It was bound to come out eventually.

Hermione had been careful, discreet—but two days was a long time.

And Ron wasn't stupid.

He walked into the tent, rubbing his eyes after another rough night, only to find Hermione sitting on the floor, her sleeve rolled down wand tip pressed to an open wound running down the length of her arm left arm, blood slowly dripping down it. She didn't seem worried, just looking at it, wand pointed.

At first, he just stared.

Like his brain couldn't quite piece it together.

Then—

"What the fuck, Hermione?"

She jumped, wand slipping from her fingers as Ron stormed toward her. His face was twisted with something between horror and fury, his hands shaking at his sides.

"Ron, I—"

But she barely got a word out before he grabbed her wand and threw it against the canvas wall, where it hit the ground with a dull thud.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

"I'm practicing," she said quickly, desperate to make him understand. "Healing! Ron, I'm just—"

His expression darkened. "Practicing?! You've cut your wrist open Hermione!"

She flinched.

It sounded worse when he said it.

"I'm learning," she tried again, voice steady, controlled. "I didn't know how to heal you when you needed me to, Ron. If something happens again—"

"You think this is the solution?" He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wild. "Bloody hell, Hermione!"

He spun toward the tent entrance. "Harry!"

Hermione stiffened. "Ron, don't—"

"Harry, get in here now!"

A moment later, Harry appeared, looking between them with confusion. "What's going—?"

"Fix her," Ron snapped, pointing to her arm. "Now."

Harry blinked. His gaze dropped to Hermione's arm, where the long opening ran, more blood flowing down now.

Realization struck.

His stomach turned.

Without a word, he stepped forward and lifted his wand. "Vulnera Sanentur"

The wound sealed, but the skin was jagged, uneven—imperfect compared to the precise, careful work Hermione had been doing herself.

But it was done.

Hermione flexed her fingers, but she said nothing.

Ron inhaled sharply, running both hands down his face.

Then, without warning, he reached for her.

She fought, instinctively, but she was exhausted—mentally, physically—and it took all of five seconds for him to wrestle the locket off her neck.

Hermione gasped at the loss, like she'd been submerged in water and had suddenly been yanked to the surface.

But before she could say anything, Ron yanked the chain over his own head.

"Clearly," he muttered, voice low, dangerous, "you two can't be fuckin' trusted."

Harry swallowed, looking between them.

Ron exhaled sharply, fingers curling around the locket. "It's on my neck until we find a way to kill it."

"Ron—"

"Just don't piss me off," he interrupted, "and we won't have problems."

The tent fell silent.

Because as much as it wasn't that black and white—there was some truth to it.

This new progression of events put Ron back at the bottom of the problem-causing list.

Anger could be somewhat controlled.

Eloping and self-harm were worse.