Hey everyone. So I'm aware that many of you have probably given up hope of ever seeing an update to this, or really any of my stories, and I am so very sorry about that. I have been busier than I have ever been in my life this year and I honestly forgot fanfiction even existed for a while. However, I am going to give it my best effort to finish this story and my other ongoing ones because I know you all really love them and I do too. I will try to not make you wait a year between updates in the future.

That all being said, I so appreciate all of you who have stuck with me through the long waits, and for the reviews and support. I appreciate it so much and I hope this chapter can at least start to make your patience worthwhile.

This story has been one of my favorites to write and I swear I will finish it. Originally I had planned for this to be the final chapter, however with the way it all worked out as I was writing it, I'm going to go ahead and add one more to finish it.

I hope you enjoy. :)

The next several hours were rather chaotic. Not surprisingly, Apparating into a foreign ministry with an unconscious wizard who had been beaten half to death caused quite the uproar amongst the Belarusian witches and wizards. Ron had, of course, drawn unnecessary attention to them when he'd stumbled under Harry's weight upon landing and was forced to awkwardly and not at all gracefully lower his best friend to the floor. Amongst the murmuring that had sprung up around the ministry's main entry hall, several employees had rushed forward in attempt to help or apprehend—Ron couldn't be sure and he hadn't been about to waste time finding out. "Help!" he cried at them, ignoring the blonde witch who approached and began speaking to him in flustered Belarusian. "Please, where's the closest hospital?"

Several badged wizards broke through the throng and rushed toward Ron and Harry, wands outstretched. One of them, the tallest and broadest of the lot, shouted something in the unintelligible language. "English!" Ron cried, "Do you speak English?"

"I do," another of the wizards—Ron figured they were the Belarusian equivalent of Aurors—said in a thick Slavic accent, "And you have ten seconds to tell me who you are before I arrest you and throw you in a cell to rot."

Ron spent several minutes explaining—as much as he was able with the eyes and ears on them and the language barrier—who he was and what had happened. He was met with surprising suspicion from the Belarusian Aurors, but then, he decided, if the situation was reversed, he likely wouldn't have believed him immediately either. Eventually, a petite witch, clearly a Healer, rushed over and knelt beside Harry's prone form, her eyes wide.

"I swear I'll tell you whatever you want to know as soon as I get my friend medical attention," Ron all but begged the foreign wizards. "Please, where is the nearest wizarding hospital?"

The wizard faltered slightly, his sense of urgency falling far short of Ron's expectation—did these people not see the seriously ailing wizard bleeding on their sparkly white floors? "I cannot let you leave. Our Healers—"

"Will not be enough. He's been tortured," Ron said impatiently before the Healer—who had looked up, probably about to say the same thing—could comment. "I'll answer all your bloody questions at the hospital, you have my word, but please help me help my friend."

"He can go. You stay."

"No," Ron told him firmly, and then, throwing caution to the wind, went on—quietly. "This is Harry Potter. He's an English Auror and a bloody famous one at that. He was captured and tortured by Death Eaters, the same ones whose leader he defeated five years ago. All of Britain has been searching for him for over a week and the Auror Department has been compromised and cannot be trusted, so I am the only one who can. My name is Ronald Weasley; pick up any book about the war with Voldemort and my name will be in it, call the Minister for Magic and he will tell you, but for Merlin's sake, help him!"

The wizard considered Ron for another moment, fraying his impatient nerves even further. "How do we know you are who you say you are?" he demanded at last.

"Give me Veritaserum or whatever you lot use here, I'll gladly take it—after I get Harry to hospital."

The Auror glanced down at Harry, at the Healer working fruitlessly to stabilize him there on the floor, and back at Ron again. He sighed and gave a nod, and then turned to his fellow wizards and spoke to them in Belarusian. Then he stepped toward Ron. "You will Apparate with me there and then you will tell me everything, and if I find out that you have lied about anything, I promise I will personally make sure you regret it."

"I'm sure you will, mate."

Ginny woke up early the next morning feeling restless, impatient, and itching to move. She stayed in bed as long as she was able, but gave up attempting to fall back asleep by half seven and got up. It wasn't unusual for match days to feel like this, though it seemed only exacerbated by Harry's absence and the emotional turmoil of the past seven days.

She made her way downstairs and paused at the foot, assessing the house before her. It needed cleaning, and probably a thorough dusting as well, as none of the housework she'd planned to do had been completed the day before in favor of the unexpected plans that had sprung up after practice. Domestic activities had not been high on her list of priorities as of late and it showed.

