Hermione didn't lash out. That was the difference between her and the boys.
Harry tried to run. Ron tried to fight.
Hermione turned everything inward.
The boys knew it, because by the time they'd both cooled off from the fight, they took her books away again.
"Just for now," Harry had muttered, stuffing them into his bag, avoiding her eyes. "Until you… settle a bit."
She hadn't fought them on it.
She should have.
Because without her books, without an outlet, there was nothing left but the voices.
And they didn't stop.
They screamed at her now, relentless and punishing, louder than they'd ever been. Before, she could quiet them by memorizing potion ingredients or reworking protection spells for the hundredth time. But now—
"Useless."
"Pathetic."
"You should have known how to heal him."
"You should have known how to save him."
"What kind of witch doesn't know how to heal?"
Hermione clenched her hands into fists, staring at the tent's fabric as it fluttered in the wind.
They let her keep her wand.
They hadn't thought to—she wasn't dangerous with it. Not to them, at least.
So she practiced.
Spell after spell after spell, whispering incantations under her breath, pushing herself until her hand ached, until her arm went numb.
Transfiguration, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts—anything she could think of.
And then—
Then it shifted.
Because the voice in her head was right, wasn't it?
She should have known how to heal Ron.
So she started practicing those instead.
But healing magic required something to heal.
A wound. A cut. A burn.
Something broken.
Her hands trembled around her wand.
And in the back of her mind, the locket laughed.
It started small.
A simple Diffindo along her forearm—just a shallow cut, nothing serious. It stung, but the voice in her head stung more.
"Now fix it."
Her wand hand was steady as she muttered, "Episkey."
The cut sealed instantly. Clean. Precise. Perfect.
The relief was immediate. It was proof—she could do it. She could fix things.
But the locket wasn't satisfied.
"Too easy. You got lucky."
Hermione swallowed.
She tried again. A little deeper this time. Another Episkey. The magic hummed beneath her fingertips, warm and soft, smoothing over the wound until there was nothing left but unbroken skin.
She exhaled.
This was good. This was necessary.
She had to be prepared.
Next time, Ron might not be so lucky.
Next time, it could be Harry, bleeding out on the forest floor, and if she didn't know how to heal him—
"It'll be your fault."
Her breath hitched.
Her grip tightened around her wand.
"Again."
She bit her lip, pressing the tip of her wand against her wrist.
And then—
"Hermione?"
She jumped, the locket slamming cold against her chest as she spun around.
Harry was standing at the entrance of the tent, watching her. His brows were furrowed, his mouth slightly open like he wasn't sure what he was seeing.
Her fingers twitched, instinctively moving to cover the faint pink lines on her skin.
He hadn't seen, had he?
He couldn't have.
She forced a small, tight-lipped smile. "What is it?"
Harry hesitated.
His eyes flickered from her wand to her wrist, and for a horrible second, she thought he was going to press.
But then he shook his head. "Nothing. Just—Ron's making food."
She let out a quiet breath.
"I'll be there in a minute," she said, keeping her voice even.
Harry nodded slowly, but he didn't move.
She could feel his gaze lingering, the weight of his concern pressing against her skin, as if he could sense that something was wrong but couldn't put it into words.
And then, finally, he turned and walked away.
Hermione let her hand fall from her wrist.
Her stomach churned.
She shouldn't be doing this.
But she had to.
Because next time, someone would get hurt.
And she needed to be ready.
Ron's attempt at dinner was… better than usual.
The stew actually tasted like something this time, though Hermione wasn't sure if that was because Ron had improved or because her standards had plummeted under the locket's influence.
She didn't have much of an appetite, but she ate anyway. It was easier than arguing.
Ron watched her for a moment before clearing his throat. "You okay?"
Hermione glanced up, "I'm fine," she said, because that was what she always said.
Ron didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. Instead, he poked at his bowl and said, almost proudly, "I got the recipe from one of your books."
Harry shot him a look.
Ron paled. "I mean—I remembered it. From when I read it. Ages ago."
Too late.
Hermione's grip on her spoon tightened ever so slightly.
She felt the moment both boys braced themselves, waiting for her to snap, to bite back with something sharp and unforgiving.
She wanted to.
But she was tired.
And maybe… maybe it didn't matter. The books were gone, but they were all still here and not one was fighting. And so was the locket, warm against her chest, heavy, but bearable.
For now.
She took another bite instead.
Ron exhaled, visibly relieved, and quickly changed the subject.
Despite everything, things were just better if she wore it.
The boys had learned to give her little breaks from the locket throughout the day—just enough to breathe—but overall, it was easier this way. The harm to the group was lessened. The fights were fewer.
She was the best choice.
And stubbornly, she didn't want to disagree. So she didn't show them the little ways it was truly breaking her.