Disclaimer: I don't own HP :)

A/N: HEEEEYYYY GUUUYYYYSSSSSS SOOORRRRYYYYY.

Let me go over the excuses I have for not updating in two weeks (which I am very, very sorry about): Spring Break, Scholarship Days, housing forms, internet connection difficulties, general laziness, and copius amounts of CSI seasons 1-5. I devoted an entire week just to get college stuff in order and study for exams. You know how it is, right?

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this next chapter. I have to admit, the end was a little hurried due to the fact that I wrote half of it in one night (tonight). Hopefully you find it action-packed and thrilling. :) And thanks to everyone who commented, even when nothing new showed up. I really appreciate it.

Ron felt a considerable amount of weight fall on the length of his body, pressing the hot air out of his lungs. When he went to breathe again, to shift, to move, his mouth was filled with cool wind. It tasted icy, but fresh. The atmosphere was invigorating. He rolled to his side, his hip digging into the unbending earth, and felt relief when Hermione's body lolled beside him.

He blinked through the darkness easily – the stars above them were unusually bright. They illuminated the mountains that surrounded the seemingly barren valley they lay in. Their rigid faces were harsh and capped in snow. The dell was simply grass and bush, sparse of animal life. Ron only noticed for seconds.

Ron tossed the bottle beside him and groped onto his elbows. He stared into Hermione's still, calm face. A cold, stinging sensation ran throughout his body as his arms began to shake. He touched her face. It was clammy. He stroked her cheek for a moment, before realizing the terror that was spreading like a virus in his heart. She was dead. Hermione had suffered the curse – the portkey had worked a moment too late.

"Hermione," a barely audible whisper escaped his lips. His eyes would not move from her face, they were grossly fixed on the way her eyelashes stained her cheeks like ink stains.

She groaned. It was soft and gentle and he thought his mind was playing tricks, but her lips had parted a fraction of an inch. Her belly had moved to force the noise out. Something inside her was still burning, still fighting, still alive.

"Hermione," his voice had grown in strength. It swelled with worry and hope and fear and faith. "Hermione?" Ron pulled himself off his quaking elbows and sat above her on the ground. He pulled her into his lap and cleared the hair out of her face. Soon, her body was lying against his. His arms wrapped warmly around her and shook lightly. "Hermione, can you hear me?"

Her head slumped backwards onto his shoulder, her forehead resting against his neck. He could feel his pulse jumping against her skin. He smoothed his hands back and forth across her arms. It was soothing for the both of them.

"Hermione," his voice was loud, commanding.

She moaned again in response. Her voice, too, was stronger now. He could feel her eyelids flutter like tiny wings and gripped her tighter. He sighed in relief.

"Ron?" she was tired, so tired. It was an effort to move. The rush of the portkey had drained every ounce of her energy; the crash-landing had knocked her unconscious. There was a sweet dullness all around her.

He rested his chin against the top of her head and sighed a full breath.

"Ron?" Hermione asked again.

Ron found he had to take a few moments before his heart slowed enough for him to fix the words in his mouth. "Yeah," he whispered. Gentle release slipped through him, his back arching and arms drooping. "I'm here."

Hermione could not pull any emotion from her heart, besides instinctual fear. She was fatigued and weary, so ready to creep back into delightful, dreamless sleep. "Where are we?"

Ron's eyes had grown somewhat accustomed to the night and they glittered keenly through the black haze. He saw the jagged mountains that lay seamless around them, he saw the tufts of jade grass that stretched out for miles, and he saw the moon full and gleaming in the distance. "I don't know," he breathed, stretching to look behind. He beheld the same sight – surrounded in strange country with nowhere to go.

"Are we alright?" Hermione barely cared for his answer. Her eyes were tremendously heavy. Ron's shoulder was boney, but it was warm and comforting. He smelled like home and that was good for such a situation.

Ron was still looking about, planning. There was a tiny dirt path a few yards off and that was the most promising thing the land held. "Yeah, I'm fine," he exhaled, finally feeling the chill in the air. It was June, for God's sake, why was it so damned cold?

"Good," Hermione replied. She succumbed to the thick want of sleep quickly, her last thought of the patch of freckles hidden under his chin.

"Are you alright?" he asked, stretching to see where the trail led. It disappeared in a curve, but he hoped it led into the mountains. Ron felt uncomfortable in the valley, more vulnerable. His mind was working and fretting and he was barely aware of the fact his question was left unanswered.

--

"Where are they?"

Ginny's voice rang clearly through the still air of the room. She sat up, back pressed coolly against the headboard, and blinked. Her head throbbed and it was difficult to breathe through her broken nose, but she was resilient. She had woken up in a strange, stale bedroom and was frantically worried until she had spotted Seamus sleeping in a chair close by. Her question woke him with a start.

"Gin?" Seamus asked, rubbing his eyes with the full of his palms. His skin was flaky and dry and dirty – he hadn't showered since the night before. His assignment was to guard Ginny until she could be moved to a safer location in Headquarters, which hopefully would be soon that night.

"Is my brother alright?" her voice wavered, but her face was still set in unwavering concern.

Seamus sighed and prepared for a long discussion. "I s'pose so," was his nonchalant answer.

"You suppose so?" Ginny raised a bruised eyebrow, agitated at his response. "What's that supposed to mean, Finnigan? Is he alright or not?"

He wasn't going to lie to her – Ginny could tell bullshit from certainty – and he barely even knew where the couple was at the moment.

"Where are they?" Ginny asked when Seamus took too long to answer. She leaned forward to look out the half opened door across the way. "Are they here? Where are we?" The only thing she could see was dirty wood paneling.

"You're at a branch of Headquarters in Bordeaux. It's pretty ruddy here, but it's safe and quiet," at least he could answer that question without difficulty. He had shown up with Gin in his arms at Headquarters in early morning with his face and robes covered in soot. It had taken a long, tiring hour to kill the flames and discard the body. They had sent him to a dingy suburb of France and told him to stay put until further notice.

A slight hint of disgust rippled across Ginny's paled face, accentuated painfully when she tried to wrinkle her nose. A pang of hurt screamed from it and she bit her lip to keep the cry inside. She didn't want to be in France, she wanted to be in England with her brother and Hermione. She wanted to rewind the past day and cast a hex the moment she saw that bulky shadow in the hallway.

"And Ron?"

"Ron and Hermione took a portkey to a piece of guarded property in Norway that Viktor's family abandoned a few years back. It has plenty of places to keep hidden," Seamus answered truthfully, not looking forward to the next set of questions.

"So they're safe?" Ginny asked, her eyebrows furrowed heavily. Seamus was covering something and she didn't like the look of flickering secrets that shone behind his hazel eyes.

Seamus looked up at the ceiling, searching for words. "I can't be for certain."

"What does that mean?"

Seamus scratched the back of his head. "Viktor programmed the bloody thing so damned fast that even he doesn't remember exactly where he sent them. They could be at the mansion or they could be in the backyard or they could be on the top of a fucking mountain. We're really not sure at this point."

Ginny slumped and glared at her counterpart, the accusation of idiocy ready in her features. "And where is Viktor now?" her eyes flitted closed.

"Back at the Order."

"Doing what?" Ginny snapped, annoyed.

"What do you think?" Seamus responded quickly, playfully. "He's trying to get them back as soon as possible."

"Why not just let them stay at the house, if it's abandoned?" Ginny asked curiously. Everything was moving at an incredible speed and it gave her a headache. "They are safe there – you said it yourself."

Seamus stilled, thoughts humming through his mind and filling the silence that seemed to encompass them both. Ron and Hermione were safe… for the moment. If the Shop could find Ron's undetectable flat, then surely they would be able to find him again. Viktor had said his full name aloud in an Agent's presence – whether he was listening or not – and revealed his identity to his enemies. It was only a matter of time before the information got back and the dots were connected. It could be only a week and there would be another infiltration.

"They're not?" her voice was soft and dangerous, her eyes peeking sharply out from behind ginger lashes. She stared at Seamus' twisted hands. They were gnarled, thick, and chapped; they belonged on a man thrice his age. He picked at a fingernail and Ginny knew that not everything was whole by his discomforting quiet.

"They're alright for the moment and that's all I can say to the truth," Seamus answered in a low voice, aching to let forth a lie to soothe her. "They're safe today."

"And tomorrow?" Ginny countered, her heart falling in her bruised chest.

Seamus looked her in the eyes and told her everything through his glance. "I don't know."

--

Sweat was pouring in rivers down the smooth curve of Ron's back. Droplets skimmed down the juts in his cheeks, the stiff arch of his elbows, the tired camber in the back of his knees. The cool air whispered around him, but nothing was pacifying to his state. His arms ached with the weight they carried, his ankles screamed in pain, and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. They had been walking – he had been walking, she riding – for over an hour without stopping.

The gravel path Ron had spotted the night before led them against the rocky ridges of the mountains and through a twisted maze of sparse scenery. The lack of diversity in the sights almost drove him mad, but he followed the dirt.

"What is that?" Hermione hadn't spoken for a while. Her cheeks were flushed with slight embarrassment. She hated being carried, but after the first fifteen minutes of stilted walking she had been panting with pain and exhaustion. Ron had gathered her in his arms and continued their journey without a word. She would have remained quiet if not for the anomaly her eyes had spotted.

"What?" he puffed, turning his eyes upward.

Hermione pointed to something quite out of the ordinary several miles away. There was a black spire that jutted out the top of a jagged cliff in the rock face a considerable distance away, the base of it hidden from sight. It could have easily been mistaken for a bare tree, but Hermione's quick and observing eyes saw the little ruts of crowning at the tip.

"It's a roof," she breathed, straining to get a better look.

Ron's spirit perked on hearing the words. "You're right." His step quickened, forgetting the weight in his grasp. A cold wind was on his back, as if to push them closer. It might be their salvation - a place to stay for the night, a place to rest – and they were so near.

"It's a house!" Hermione clutched the damp shirt on Ron's chest as her eyes widened in amazement. "Do you see it, Ron? Do you?" her voice was bridging fanatical. Tonight wouldn't be spent shivering on the ground. Tonight she would figure out everything that had been racing through her mind in the past day, as answers would be ready through Floo and fire.

"Yeah," Ron answered, heart hammering. The burn in his legs intensified as he brought them both upon the building that would house them.

It was large and ornate, though the years of abandonment were displayed clearly on the broken windows and crumbling outer walls. It was rectangular shaped, with small wings on either side protruding from the front. Covered in once-beautiful windows, the main section was a pale yellow and topped with a steeping, black roof. There was a tall tower in the back, where the spire originated from.

The road under Ron's feet solidified and brought him to a walkway cluttered on both sides by foliage. The hedges were overgrown, but still a brilliant green color in the cold. Hermione flinched as the prickly branches swiped across her skin and looked expectantly in front of them. There was a pair of large, black doors so close she would walk to them if she could. Ron dropped her to the ground and helped her gain her shaky balance, her hands pressed against the wall.

The doorknob was a circle – one half for each door – and it would have been a proud gold if not for the years of rust that covered it. Ron brushed his fingers over it and uncovered a strange sight. The disk showed an animal that was unrecognizable. Ron thought it could be a dragon or a jackal or a mix of both. Its neck was twisted backwards; jaws open to show large fangs. The animal's body was freckled with tiny spokes and its claws were fierce and open. The tail continued up from the body and stretched around the circle to form symbols – probably foreign letters, Ron presumed – that were glowing under his touch.

Ron glanced at Hermione for her input, eyebrows raised. Hermione leaned over to trace over the picture and was taken aback when the animal squirmed and hissed under her touch. It drew her curiosity. She gently pushed Ron aside to wait while she tried to uncover the mystery. He complied grudgingly.

"I recognize this," Hermione whispered, playing with the monster, tickling its spiny belly. "I can't quite place it, but I remember this from somewhere." The dragon-dog nipped at her fingertips.

"Does it really matter?" Ron asked, leaning back against the building. He crossed his arms, ready to be done with the crest. "Just open the door and we'll be on with it."

"Just wait a moment," Hermione snapped, fearing that he would push her aside soon. The handles were intriguing and she welcomed the puzzle. "I'm not sure if I can even pull it." Her fingers traced down the crack the black doors made and found no groove in the rusted disk. "I don't think I can."

"Are you sure?" Ron pushed himself off the wall and tugged on it lightly. Nothing moved at all.

Hermione shot him a glance. "I told you so."

Ron narrowed his eyes and set himself to the side again, his mouth tight. He watched angrily as Hermione's eyes clouded and she poured over the millions of facts her mind retained. She went through faces and settings and experiences before foggily coming up with a name.

"Viktor Krum," she whispered, her finger pressed hard against the handle. Hermione looked up and around and exclaimed again, "Viktor!"

"What about him?" Ron wanted to know quickly. His heart began pumping fast.

"I've been here before, because this is Viktor's home. I came to visit for the holidays the winter of our sixth year at Hogwarts. It was for less than a day, but I remember!" Her dreamy gaze scoured the windows and up the spire. She pointed, "That was the clock tower – you could hear it all over the grounds." Her hand went back to the door. "This place used to be beautiful."

Ron nodded. "Do you remember how to open the door?"

"No," her voice was soft, "Viktor always did it."

"I thought you said you were here once." His fingers grew stiff as his impatience rose.

Hermione turned away and smiled secretively. She didn't answer. Instead, she turned her attention to the monster. "These letters spell something in Latin, maybe." She put her face closer and saw that the symbols were not of the English alphabet.

Ron peered at them, too. "It's Bulgarian," he scoffed and watched with amusement as she blushed.

"Of course," Hermione stammered, her temper flaring. "You don't happen to know Bulgarian, do you?"

"No," Ron bit.

Hermione sniffed and looked back. The dragon-dog was circling around her finger. The letters were moving slowly and suddenly, it came to her.

"Cerberus," her voice was firm, just like Viktor's had been. It was the name of the dog guarding the gates of Hades – the animal of the Krum family crest – and the animal on the handle. It jumped in delight as she pulled her hand away. Its tail straightened and lashed out, sending a crack down the middle of the circle. Hermione pulled hesitantly and felt the locks in the door turning and creaking.

Ron helped and soon, the door was pulled open. They were met by a gust of stale air. Hermione coughed as the dust sprinkled across her nose. Ron led her by the hand into a grand room that had served as a Welcoming Hall. Hermione remembered the marble floors and the bay windows that lined the back of the room, collecting the sunshine. The walls were lined with portraits of the Krum family, all eager to know their intruders.

It was cold and dank inside, the most prominent smell the rotting carpet that lined the grand staircase in the middle of the room. The couple was speechless and wandered about on their own accord. Ron's sharp Auror's mind told him to scout the place and only when he found it stable could he relax and putter about. Hermione's was more engulfed in the faces that watched disapprovingly as she milled about. The large fireplace across the room drew her attention.

Ron soon found all of the rooms in the downstairs were clear and free, besides the thin layer of grime that covered everything in sight. He quickly went up the stairs and down the hallways, pushing open doors with Hermione's wand drawn tight in his fist. There was nothing. He stopped at the top of the stairs and watched Hermione tip back the picture frames on the mantelpieces and peer quietly into them.

"What do we do know?" Hermione's fingers looped gently over the bumps of a silver frame of Viktor as a young boy of six or seven. She cleared away the gray earth to see his smiling face. Her eyes flickered over the other tiny portraits of the family. There were old women with tight mouths and young gentlemen leering down the family nose into the camera. There was another young Viktor holding a tiny broom and waving vigorously. It made her heart hurt and she jerked away.

Ron gripped the railing and poured over the heavily-loaded question. His former training helped and his mind quickly put his concerns in order. He turned to meet her stare. "You need to rest. There's a master bedroom up here that's not too cluttered. I could have it cleared in a matter of minutes. While you sleep, I'm going to see if these old fireplaces will let me get to Headquarters in England."

Hermione froze, her fingers cold on the mantle. "You're going to leave?" she tried to keep her voice from shaking. Ron had been right about how tired she was, but she was still as determined to find out what had happened to them. Living in Viktor's house – sleeping in his own bed – without knowing if he was alright would be unbearable and she refused to do so.

"No," Ron's voice seemed drawn. "I suppose I could just send a message."

Her heart slowly calmed. "Alright," she agreed, "then what?"

"I don't like being here," he replied, a grave look on his face. The manor was empty, but the air of uncertainty hung thick on both of them. "We're leaving as soon as we can."

The room fell silent. Hermione did not argue, for she felt uneasy in the abandoned home as well. There were so many watching, judging eyes overtop mouths that sneered, but did not speak. They were surrounding them both and did not seem to like the invasion. A shiver ran down her body and she visibly shook.

"You're cold," Ron descended the staircase and walked to her. He held out his arms and quietly, Hermione into them. As he carried her back up the stairs, their eyes remained downcast. Their adventurous spirit and previous triumph had been forgotten. It was just another long, hard hurdle to jump.

--

"Do we have a group yet?" Viktor's commanding voice rang through the large conference room.

Many heads turned to look up at him, but just as quickly they returned back to work. Only one agent spoke above the hurried buzz. "Sir," her voice was curt, "We only have one available unit with the size and skill need for a rescue or a capture. You need to make the decision on where they're to go."

The agent stood at attention, two folders tucked snuggly under her bare arms. Viktor had called on all available workers that night to set up a command post and had been very lenient on the dress code. Many had shown up groggily in their pajamas. He didn't care. The only thing on his mind had been Hermione.

Viktor scrubbed a hand over his face and it seemed to rejuvenate him for the moment. He took the papers and flipped through them quickly. His small, slanted eyes darted across novels of text. He saw pictures of Ron, Hermione, and Heather. He read Theodore Ryker's profile. He sighed, sagging under the weight of responsibility.

It almost hurt to force the words out. "Send Task Unit 7 to gather a woman going by the name of Heather McDowell. She has something to do with this, I'm sure of it."

"And what about Weasley?" the agent demanded.

Viktor felt the urge to snap at her to use Ron's Order Title, but instead clenched his fists. He too had forgotten to do the same in a moment of panic and could not handle being called a hypocrite at the moment. He hardened himself and prepared for a very long day.

Gathering a quill and parchment, Viktor said, "I'll find them myself."

--

A tapping on the glass pane of the window across the room woke Seamus. He rolled his neck, wincing at the snapping sounds it made. He had fallen asleep sitting in a chair pulled close to Ginny's bed. The clock read 3 A.M. He stood shakily, but regained himself enough to see an owl resting on the balcony outside. He opened the latch with clumsy, thick fingers and let the tiny animal hop inside. Seamus took a great breath of morning air and closed the window with excitement stirring in his chest.

With the owl came a letter with a familiar heading. Seamus scanned the note quietly, stroking the owl's feathery head with a single finger. It nipped, expecting sweetmeats, but Seamus was too absorbed with his reading to bother.

"Absumere," he muttered, and the letter shred itself into small, concise pieces before vanishing altogether. Being careful not to wake Ginny, Seamus opened the door to the hallway and called softly for a nurse.

Sleepily, a witch came upon him and asked, "De quoi avez-vous besoin, Monsieur Finnigan?" Her voice was dreamy and filled with her thick accent.

Seamus was taken aback by the use of his name – he had only been in Bordeaux for mere hours. News traveled fast, he anxiously supposed. Clearing his throat, but keeping it quite low, he replied, "Je voudrais une cheminée et une poudre Floo. Il est temps pour moi de partir."

"Qu'en est-il de la jeune fille? Est-elle à rester ici?" her round face had grown serious upon hearing his plans.

Seamus shook his head. "Non, je vais l'emmener avec moi." He would not leave Ginny behind. She would accompany him back to England and make her recovery in Saint Mungos – that would be best.

The woman's eyebrows knit as she thought over the proposition.

"S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle," Seamus smiled tiredly, "Il ya urgence."

The friendly action made her yield and nodded her affirmation of his plans. "D'accord, Monsieur Finnigan, il sera prêt dans quelques minutes."

The nurse turned to go, but turned stopped when she heard Seamus say, "Merci, mademoiselle. Merci." She nodded quietly and turned into a different room. His voice remained in her ears as she prepared their journey.

Seamus turned back into the room and began to ready their things. Ginny's clothes were strewn across the floor and his wand was resting on the nightstand. All of those things were easily collected and put away. His fingers brushed across her shoulder – her skin was delightfully warm – and he licked his lips. The words were in his mind, stuck in his throat, on the tip of his tongue, but Seamus found that he couldn't disturb her sleep.

Ginny felt his presence by her head and mumbled sleepily, "I heard voices."

"Yeah," Seamus stuttered, his hand inches from her forehead. He withdrew it quickly, shamefacedly.

"Going to tell me what it was all about?" A smirk hinted in her features.

"Got a letter from Charlie - says your family is gathering at Grimmauld Place. They want me to return you." He managed a quiet laugh.

Ginny smiled at the news. "When?"

"In an hour or so. Don't worry. Just sleep."

Ginny would not argue. Instead, she evened her breathing and slipped away.

Seamus' mouth opened to add something, but he couldn't form the words. It was always just playful banter, and it seemed that was all it would ever be between them. He sat back in the chair with an owl on his shoulder and a heavy heart in his chest.

--

Felicity Hannover had the bad habit of biting her nails. Tonight, they were bleeding nubs that pained her whenever she pressed her fingers to her temples. The stress was driving her batty. Nothing had gone as planned – the raid, the ditched capture, Theodore, the rendezvous point – and she worried over what might happen next.

She crouched lower, huddled into herself, and waited for the first sign of sunlight. When the sky glowed pink and yellow, she would dig in the soft earth beside her. Then, she would find the portkey she had buried weeks ago and it would activate in her hands. She would go home. The weather was balmy and nice in the open cellar, but she missed the smell the Russian wind carried. England was a ruddy, cruel place to live and two years had been enough for her.

Felicity's mind wandered, her face turned up to the cracks in the cement ceiling, and she wondered what her life would be like once the day had passed. The tedious days of living as Heather McDowell were past her and for that, she was glad. Having to keep up the complex rouse was difficult and didn't provide for much of a social life – let alone friends or family – and she missed her home life in Ipatovo. She had been born and raised in Russia, attended school, worked, joined the retaliation, and eventually made The Shop's Headquarters in her childhood home. She dreamed of sleeping in her own bed once more.

That dream fell short when she realized that she would be returning without Theodore. Her companion and counterpart was dead – killed in the line of duty – and no one was pleased to begin with. She had relayed the information hours earlier to alert Command that all systems should go to backup, but knew that Theodore's death would not be effectually noticed until his presence was missed.

They had relayed back in code that she would continue with the original plan – the rendezvous point – and would wait for further instructions. Even with the promise of home in her sight, Felicity still had to work. She would do anything.

Felicity groaned, her knees aching, and wished for day.

--

Hermione dozed as the warmth of her covers crept over her body. Her lids were heavy as she watched Ron crouch beside the fireplace on the other side of the room. He had a tiny bag of Floo clutched in his hand, her wand casting scouring charms in the other. She had been observing him dart about the room for a while now. The rustling of his clothes and the soft padding of his feet across the floor subdued her nerves and lulled her into a nice calm.

"Damn thing," she heard Ron mutter under his breath. There was a crack and she knew her wand had backfired on him again. Hermione rolled over, a smile on her mouth, and sighed heavily into the clean, white sheets.

The whole room was white – well, it had been once – and everything blurred together in a snowy mass as Hermione shut her eyes. The walls were a creamy color highlighted by intricate, silver patterns on the paper. The floors were covered in white carpet charmed to never dirty. Even the posters on the bed were a shining, fair color. It made her feel clean and soothed – exactly what she needed.

Ron leaned back on his haunches and glared at the fireplace. It was the only one with an open vent to the roof and therefore it was the only one that would allow Floo powder. The chimney wouldn't unplug, though he had tried unsuccessfully for the past twenty minutes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

With one sudden movement, Ron thrust the wand up the structure and said with as much frustration as possible, "Mundavi!" There was a loud bang and a plume of black smoke thudded down to greet him.

Ron coughed and stumbled away, swiping at the air in front of his face. He choked and was able to say, "Dispari," before he gagged. The dust cleared slowly. Ron quickly turned and saw that his antics had not woken Hermione and was relieved. He didn't like making mistakes in front of her, even now.

He tossed in a pinch of Floo powder and said in his most authoritative tone, "Order of the Phoenix Headquarters, Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, London, England." Familiar green flames sparkled before his eyes. Ron took a deep breath and thrust his head inside.

"Look!" a voice screeched, ringing in his ears. Ron flinched and blinked through the emerald fog that clouded around his head. "It's Ron! Look!"

"Ron, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" a masculine voice shouted at him.

Angry, Ron opened his eyes and glared at the man stooping down to face him. He looked straight into the eyes of his older brother. It was a face he did not expect. "Bill?" his voice did nothing to mask his surprise. "What're you doing here?"

"Tell me you're alright. Tell me you have Hermione with you and that she's safe," Bill hissed, his weathered face creasing like an old page. His eyes held a hard glint. Ron had no idea why he would be so upset.

"Yeah," he stammered, trying to calm himself, "we're both at Viktor's old home. D'you need the coordinates?"

"No," Bill answered quickly, his slanted eyes darting about Ron's face for injury. His idiot little brother had learned nothing about the Floo network serving time as an Auror, it seemed. "We all know where you are. Viktor and a team are coming to get you. Stay put. And for God's sake, Ron, don't use the damn fireplace anymore. The Floor is connected – anyone can see you if they want!"

"How else was I supposed to let everyone know that we're okay?" Ron snapped back, but could not disagree with the rest of Bill's argument. He sighed, "I'll see you soon. Regards to Fleur."

"Get the hell out of there!" Bill chided, smiling.

Ron nodded and pulled himself away from the dying fire. His head felt cold and hazy, but he had accomplished what he had set out to do. Nothing left to do but wait.

"Abeo," he flicked his wand and the fire was put out immediately. The plug returned itself back into the shutter in the fireplace. Communication was shut off and all was well. Ron pulled himself to his feet and crossed the room. He was weary with exhaustion, the feeling echoing in his knees and elbows.

He walked to Hermione and shook her gently awake. She rolled up to meet his gaze in the dim candlelight.

"What happened?" her voice was dozing.

"I let Bill know where we are. Someone is coming to get us soon. Meantime, you sleep. I'll let you know when it's time to go." He smiled, pulling up the covers on her shoulder. She had found a ridiculously large, old shirt of Viktors that had been deemed suitable for sleepwear. The neck opening exposed most of the skin on her shoulders and there were goosebumps.

"Are you going to sleep as well?" She closed her eyes, barely caring about the answer.

Ron rolled back on his heels. "If you don't mind." His blood thudded in his ears and a spark ignited somewhere in his chest. She was barely concious and it still sent his ears blazing. He was embarrassed by his reaction.

"I don't," Hermione told him. She rolled back to sleep again.

Ron pulled his shirt over his head and thanked God that Hermione kept to her side of the bed. There were plenty of guest rooms surrounding them, but he felt uneasy by himself. He also knew that he would be in deep trouble if something happened to Hermione while he slept. He slid beneath the sheets and felt the warmness of her body close to him. Ron blew out the candle on his bedside and stared at the ceiling for a long time, his body too nervous to slumber.

--

"When are you heading out, Sir?" an agent asked, handing him his cup of requested coffee.

Viktor sipped the warm drink before answering. "As soon as my backup gets here, Tom." He would not explain further – they would see in due time.

Tom did not take the answer as quietly as Viktor expected he would. "Well," he threw his weight to one side and stretched his legs, "when are they getting here? No disrespect, Sir, but time is of the essence." He thrust his watch between them for effect.

Viktor scowled at the newcomer. "Just wait," he snapped.

His heart began to thud as Tom's words fell upon him. He strutted down the cluttered hallway, peeking in doors and reassuring agents of their work. If his man didn't show soon, then the great reveal would be ruined. It wouldn't be the biggest loss ever, but Viktor still hoped that his guest would pop in the door.

The expected visitor did not pop in the office door, but walked through it coolly, alertly. His eyes flickered from the smudges on his glasses to the wondrous expressions on the faces that turned to stare at him. A small hint of heat crept up his cheeks as he sought out Viktor through the mess. He tried not to notice the whispers that rose in volume as he walked by, head held high. He nodded at the few people who spared a "hello."

Finally, he found Viktor in deep discussion with a tall woman holding a clipboard. He clapped the hulking man on the shoulder and exclaimed, "Viktor! Sorry about the lateness."

Viktor spun around and welcomed him with a grand smile. "Harry!" he exclaimed, "Good to have you. Let's get going, shall we?"

A/N: Did you like it? I know it jumps around a little, but I just want to fit in the whole story.

And if anyone wants to know the full translation of the French dialogue, it goes something like: "What do you need?" "I want a fireplace and Floo powder. It's time for me to leave." "And the young lady? Is she to stay here?" "No, I'll be taking her with me. Please, miss, this is urgent." "Okay, Mr. Finnigan, it will be ready in a few minutes." "Thank you, miss, thank you." I take a little French in school and had to apply myself pretty hard to make sure everything made sense. If anyone truly has a grasp of the language, feel free to critisize. :)

I'd love some feedback - encouragement, suggestions, commentary, criticism - anything! Have a great rest of the week, everyone!!

Katie