With a sigh, Ginny put her nervous energy to good use and moved forward into the lounge. Her duffel bag from yesterday's Quidditch practice still sat by the fireplace where she'd dropped it on her way to lunch with the team and the coffee table was littered with books, some old newspapers, and a teacup from the night before. She turned on the wireless and, with the Weird Sisters' newest single filling the house, spent several minutes moving through that room, then the kitchen, tidying up. She threw a load of clothes in the wash, dusted the lounge, washed and dried the dishes waiting in the kitchen sink, and mopped the floor the Muggle way. It was a few minutes past nine when she finished, flung herself down on the sofa, and surveyed her work, pleased with the morning's progress.

She felt slightly more settled after the time spent working, but sitting still lasted only a moment before the itch to do something returned once more. She did not need to be in Hollyhead until three, which meant she still had a good deal of time on her hands with nothing much to do. The thought didn't sit well. She'd spent so much of the past week consistently engaged in one thing or another that to be without the distraction now, with so many unknowns still present in the Harry situation, left her teetering on the edge of wallowing once more, and she knew that today of all days, with a professional Quidditch match in just a few hours, wallowing was not an option. Not now.

With a sigh, she stood and turned for the stairs. Maybe she could wander around Muggle London for a bit. She needed to get a birthday gift for Victoire anyway and it seemed as good a use of her time as any right then.

Ginny arrived in the master bedroom and crossed to the attached bathroom for a shower. She didn't necessarily need to wash her hair, having done so after practice the day before, but she did anyway, along with exfoliating, shaving her legs, and generally being almost unnecessarily thorough in everything else. She washed every last millimeter of her body, until the bathroom was completely filled with steam and her skin felt nearly raw, and only then did she finally turn off the water and get out.

Ginny emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair hanging wet and loose down her back, and stopped before the chest of drawers containing her clothes, suddenly drained. Maybe it was the long, hot shower that had her suddenly so tired, but the thought of going out, even to Muggle London where she was just another face in the crowd, suddenly seemed unappealing. With a sigh, she backed up a few steps until the backs of her knees hit the unmade bed and sat down.

She did not want to wallow, no, but putting on a mask every day was exhausting and suddenly the idea of doing so again was, at this very moment, more than she could handle. So instead she simply laid back atop the rumpled covers and hugged Harry's pillow to herself, shutting her eyes against the light of the room. The pillowcase no longer smelled of him, but she held fast to it anyway. She couldn't really decide if the action offered much comfort, but she opted to believe it did anyhow. Still, she was surprised when she opened them again over an hour later, feeling a bit better, and found that she'd actually managed to sleep a while.

Ginny, taking advantage of her relatively clear mind post-kip, decided she would revisit the idea of going shopping for Victoire and hurried to get dressed. She was out the door and Aparating away before she could change her mind once more.

For several more minutes, they remained where they were. As far as Ron could figure from context clues and the meager translations the Auror—whose name he had yet to be graced with—offered him, the Healer was concerned about transporting Harry in his condition. As she worked furiously over him, casting spells to stabilize him enough for the trip, Ron looked on in concern, grateful when additional security arrived, at the Aurors' orders, to disperse the gathered crowds and keep curious witches and wizards away from the scene. The small group of Aurors remained close, but no one questioned him further, for which he was grateful. He nearly sagged with relief when a modicum of color returned to Harry's ghostly white face and the witch deemed him as ready for transport as he was going to get.

Nearly two hours later, Ron sat in a cramped waiting room within the Belarusian wizarding hospital. He neither knew what its name translated to nor how to pronounce it, but he'd never been so happy to be sat in a hospital in his life.

The time since leaving the Belarusian ministry had passed in a blur. The Healers and hospital staff, in Ron's opinion, recognized the severity of Harry's condition much more quickly than the Aurors travelling with them had. They took one look at the still-unconscious wizard—deathly pale once more from the transportation to the hospital—and immediately began moving and shouting what he assumed were orders to those around them.

Harry was immediately—though, Ron noticed, with surprising care—levitated onto a bed and wheeled away. He moved to follow after but was halted by a Mediwitch before his two shadows could do so themselves—a good thing, as Ron honestly wasn't sure how he would have reacted to that. She told him, in a no-nonsense tone with hardly any accent at all, that the Healers needed to get Harry assessed and taken care of before anyone would be allowed in to see him, and that any resistance on his part to that would only serve to interfere with the timely care they were trying to provide.

Ron, adequately chastised, relented without further argument. When the Mediwitch left, the Aurors descended on him like vultures, and he proceeded to spend the next hour explaining everything to them in detail. He learned the Auror who'd spoken to him in the Ministry was called Ivanova, and his partner, a darker, well-muscled wizard with an intimidating glare, was Rup. They did not make him take Veritaserum—a fact Ron would not be complaining about, but listened intensely. Rup held a Sneakoscope casually in one hand and studied it during the interrogation. When it remained quiet after three quarters of an hour, the foreign wizards—or, perhaps it was Ron who was the foreign one here—seemed to relax some.

