sounds weird said aloud, but it's a laugh. You see, Harry wasn't annoyed about the dye. He was irritated about the blue. Hermione had recruited me to tell him that he'd be a ginger if he used the new 'shampoo'. He was all chuffed about it. Bit of a let down, I suppose."

Orla still looked faint. "How many Orders of Merlin does Mr. Potter have?"

"A few?" He scratched his head. "Two 1st classes, at least, and a couple or more of the 2nd and 3rd class ones. Give or take."

"How, how many do you have?"

Ron was regretting having brought this up. "Err, three."

"Three!"

Another annoyed hair ruffle. "A 1st class for helping defeat Voldemort, a 2nd class for fighting in the war, and a 3rd class for my work on the Plymouth Poisoning case. They're stuffed in some drawer at home. Or, wait no, they're hanging up at my parents'. Dad and Mum were over the moon so I gave the awards to them."

She seemed to shrink until all that was left were her wide eyes.

"I'm a very prestigious wizard, you know. War hero, part of the Golden Trio, blah blah blah." Ron sent her a forced grin, hoping she'd stop looking at him like that. "Used to wish for fame. Then I got my head on straight and realised it was a pain in the arse. Now. You ready to go over these folders?"

Excerpt from the publication, 'Pure Politics Periodical':

—touchy to say, but since Lord Harry Potter's disappearance Lady Ginevra (Ginny) Potter has been nearly as absent as her dearly departed husband. Ginevra's few scant public excursions saw her and her children in the company of her many brothers. Forever in a hurry, she has yet to answer questions from reporters (though she herself is one). The only official announcement from any of the Potters or the Weasleys was a written statement asking for privacy at this time and thanking the many well-wishers.

Percival (Percy) Weasley and Hermione Granger have been the only ones who have addressed the reporters, though both have only done so in terms of their Ministry appointments. Mrs. Granger—a 'modern' muggleborn woman who is in charge of the Magical Law Enforcement and who refused to take her husband's surname—has been tight-lipped on her brother-in-law's disappearance but insists that they are doing everything possible to catch the fowl Sweenies. Yet, numerous senior officials have anonymously stated their disapproval with how this situation has been handled.

"I thought we'd decided not to live in the past through our kids. No memorial names, we agreed! Elizabeth or Cosette are lovely for a girl, and I quite like Austen or Hugo if we have a boy. But I'm open to any suggestions you have, EXCEPT for names honouring people who have died. There's enough macabre things in our lives, thank you. I don't wish to add to it or to burden our child."

"Wow. Alright, first off? I was suggesting Rubeus or Luna. Last I checked neither of them are dead. Also, don't think you're pulling one off on me. I know what you're up to with those names! I think it's grand you love to read: absolutely peachy. But we aren't naming our kid after Victor Hugo or Jane Austen."

"Mine are lovely suggestions! Elizabeth and Hugo are especially nice."

"We aren't naming our kid after a literary character! Are you forgetting your rants about your parents' Shakespearean choice?"

"Because my parents were out of their minds. I'm suggesting perfectly normal names. If they happen to share similarities with my favourite authors and their main characters, what of it? I'm not actually against your choices. But Ginny's been talking about using 'Luna' and, while I love Hagrid dearly, his first name is a twinge too unusual for my taste. Which I know shouldn't be a problem, yes! But my first name was rather traumatising as a child and I'd prefer not to put our hypothetical son through that."

"…okay, fair point about Hagrid. Can we think about Rubeus for a middle name? Ginny's using 'Luna'? Didn't know that. Though would it be that tragic if we repeated names? Also…can we talk about the nundo in the room?"

"We aren't naming our child Harry. It isn't happening."

"I wasn't saying we should. Hate the idea of it. But there's betting in the papers, did you see that? Everyone's convinced there's about to be a little Harry or Harriet Weasley. Thought we should at least address it, terrible idea that it is."

"Fine, we've addressed it."

"Glad we agree on that at least. How about we compromise. If it's a girl, I get to pick the first name and you pick the middle. If it's a boy, you pick the first name and I pick the middle. Neither of us can choose a name of someone we know who's died. Or is, you know, missing. On that note: first name Hannah if it's a girl or middle name Rubeus if it's a boy?"

"That's a very good idea. If it's a boy, Hugo for his first name. If it's a girl, Elizabeth for her middle. So…oh my. Hugo Rubeus or Hannah Elizabeth Weasley? Is that, have we figured it out?"

"Holy Dumbledore, I think that's it. About time! Was convinced I'd have to scribble a name on the birth certificate while you were out on pain meds."

