"Honey, I'm home!" Ron called dorkily as he ducked back into the tent, pulling off his Disillusionment Charm with a practiced swipe of his wand. His arms were full of stolen groceries, and he grinned as he tossed an onion up in the air before catching it. The walk had done him good, and with it being days since he wore the locket he was in a rather good mood. "And I brought onions!"

Hermione didn't smile.

Instead, she walked up to him, holding something out.

The locket.

Ron's stomach dropped.

"Trade?" she said, her voice tired. "Harry tried to bolt again. I'm sorry, but… it's technically your turn to wear it."

Ron hesitated, his gaze flicking to Harry's bunk, where his best mate lay, completely still.

Unconscious.

His lips parted. "Hermione, did you—"

"I had to," she said firmly, cutting him off before he could ask. "He was going to run, and he tried to summon his wand without touching it, Ron. I don't know if it's the locket making him stronger or just… pushing him to the brink, but I couldn't take the risk."

Ron's fingers clenched around the onions in his hands.

She was right.

Of course she was.

With a sigh, he set the onions down on the little wooden counter and took the locket from her outstretched hands. It was still warm.

He turned it over in his palm once before closing his eyes and slipping it over his head.

The weight hit him immediately.

A shudder rippled down his spine, and a slow, creeping cold seeped into his bones. It was like stepping into icy water, a pressure that pressed, that whispered.

"You're the weakest of them."

"They don't need you."

Ron exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "It doesn't get better, does it?"

Hermione's face was unreadable. "No."

He swallowed hard, already feeling the bitterness creeping in. Already fighting against the way his mind twisted, his thoughts darkened.

But he wouldn't let it win.

Not this time.

Sleep didn't come.

It never did, not with the locket.

Ron lay flat on his back, staring at the canvas ceiling of the tent, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the others. His limbs felt heavy, his mind thick with something slow and festering. The locket sat against his chest, ice-cold despite the warmth of his skin.

He turned his head slightly.

Harry was shifting in his sleep, brow furrowed, lips parted. His hands twitched—probably another nightmare. He always had them. Normally, Ron might have felt a pang of concern, might have been tempted to wake him.

But not tonight.

Tonight, the locket made him not care.

His gaze drifted further.

Hermione.

Still and peaceful.

Ron felt his jaw clench.

Of course she could sleep. If she had nightmares, she kept them to herself. If the locket had whispered to her, if it had torn her apart from the inside out, she'd set her shoulders, and move on. Maybe it just didn't affect her like the boys did. Sure she'd broken down last time, but that was after days- him and Harry could barely get through one.

The locket pulsed against his chest.

"Mudblood."

Ron bolted upright, breath caught in his throat.

No.

No, no, no.

That wasn't him. That wasn't his thought. He would never—he had never—

Had he? The locket only amplifies what is already there. Thats what Hermione had told him.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut, heart hammering. His breath felt too loud in the tent.

"She made you wear me this time. She was too weak to do it herself."

"Mudblood."

His hands clenched into fists.

It wasn't true.

But the locket wouldn't have said it if it hadn't been buried somewhere inside him.

Would it?

Ron gritted his teeth and buried his head in his pillow, trying to block it out.

It only made it worse.

The whispering didn't stop.

Even with his head buried in the pillow, even as he squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the sound of his own breathing, the locket's voice curled around him, insidious and dark.

"She thinks she's better than you."

"She made you wear me because she knew you'd break first."

"She doesn't need you. Neither of them do."

Ron's fingers dug into the pillow.

It wasn't true.

But the locket's whispers slithered into the cracks of his mind, filling the spaces where doubt already lived.

"Harry and Hermione. They're the ones who matter, aren't they?"

"The Chosen One and the Brightest Witch Of The Age. What are you? Just the sixth born son."

Ron's breathing hitched.

He could still see them in his mind—sitting close together, huddled over books, whispering in low voices. He'd told himself, they had no one else, they had to rely on each other, but the locket twisted the memory into something sharper, something cruel.

"They have each other. What do they need you for?"

His grip on the blankets tightened, his knuckles white.

He needed air.

He swung his legs over the side of the cot and sat up, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. The locket was heavy, weighing on his chest like a cold brand, like it was sinking its way into his skin.

He turned his head.

Harry had stopped moving. His sleep had settled.

Why was this happening to him? It was Harry that got these feelings to bolt- not Ron. Ron normally got panicky and angry not cowardly. He wouldn't leave them. He couldn't.

And Hermione—

Still peaceful. Still unmoved.

Ron swallowed hard. His mouth was dry.

"She'll always pick Harry."

"Mudblood."

His stomach twisted violently.

He never called her that. He never thought—

But the locket only amplified what was already there.

Didn't it?

Ron clamped a hand over his chest, gripping the locket through his shirt, his breathing ragged. He had to get it off, but he couldn't. It was his turn.

"You're weak."

Ron forced himself to stand. He needed to move, to get away from it, but no matter where he went, the voice followed.