Eventually, he'd been allowed to contact Kingsley and the Minister himself was on his way. Ivanova and Rup remained at the hospital as extra security until further details could be sorted. They sat across from Ron now, conversing quietly in what he assumed was Belarusian and paid him no mind. Which was just as well. Ron was exhausted. He felt it in every fiber of his being, and yet he refused to rest. Not yet. Not until he was able to see that Harry was okay with his own two eyes and know for sure he would live. Not until this whole ordeal was well and truly over.

And then he wanted to sleep for a week straight.

It seemed like an eternity passed with no word and Ron had to talk himself down from pestering the young witch seated behind a nearby desk for an update half a dozen times—and that was only because he was sure she likely knew less than he did. Just when his patience was all but worn through and he was seriously considering barging his way down the hall and damning the consequences, the Mediwitch who had held him up before reappeared and crossed the small waiting room toward him. Ron shot to his feet before his brain could fully process the action.

"I take it you're Ron?" she asked, stopping before him.

He could only nod, his heart suddenly in his throat. "Is he alright?"

"He lost a lot of blood," she answered seriously, "The next few hours are critical, but he's currently stable and resting as comfortably as can be expected."

The relief was like a tidal wave as it flooded Ron. He took a deep breath, thanking his few lucky stars. "Can I see him?" he asked.

The Mediwitch hesitated but, apparently deciding Ron looked too pathetic to deny further, she nodded. "Follow me."

The hospital room was like any other Ron had seen—bare, clean, and rather cold. The single bed occupied most of the windowless space, and an empty chair waited in the corner. Ron thanked the Mediwitch and watched as she turned to go before grabbing the chair and pulling it closer to where Harry lay—pale, unconscious, and covered with a threadbare green blanket. Ron sat, grabbed his best friend's hand, and made an effort not to count his every breath as he began his vigil.

He thought about contacting Hermione and Ginny, the rest of his family. He knew they'd be beside themselves to know that he'd waited as long as he had already, but to send an international owl would likely take at least a day. Kingsley surely had much faster means of getting word back home. Ron made a mental note to inquire about it once the Minister arrived. With a sigh, he leaned forward on his elbows and returned to watching Harry breathe once more.

Kingsley arrived nearly an hour later. Ron who, despite himself, was beginning to doze beside the bed, straightened in his chair upon his entrance. The Minister for Magic nodded briefly at him in greeting before his eyes fell on Harry's prone form. Sudden emotion played across Kingsley's face as he examined the parts of Harry not hidden by the blanket. Ron thought maybe he should look away, allow the Minister a private moment—the close relationship he and Harry had forged over the years was undeniable. But just as quickly as the emotion had come, it was gone, and Kingsley looked like himself again—kind and concerned, of course, but not overly attached. Ron wouldn't say anything, but it was always nice to see the human side of the Minister for Magic, who at times seemed larger than life.

Kingsley took a deep breath and then looked to Ron. "I'm afraid you're going to have quite a bit of explaining to do when you return home, my friend," he said grimly. "You left quite the mess for the Auror Department."

Ron took a deep breath. He'd expected nothing less, but that did nothing to stop the fear that curled in his gut at those words. "I'm sorry," he said. He'd never meant to cause extra work for Kingsley, or Robards, though knowing what he did about the potential mole, he wasn't sure if his regret extended to anyone else just then. "I can explain, if you'll let me."

"Well, seeing as getting Harry transferred to St. Mungo's is going to take a while, you may as well. It's one less thing we'll have to worry about when we get home."

So Ron told him everything that had happened since coming to Belarus—the constant delays, the setbacks, the red tape, and what Harry had said about someone feeding Knox information. "I'm sorry, sir," he finished, "But I would do it all over again if it meant getting Harry home safely when no one else would."

Kingsley, who had sat listening in silence, remained looking at him for several more seconds before speaking. "One of these days, Ron, the Ministry will stop underestimating you," he said pensively.

Ron blinked, "Does that mean I'm not in trouble?" He felt like a child for asking but he couldn't help himself.

Kingsley chuckled. "Oh, I didn't say that. Gawain would have liked nothing more than to see you arrested for treason when he heard what you did. Your success in rescuing Harry has likely done little to quell that."

"Oh."

He smirked. "That being said, I wouldn't worry much about it if I were you. I'm not condoning insubordination, mind you, but in this case, I find the result to supersede the breach of trust. And you didn't hear this from me, but with everything you've told me, frankly I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing in your position."

Any response Ron had to this was cut short when Harry began to stir. Ron was on his feet and beside his friend in an instant. Harry jerked awake. He made to sit up but froze, hissing in pain before he got close. "Easy, mate," Ron said, moving to lower him back down again, "You're alright."

"Ron?" Harry rasped.

"I'm here."

"What happened? How…?"

Kingsley put a hand on Ron's shoulder. "I'm going to go let the Mediwitch know he's awake. I'll be back soon." Ron, unsure exactly where the sudden lump in his throat had come from, just nodded, recognizing the Minister's leave for what it was—a few minutes alone with Harry.

"You escaped," Ron managed as Kingsley stepped out, "You sent a Patronus, told me to find you."

"And you did."

"'Course I did."

Harry groped around, delirious—or maybe just blind without his glasses—until he found Ron's arm and grasped it. "The leak. You have to tell Kingsley, there's—"

"He knows," Ron assured him, "I told him already, as much as I could. He can go over the details with you when you're up for it, but he's already handling it."

Harry relaxed some upon hearing this. "How long was I… gone?"

"About eight days. Maybe just over," Ron answered him gently. He'd kept track of the time tirelessly, but he still wasn't sure on the exact timeline of things prior to his arrival in Belarus.

"Merlin. Does Ginny know?"

"Yes. By now, I'm sure most everyone does."

Harry sighed weakly. "Have they been updated?"

"I dunno," Ron admitted, "I was hoping Kingsley might know the best way to contact everyone from here. I figure he has resources that I don't."

"Tell them I'm alright. Especially Ginny and your mum. Tell them not to worry."

Ron was not surprised in the slightest by this. How typical of Harry to worry about everyone else, even in his current state. It was an oddly comforting scenario. He smirked. "Fat chance of that, mate."

Harry's hand, still atop Ron's wrist, squeezed some. "Please, Ron."

"I'll take care of it," he promised, "You know I will."

A Mediwitch, tall, dark-haired, and moving with purpose walked briskly into the room then, a vial in hand. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Potter," she said with accented wryness. "How are you feeling?"

The short exchange seemed all that was needed to sap any energy Harry had. He slumped against his pillow now and blinked tiredly at the witch. "I'm alright."

"Are you in pain?" He seemed ready to deny it, but then thought better of it and nodded. The Mediwitch nodded with him, like she'd expected as much. Not that that it was a surprising answer—every breath the wizard took looked exhausting.

"Here," the Mediwitch said, extending the potion toward him, "This will put you to sleep, but you'll feel loads better when you wake up again." She held the vial to Harry's mouth. Ron watched—with some alarm— as he swallowed it and, just seconds later, his eyes closed. The Mediwitch looked Harry over and made a few notes on a piece of parchment before nodding at Ron and taking her leave. Ron remained where he was for another minute, once more watching Harry's chest rise and fall, his breathing deep and even—the deep sleep of the drugged. Then he stood, deciding his best friend would, in fact, live to see another day, and turned for the door in search of a certain Minister for Magic and a way to contact home.

He had a promise to keep.

"Potter!" Gwenog's voice, aided by an obvious Sonorus charm, rang out across the practice field where Ginny was warming up. She turned in her coach's direction and noticed the familiar figure, clad in Ministry robes, stood beside her. She fought the sudden fear rising in her chest. Had something happened with the search? Was there news of Harry? Why else would Gwenog allow an interruption to pregame warmups, especially so close to the start of a match?

Was Ginny's world about to come crashing down around her, in a way that was so much worse than it had the week previously?

Gwenog beckoned her over.

Hermione's face was tear-streaked, Ginny noticed, as she flew over warily. She touched down before the witches, her heart in her throat. It seemed to reside there a lot as of late. She eyed her sister-in-law, but addressed her coach when she asked, "What's going on?"

"Ginny," Gwenog's use of her first name surprised her. She honestly wasn't sure she'd ever heard the other witch address her by it. "I'm going to have Emilia stand in for you tonight." Ginny's mouth fell open, maybe to protest—she was not entirely sure. Gwenog held up a hand and continued, "Family is more important than Quidditch. Always. The team will make do without you tonight." She paused, and Ginny thought the witch almost smiled before she continued, "You need to go be there for your husband."

Ginny's eyes flew wide then and she looked again at her sister-in-law and focused there, failing to prevent herself from suddenly hoping against all hope.

Hermione was smiling widely now, her brown eyes less shadowed than Ginny had seen them all week, as she said, "He found him, Ginny. Ron found Harry. They're at a hospital in Belarus and as soon as Harry is well enough, they're bringing him home."

Thank you so much for reading!

I will be back with the next update as soon as I can!