"You were planning on WHAT?!"

Excerpt from 'Witch Weekly':

—I've never made a secret of my past. Depression is something that should be met head-on, and if talking about my experience with this could help anyone I will do so enthusiastically.

In my thirties, I didn't deal with my divorce in a healthy way and sunk into a dark place. I thought it was all my fault, that if I'd only been a better wife Jacob wouldn't have sought company elsewhere. I only learnt the phrase 'substance abuse' later, but it fit me during that time to a tea. A reliance on cheering charms, overdoing doses of mallowsweet: it's a slippery slope.

Unfortunately, I see the same signs in Ginny Potter. Losing a husband so horribly and left with two young children with a third on the way? That's even setting aside her history of war trauma and mental illness. Dear listeners, I know the signs of an addict like I know the back of my hand. Walking about in a daze, inappropriate laughter, a quick and violent temper, and a startling weight loss? The poor woman. The poor children!

I'm not saying that child protective services necessarily should intervene, but she needs substantial help.

"Hey." Ron rapped the doorframe, peering through the open entrance at the pale Interim Head Auror. Bones tiredly looked up from a tower of paperwork. Graphs and figures of cases whirled around her above the desk, partly obscuring his view. "You owe me a favour. You owe me a number of favours, actually, and while I'm not one to hold grudges…"

"What do you want?" was her faint sigh, placing down her quill. A wave and the conjured graphs flew back down, rustling the paperwork to sign as they did so.

He properly came in, closing the door. He didn't take the seat that wasn't offered. "Orla Quirke as my Auror Partner. Official Auror Partner, not this one-off thing."

"Good choice."

"McLaggen off the Sweeney spree."

A rubbed forehead. "Dmitri hasn't stopped complaining about him since they came back from the States. I'll phase him out."

"I want back on the spree."

"Weasley…"

"I don't give a damn about the reporters!" Ron took a step forward. "What're you playing at, showing me more victims before sending a memo, 'Oh no, I'm sorry, we're tossing this case away from you AGAIN because Lisa needs help'? Dmitri will need more help. He'd welcome more help! He can stay the lead, I don't care. But don't you dare shove me off on the Rippers."

Bones looked down at the papers, forlorn. "I'll talk to Dmitri about it, that's all I can promise. You know it's perfectly reasonable."

Ron pursed his mouth, reluctant to outright agree. "Last thing. Stop attacking Cho Chang about Roger Davies' crimes. Her connection got leaked to the press and I think she's innocent. At the very least, I know you don't have a case to stand on. Stop dragging it out! Question her under Veritaserum and, when you're convinced you screwed up, do everything you can to repair her name. Don't you dare act like Fudge."

Confusion crossed her face. "Fudge?"

"The old, incompetent Minister who denied Voldemort's return and scapegoated Harry!" Ron didn't know how pissed off he was until just that moment. "Things are only going slowly with Chang because you want to be seen as getting somewhere with the Sweenies. If I have to go to Hermione or the press, I will. But you owe me and it's the right thing to do!"

Bones gave the biggest sigh yet, her voice having a squeaky quality to it. "I'll push forward the Veritaserum questioning. I'll also talk to Dmitri about you and McLaggen, but there's no promises for the last."

"What about Quirke?"

"Of course she can be your partner." Bones recovered her composure enough to roll her eyes. "Merlin Weasley, I'm thrilled you're willing to work with someone!"

Ron calmed down, looking forward to leaving. "Yeah well, she's a funny person. Happy to learn."

She frowned, remembering something. "Hold on. Wasn't Quirke the Junior Auror with the 'odd' notebook?"

"So she made some weird comments," he waved away.

"Quirke's the one trying to pair up half the department," Bones said bluntly.

"She's enthusiastic but harmless."

"LO!" Ron called out at the entrance of Orla's small office, making her spin around with a high-pitched squeak! "You're my official Auror Partner. Congrats and good luck, you'll need it. We'll be back on the Sweenies soon."

"Oh! Oh my gosh, Senior Auror Weasley thank you, I—"

"No more comments about arses," he barely muffled a smirk as Orla's wide beam switched to a bright blush, "and no matchmaking people if they have a significant other. That includes my wife and I, got it? If you must talk about arses, make sure you get the right ones paired up."

"Err, right. Sorry sir."

"Also, enough with speculating about sexualities. If your friends are fine with it, alright, and I get water cooler gossip. But there's a time and a place."

"…sorry."

"Good." Ron coughed. "Glad we had this talk. But this is a promotion for you and certain behaviours are expected."

"Like not pranking the Head Auror?" Seeing his scowl she ducked her head, smiling to herself.

