The days spent wearing the Horcrux were never pleasant for anyone, especially Ron Weasley. The infernal thing, once around his neck, would hiss things at him, secrets that his two best friends were hiding, how both prominent women in his life would prefer Harry (although for two different reasons). It wasn't pleasant, when his turn came around. The red head would resist, fight it, tell himself it was lies, all lies. But as the weeks wore on, he began to believe the things it would say. All the little suspicions it had, planting seeds of hate in his heart. He would take to his bunk, and listen to radio static just to drive the cursed little voice away, but it always came back, with more vicious taunts and jibes. It would get to him while he slept, giving him dreams of nothing but pain and fear. Visions of Harry and Hermione shunning him, his mother disowning him, his friends dying. Bellatrix, Voldemort, Snape and Pettigrew frequented his visions, often taunting him with cutting remarks. So as time went by, Ron became more sadistic, hurtful, and cruel to his companions. Shutting them out to ease the terrors. Even once the locket was gone from his neck, the dreams continued, his mind recreated the nasty little voice. He detached himself more and more, decidedly avoiding times when Harry and Hermione were together. Because the more he looked, the more he saw. He saw how they would always walk closer to one another, hands brushing. He could see how Hermione looked at Harry. Like he was the only person she'd ever really feel safe with. And one night, they came back late. And although his rational mind told him it was nothing, the Horcrux whispered otherwise. It told him a story of whispered names, hearts pounding, and lips brushing. That was what really ended it. After that moment, Ron's rational thought was gone, replaced by jealousy and hurt. A bad combination, like gasoline on a flame.
Towards the end, he knew that he could never win, really. That Harry, his best mate, his most trusted friend, would always be the hero. But worse, he would always have Hermione. Ron could marry her, and love her. She could love him, but Harry would always have some of her. A corner of her heart would always belong to the Boy-Who Lived. There was nothing Ron could do about it. All he ever saw were two people falling in love, inch by inch, second by second. Eventually, it was too much to bear, and he left. But in the dust of tears and regrets and questions he left behind, there were still two people, falling in love.