Harry had hidden her books.
Hermione had realised it the moment she returned from her evening hunt for more food - a schedule she'd fallen into once the boys both fell asleep. Her stomach clenched as she searched around the tent frantically before she saw the lump under Harry's sleeping arm, his fingers curled protectively around the fabric of her beaded bag.
He had hidden them on purpose. He knew she wouldn't be able to sleep, knew she'd keep reading if she had access to them. And so, in a frustratingly well-thought-out move, he had taken them from her.
A tiny, traitorous part of her wanted to accio summon the bag, consequences be damned. She could see it in her mind—the way it would slip from his grasp and fly straight into her hands, her relief instant as she poured over the pages again. But no, that would wake him. And then he would know. And then he would take it away too.
"Ungrateful," the locket whispered in her mind. The voice was silky, patient. "You do everything for them. Keep them alive, keep them safe. And this is how they repay you? Hiding your things like you're a child."
Hermione clenched her jaw and turned back around to leave the tent again. Fine. If she couldn't read, she'd do something useful.
Outside the tent, the forest was still deathly silent, blanketed in a thick fog that curled around the trees like ghostly fingers. She pulled her coat tighter around herself and began circling the perimeter, scanning the wards she had layered over and over again.
She had been so careful. So thorough.
But what if she had missed something?
"You missed plenty," the locket cooed. "If something happens, it will be your fault. Just like Ron."
Her breath hitched.
"Do you remember? How he bled? How his body went limp in your arms? How you thought—for one terrible moment—that you'd lost him?"
Her fingers dug into her arms. Stop it.
"You should have known the spell. You should have been faster. You should have been smarter."
Stop it!
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, exhaling sharply through her nose. When she opened them again, she reached out, pressing a hand to the invisible barrier before her. She felt the magic hum beneath her palm. It was solid. Strong. Secure.
But it wasn't enough.
So she checked it again. And again. And again.
She wasn't sure how many times she had circled the tent—fifty, a hundred, maybe more—but her feet were aching, her head pounding, her eyes stinging from exhaustion. But she couldn't sleep. She couldn't stop. She couldn't waste time.
"Weak," the locket sneered.
"Tired already? Pathetic. You're not like them. You can't afford to be tired. You have to be better, or they'll die."
She gritted her teeth and pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. I know that.
"Then why are you hesitating? Work harder. Keep going. You're all they have."
Something in her snapped.
With a strangled growl, Hermione yanked the chain from her neck, the metal burning against her skin as she ripped it off. The weight of it lifted from her chest, but the whispering didn't stop, still slithering through her thoughts like poison.
"You need me."
"No, I don't," she spat, hurling it onto the frozen ground.
The locket landed with a dull clunk against the dirt, glinting in the moonlight. Hermione's wand was in her hand before she had even realized it, her grip white-knuckled as she fired a curse.
"Stupefy!"
The spell shot forward, colliding with the locket in a bright flash, but it remained unscathed. She let out a furious, shuddering breath and kept going.
"Reducto! Confringo! Diffindo!"
Nothing. Not even a dent.
She let out a scream of frustration and raised her wand again—but before she could cast another spell, footsteps pounded behind her.
"Hermione!"
Harry and Ron burst out of the tent, wands raised, eyes wide with alarm. Their breaths came in sharp puffs of steam in the cold air, scanning the area for a threat—only to find nothing. Just her.
Her arm trembled. Her knees felt weak. And then, without warning, her body betrayed her.
The first sob wracked through her chest so violently that she nearly doubled over.
"Hey, hey, it's okay," Ron was suddenly beside her, an arm around her shoulders, solid and warm and real. She clutched onto him like a lifeline as another sob broke free.
Harry bent down, staring at the locket on the ground. His face was unreadable as he reached for it.
"Harry, don't—" Hermione tried weakly, but it was too late.
His fingers wrapped around the chain, and in one fluid motion, he slipped it around his neck.
The locket rested heavily against his chest, and he exhaled slowly, as if steeling himself for what was to come.
Hermione buried her face in Ron's shoulder, her body still shaking, and Harry—silent, determined—stood guard.
The weight of their mission pressed heavier than ever.