"Yes, like not pranking the Head Auror." He wondered what had possessed him to start this conversation. Or why he'd thought Quirke's sharp mind was worth dealing with her nonsense. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I."

"Thank you, Senior Auror Weasley! Sir! Abercrombie and I won't let you down, you'll see."

"Eh?"

"Abercrombie and I, sir. We're a package deal. He'll be over the moon when he gets back from hospital—that is, once the green boils have stopped bursting."

"…this is going to be a fun few months, won't it."

"The very best! Ooo, I'm so excited!"

Sunday family dinners had gotten awkward. They had always been a good deal of many things, but never awkward. Around the time when Ron found himself unironically nodding along to Percy's spiel about the sudden, extreme drop in price for phoenix tears, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Looking away from his brother's moans about how this changing luxury item would throw off the entire potions market, he found that the rest of the table wasn't having better luck. Bill was honest-to-goodness talking about the weather with Hermione, the group around Audrey and Andromeda were chatting about the upcoming holidays, and his dad and Angelina seemed to be gesturing wildly about the Tube.

His mum was AWOL, as was Ginny. The Weasley matriarch had been at dinner for longer than usual before having excused herself ten minutes ago. The family took cautious turns peeking in on both her and the group of children in the other room. As for Ginny, she hadn't shown up to a family dinner since Halloween. It reminded Ron of the days after Fred. Days? Weeks, months. It had been George rather than Ginny who had locked them out then, though his mum pretending not to cry was the same.

"Atrocious!" Percy huffed. Ron's fork played with the pasta, scooping marinara sauce idly. Hermione's fingers were drumming the table: she also wasn't eating. "Unsavoury, is what it is. Holding back this much product to dump on the market in one fell swoop? Right before the December rush, at that. The nerve!"

"Uh huh." This mattered why? Ron gazed enviously towards the conversation about the weather. "Isn't decreasing prices a good thing?"

"It's artificially decreasing, and all at once." Percy was getting into the swing of his argument. His soup was furiously swooshed. "Phoenix tears are rare and coveted. But recently there's been enough to be used in beauty products, can you believe it! You should see the latest patents. It's affecting the balance of all potions ingredients!"

"Chill, brother of mine." George halted his rousing rave of barking fairy lights to poke the ruffled Percy. Ear waggled along with nose. "Sure, price gouging isn't fun. But that's an effect of good ol' competition. Brilliant, I think. Especially since phoenix feathers are also at an all-time low. Eh, still costs an arm and a leg to buy. But now you can at least find the rare blighters."

Percy spun around with such intensity that George jerked back from his gobsmacked older brother. "What! Feathers?"

"Yeah? They're fantastic for ton-tongue toffees. More effective than acromantula fur."

Ron gagged, aghast. "You put what in the—"

"Feathers too?" Percy faintly spoke over him. "Oh, oh no. I've…excuse me, I need to call the potions union…don't even want to think about the inflation…"

With that, a quick kiss to Audrey, and an even quicker exit, the table was short another person.

Ron sighed and turned to his dad's and Angelina's resounding argument over the Circle Line, silently bemoaning that dinners had never been this boring when Harry had been present.

It was like Fred all over again.

Excerpt from 'The Quibbler':

—the MLE aren't the only ones racing around in confusion over the Sweeney crisis. The Daily Prophet can't tell fact from hurtful fiction! One day they're reporting that Harry Potter is fighting off a swarm of inferi, the next they're shouting that his head was found in Cornwall. Their 'alternative facts' are simply lies.

The tragic, bewildering truth is that no one knows Harry's status or location. I believe that the Ministry, far from being corrupt, are keeping quiet because this is rapidly turning into a cold case. My heart goes out to Harry and his suffering family, and I cannot wait to see my dear friend again. I can't say this will happen for certain, but if I've learned anything from him it's to trust the feeling deep down in my stomach…as well as the tittering wrackspurts in my ear.

Unlike the prestigious journals, I'm not claiming any supportive evidence to my belief. It is merely a wishful hope. But I do know one thing for sure: if Harry was here, he'd be raising hell over how you're treating his wife.

Ginny Potter is one of the most beautiful people I know (inside and out), and she has always treated the hurtful accusations that she was dosing or divorcing her husband with a stunning grace. But these latest cries against her? That she's a drug addict, an unfit mother, that she's uncaring or outright happy about Harry's disappearance? Everyone involved should be ashamed. Give her the privacy she's requesting—let her cope! Embrace her with love and support rather than spiteful rumours!

Every last one of us suffers in our own way. We have absolutely no right to judge others.

