Ron lasted a week.
A long, impossible week.
At first, he held on out of sheer spite. He told himself he could handle it. That he was stronger than them. That he wouldn't break.
But the locket was patient.
It twisted its way into his mind, needling at his insecurities, unearthing every buried resentment, every old wound, every fear he never dared to speak aloud.
Until—
Until one night, when the whispers were too loud and the frustration boiled over, and Ron finally snapped.
He said things he could never take back.
Spat words like venom, aimed straight at the people he loved most.
And then—he left.
Before either of them could stop him, before Hermione could wrestle the locket away or Harry could talk him down—he turned on the spot and disapparated.
Gone.
Just like that.
A new rule was established after that.
They didn't talk about Ron's absence, not really. There was nothing to say.
Instead, they focused on surviving.
Hermione got her books back. Harry was allowed to be alone.
But whoever wore the locket wasn't allowed their wand.
It was counterintuitive for two fugitives on the run—dangerous, even—but it was what they had to do.
Harry wouldn't be able to Disapparate.
Hermione wouldn't be able to practice harmful spells.
The risk was too high otherwise.
They had lost enough.
And they would not lose each other.