A little while later, Hermione woke slowly, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. The warmth of her blankets cocooned her, making it harder to open her eyes, harder to remember why she had been so drained in the first place. But then it all came rushing back—last night, the locket, the whispering, the way she had finally snapped.
Her fingers twitched, reaching instinctively for her throat, for the weight that had been there for so long.
It was gone.
She exhaled, relieved—but that relief was short-lived when she turned her head and saw Harry sitting by the entrance of the tent, hunched forward, shoulders drawn tight.
The locket hung around his neck now.
She swallowed hard, but before she could say anything, Ron appeared beside her, shoving a steaming bowl into her hands.
"Eat."
Hermione blinked at the bowl, then at him. The stew inside was thick and actually smelled good.
"You cooked?" she asked, surprised.
Ron grimaced. "Not really. I tried, but it was a disaster. Harry saved it somehow."
Hermione turned to Harry, who barely reacted, still staring at the floor as if lost in thought.
She frowned, but before she could press him, Ron leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a whisper.
"You need to keep an eye on him."
Hermione's grip on the bowl tightened. "What do you mean?"
Ron hesitated, glancing at Harry before lowering his voice even further.
"I'm gonna head to the market, see if I can nick some onions to replace the ones I burned," he muttered. "But while I'm gone, just—watch him, alright?"
Hermione's brow furrowed. "Ron—"
"He already tried," Ron cut in.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Tried what?" she asked sharply, though she already knew the answer.
Ron sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Leaving."
Hermione's stomach twisted. She glanced at Harry again—really looked at him this time. The way his shoulders curled inwards, how his fingers tapped restlessly against his knee. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, like something inside him was constantly whispering, pulling, convincing.
The same way it had done to her.
Ron's voice was softer now. "Just… don't let him out of your sight, yeah?"
Hermione nodded, jaw tight.
She had been the one to insist on wearing the locket before. She had convinced herself she could handle it, that she was the best choice. But she'd cracked and thrown it off and now, as she watched Harry sit in silence, drowning under its weight—she wondered if she had made a mistake.
The moment Ron disappeared into the trees, Hermione turned to Harry, determined.
She knew what he was thinking. She could see it in the way he sat, shoulders hunched, fingers twitching as if he was just waiting for the right moment. If she left him alone, he could run.
She had to stop him.
So she did what she always did— tried to distract him.
"You know," she started, forcing a light tone, "I was reading something interesting before you stole my books last night."
Harry didn't look up.
She pressed on.
"It was about enchanted objects, actually. There was this passage about how some curses don't just affect the person wearing them, but anyone around them too. That's why—"
"Knock it off."
Hermione flinched.
Harry finally turned to her, his green eyes sharp and tired.
"Those books damn near killed you from exhaustion," he snapped.
"It wasn't the books," she said quietly. "It was the locket."
Harry exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He didn't argue, didn't fight her on it. He just stood abruptly and walked back inside the tent without another word.
Hermione followed.
She found him lying on his bunk, facing the wall, his back stiff. He was pretending to sleep.
Fine. Two could play at that game.
She sat down near the entrance of the tent and watched him.
The seconds stretched into minutes.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
His breathing never slowed. He never sank into real sleep.
Harry suddenly shifted, his voice irritated. "Will you piss off?"
"No," Hermione said simply.
Harry let out a frustrated noise and turned to face her, sitting up, his expression dark. "What are you going to do about it, then!?"
Before she could answer, he moved—his hand darting toward his waistband for his wand—
But it wasn't there.
His eyes flicked to Hermione, who reached into her pocket, pulling it out.
His jaw clenched.
"Give it back."
"No. You stole my books when I had the locket on- this is what I get to steal from you."
His fingers twitched, and suddenly she felt it—his magic, raw and electric, tugging at the wand in her grip.
Her breath hitched. He was summoning it wandlessly.
She didn't even know he could do that.
The locket—it had to be the locket giving him that strength to his magic.
Was it feeding off his desperation? Or was it to do with harnessing the magic from the soul piece too?
She couldn't be sure.
The wand trembled in her grasp, shifting toward him. He was about to lunge at her.
She didn't hesitate.
Before he could pull it from her, she clenched it tightly and aimed.
"Stupefy!"
The red spell hit him dead in the chest.
Harry's body stiffened—then went slack, collapsing back onto the bed, unconscious.
Hermione exhaled sharply, chest heaving. Her fingers were still wrapped around his wand, shaking.
It was harsh, but it was for the best.
He couldn't escape if he was asleep.