You're wonderful, Luna. I don't tell you that nearly enough.

I'm sorry I've been so absent lately, we haven't even celebrated your pregnancy! Lunch this weekend, how does that sound? I hope you don't mind muggle London. I just can't stand Diagon these days.

Love you, G

p.s. If the Quibbler ever needs a Quidditch reporter, you know where to find me. I doubt my inane contract with the Prophet will make it into the New Year.

It was Hermione who got through to Ginny by suggesting that she and the kids come over that weekend to decompress. This went nowhere, until the hinted reminder that her children needed to socialise and did Ginny want to risk any of them being scarred by this?

It was a low blow, but genius, and Ron had to give Hermione credit: it did partly jolt Ginny out of her hermit solitude. Luckily there was nothing to worry about with the Potter kids, James was animated enough while complaining about his owl pyjamas with Rose, and Al blabbered happily over his dinner. Ron was even fairly chipper afterwards, cozied under the blankets while his wife stretched out with an enormous yawn, a small smile also on her lips. Work had been less than productive, but there were semi-leads. He was looking forward to finally having a break this weekend and—hopefully—cornering his sister. He felt good about it all.

Naturally, that feeling didn't last long into the next morning.

"Wotcher."

Ron had never hidden a newspaper faster in his life, hurtling the thing under the table before looking up at his sister in all innocence. She (a dressing gown gathered around her prominent belly) wasn't having any of it.

"The Prophet?" Ginny helped herself to some eggs, sitting and not bothered at her brother's flushed look. "Course it is. You wouldn't have hidden The Quibbler, Hermione wouldn't be caught dead with a subscription to Witch Weekly, and you wouldn't have brought anything risqué to the kitchen table—least, I desperately hope not. Oh, don't look at me like that! What's the gossip? Am I a gold digger or a black widow?"

He closed his mouth, conscious he was gaping at her. He wished Hermione wasn't having a lie-in, or that there was at least one kid here as a distraction. "You shouldn't talk like that. Tell me you don't read this trash?"

"I have thick skin," Ginny deadpanned. "Goodness, not like I haven't heard it all by now. Have they decided how I murdered Harry? No no, let me guess. Poison. Or fiendfyre, perhaps. Choked him with my thighs?" She sniggered at the last. "Merlin knows I could do it with this bloated body. What a way to go, eh? Not sure he'd even complain about that!"

Ron let out a slow breath. He was glad she was looking at her breakfast rather than at him, as his horror at her words was surely obvious. "Blimey. It's, it's not healthy to say things like that."

She cast him a side-long look. "Why not? Everyone else is."

"They aren't! Of course they aren't." Anger bubbled in him. Not towards his sister, but bloody hell he was tired of being the voice of reason! "It's only some idiotic reporters and, damn it, don't listen to a word they say. You hear me, Gin? They're nothing, absolutely nothing!"

"It's Ginny," she gave an aggrieved sigh, skipping over most of his statement.

"What!"

"My name's already a nickname, no sense in shortening it further. How many times do I have to tell you? Harry's the only one mad enough to call me 'Gin' and I want it to stay that way, thank you very much."

Ron stopped short, watching as Ginny humphed and poured a glass of milk. His sudden anger dwindled, leaving a hollow, empty feeling in its wake. "I'm, I'm sorry. I'll try not to call you that."

"Good. I've had enough 'gin and tonic' jokes to last me a lifetime!"

"Sure." Ron had long since abandoned his own breakfast. He had little appetite these days. "Ginny, that stuff you were saying? Nobody believes it. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with Harry's disappearance. Don't let these rubbish tabloids get to you."

"What if Harry was here?" When Hermione didn't immediately answer Ron continued, voice dull. "We'd have figured this out by now."

"We hadn't figured out the Sweenies with him. All of us together had months."

"It's different!" Ron slammed his hand against their dining room table, expression tightening. He gave a single thought about not letting Rose hear, but she was in the other room playing with Crookshanks. "I know it was bad before, alright? I know about the victims. But this is different! If one of us had been taken, Harry would've figured it out. You know it! We both know it! But here we are, it's bloody well December, and we're clueless!"

A slow silence fell. Their marriage had never been this stifled. Anger or depression, he could handle. But uncertainty and guilt?

She stood, sweeping up the used dishes with a wave of her wand.

"Expecto patronum." The silver whiffs coalesced into a yipping terrier. Ron gave a faint smile at the sight, kneeling. "Can't tell me if these messages are being delivered, hmm?"

A bark.

"Fantastic." He should have chalked this up as a lost cause. But everything seemed to be that these days and when he saw this scampering dog he felt an edge of hope. "Hey Harry, still nothing great to say on this end. I'm back on the spree, though, so that's something.

"The press is being awful to Ginny. But it's more like a symptom of the actual problem. She's still acting all weird and cheerful, and the reporters view that as her being callous. Cruel. I'm more concerned she isn't taking any of this in. She loves you, which is what I meant to say. Don't mean to worry you, she and your kids will be safe. So will you. We're working on finding you, just hold on. I shouldn't have mentioned the press. It's only ruddy rumours.

"Other news! Percy has his head in a tizzy about some potions ingredients, George is dead-set on setting off more fireworks than ever, and Charlie's still in Britain. He claims it's because he can't stand Romania in the winter, but I doubt he can walk away while mum and Ginny are acting so weird." He let out a low breath. "Quidditch league is the Quidditch league, Bones is mental, and oh! Shacklebolt got reelected. Surprise, huh? There were no good opponents, what with you and Fudge who-knows-where. He almost got it by default. To show he's on your side, he cancelled the rest of the memorials apart from May 2nd. Said some boloney about how we shouldn't live in the past, but it was because his numbers are lousy."

"Yeah, back to what you actually care about. Teddy's driving his grandmum up the wall begging for a broom and James, bless him, is all set to 'imitate his big brother'. If Andromeda wasn't so concerned about Ginny, I think she'd have slapped her for laughing! Anyway, Al's drooling, Ginny's big as a house, Hermione's as gorgeous as ever, Crookshanks keeps shedding over the carpet, and my genius daughter won't stop asking where babies come from. Hermione told her some muggle thing about a stork, so I'm leaving it at that."

Ginny and her kids had finally shown up to a family dinner. Multiple cousins has shouted at the sight while Roxy had flat-out hugged Jamie (before racing him away to plot out something or other). Ginny had watched with a small smile, arms wrapped firmly around Albus.

Molly Weasley, overjoyed, had ushered her daughter to the table (tutting over how thin she was, the last stage of pregnancy aside). Ginny sat down and nodded along, picked at some rolls. Once everyone was seated and served she said that she had news. She was naming her daughter Lily. Lily Luna.

She'd announced this with a stubborn jilt to her jaw, her dinner mainly untouched (only on her plate because of the neighbouring, 'helpful' hands). Her proclamation and pointed stare over the mashed potatoes was a challenge for any to protest. As she tapped a steak knife against her plate, none were inclined to argue with her.

Ginny continued, her pleasant tone having an underlying stubbornness. Said she'd always liked alliteration and, even better, wanted to honour her mother-in-law and one of her best friends. She said it was a beautiful name. She said Harry would have to bloody well get over it when he came back.

None of them protested. No one felt they had the right (no one was brave enough to go up against an irritated Ginny, not when she wielded a knife as well as a wand). Hermione did open her mouth for a heartbeat, but kept silent when Ron placed a hand on hers and sent her an appeasing look.

Ron felt that only his parents had a chance to convince Ginny otherwise, but his mum was crying and his dad was hugging her. He wasn't sure if it was good or bad tears, or if his mum even wanted to protest the name. Maybe she thought it was nice. Maybe with everything else going on, she hadn't known about the Potters' disagreement over what to call their daughter. From everyone else's stricken faces, they had heard about the fiasco.

Fleur saved them from the awkwardness, being the quickest to transform her questioning frown into a beam. Her exclamation of, "Adorable! A belle flower iz perfect for a little baby," was frantically grabbed onto and repeated in one form or another by the rest of the family. Even Hermione, albeit reluctantly, gave a teary smile. Ron thought his own forced grin was a touch too wide, but it didn't matter.

All of them skirted around the meaning of the first name. Or how Harry had argued so vehemently against it.

'Merlin,' Ron sighed to himself as the dinner gave way to a slightly less awkward dessert, thanks to Teddy turning into a chortling canary after George switched out the custards. 'Harry will kill us for not stopping her.'

"Expecto patronum." The terrier happily barked and nuzzled his leg while Ron opened and closed his mouth. Bit his lip. "This is for Harry. Surprise surprise, like all the rest. Right. Harry, I…Ginny, she…you might've lost track of the date, but it's the 5th of December. Ginny's very pregnant and the hormones have gone to her head. About your daughter? This, I mean, she sort of…"

He let out a long whoosh, leaning against his desk. The house around him was quiet and dark, with his daughter tucked in the nursery and his wife surely rolling in a restless sleep.

"…it's fine, they're all fine, don't worry. We love you, mate. Come home soon."