Chapter 203: Splinched and Screwed

The pain was unlike anything I'd ever felt. Worse than the brain in the Department of Mysteries—worse than anything I could have imagined. It was like my entire body had been ripped apart and stitched back together with fire. I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, the world fading into flashes of purple and green. Everything sounded distant, muffled, like I was underwater.

"Ron! Oh, Ron, please!" Hermione's voice broke through the haze, growing louder, closer. It was shaky, desperate, filled with a fear I wasn't used to hearing from her. "Ron, please, I'm here—oh God—Ron! Stay awake!"

The sound of ripping fabric registered faintly, and then I felt cool air on my arm. It was raw and burning, worse than the brain had been. I couldn't even scream; the pain had stolen everything from me. My breath, my voice, my ability to focus on anything but the agony.

"What's happened to him?" I thought I heard Harry's voice, but it sounded miles away.

"Splinched," Hermione said frantically. Her voice wavered, and I could imagine her pale hands shaking as she worked. "Harry, quickly, in my bag—there's a small bottle labeled 'