The smell of burnt onions filled the tent.
Ron swore under his breath, waving a hand in front of his face as smoke curled from the bottom of the pot. He had seen Hermione do this a million times—it didn't look that hard. But now that he was the one standing over the little camping stove, stirring a questionable mixture of rabbit meat, water, and a handful of herbs he'd picked out from their dwindling supplies, he was starting to think he might have been a bit overconfident.
Still, he had to try.
She had looked awful last night—shaking, sobbing, utterly drained. He wasn't used to seeing her like that. Hermione was Hermione—the one with the plans, the logical one. But the locket had gotten to her, just like it had gotten to him.
This was all he could do for her now. Give her a warm meal, let her sleep.
She hadn't woken up once since collapsing into her bunk hours ago.
Ron stirred the pot again, grimacing at the thickening, unappetizing mess inside. Maybe it would taste better than it looked. He had to hope.
Behind him, Harry sat in silence, shoulders hunched, staring blankly at the tent flap.
He had barely said a word all morning.
Ron had noticed the shift the moment Harry had put the locket on. He was always quiet when he wore it, sure—but this was worse. It was like every time each of them wore the locket now their reactions were just worse and worse, like the locket picked up right where I left off from the previous wear. The air around him felt heavy, like the very presence of the thing hanging from his neck was pressing down on him, warping his thoughts.
Ron knew what that was like.
But he also knew that Harry wouldn't talk about it.
Not unless someone made him.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked, breaking the silence.
Harry didn't move at first. Then, slowly, he blinked, as if being pulled from deep underwater. "Yeah," he muttered. "Fine."
Ron frowned. "You don't look fine."
Harry gave a half-hearted shrug, but his fingers twitched where they rested against his knee. The locket gleamed against his chest, dark and ominous, and Ron suddenly had the sinking feeling that something was very, very wrong.
Something about the way Harry kept glancing at the tent's entrance.
Like he was waiting for the right moment to bolt.
Ron's grip tightened on the wooden spoon in his hand.
He was looking to bolt.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut.
It made sense, in a way. Harry had always been the one to try and shoulder everything alone. He had done it in first year, going after the Philosopher's Stone by himself. He had done it in second year, leaving Ron half way through the Chamber of Secrets. And now—now, with that cursed thing whispering in his ear—of course he would think it was best to leave.
"They'll be safer," the locket whispered.
"You're putting them in danger. You should go. You should go now, before Hermione wakes up, before Ron gets his to wand."
Harry's fingers curled into fists.
Hermione was still asleep. Ron was busy cooking.
He could do it. He could leave right now.
"They'll hate you for it," the locket murmured. "But it's better this way."
His heart pounded against his ribs as he shifted in his seat, bracing his hands against his knees, ready to stand—
"Oi," Ron's voice cut through the haze, sharp and accusing.
Harry froze.
Slowly, he turned his head to see Ron watching him intently, spoon still in his hand, a knowing glint in his tired eyes.
"Where d'you think you're going?"
Harry's breath hitched. He opened his mouth, searching for a response, but nothing came.
Ron set the spoon down with a clack and stood, crossing his arms.
"You were gonna run off, weren't you?" His voice wasn't angry, not yet, but there was something firm in the way he said it. Like he wasn't going to let this go.
Harry swallowed, his mind racing for an excuse—any excuse—but the locket tightened around his throat like a noose, whispering, urging, lying.
"Lie. Make him let you go. He won't understand."
But Ron did understand.
Because he had been exactly where Harry was now.
"You can't leave," Ron said simply. "You know that, right?"
Harry clenched his jaw.
"I—" His voice cracked. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You'd be safer if I did."
Ron scoffed, stepping closer. "That's bollocks and you know it."
Harry bristled. "Ron, I—"
"I know what it does," Ron interrupted, his voice quieter now. "I know what it's saying to you."
Harry's hands trembled.
"He doesn't understand."
"He'll hold you back."
"They don't need you."
"They'd be better off—"
"That's not you talking," Ron said firmly. "That's it."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut. His breaths came fast and shallow, his mind a swirling mess of self-doubt, of fear, of the locket's endless, poisonous whispers—
And then, suddenly, he felt it.
Ron's hand, gripping his shoulder. Steady. Solid.
Real.
"Stay," Ron said. "Please."
The words hit Harry harder than he expected.
"They don't need you," the locket had said.
But Ron was looking him in the eye now, clear and unwavering.
And it wasn't just an order.
It was a plea.
A breath shuddered out of him, and for the first time since putting the damn thing on, Harry hesitated.
He didn't move. He didn't leave.
Ron gave his shoulder a firm squeeze before stepping back and nodding toward the pot.
"Now come over here and help me with this stew before I poison us all."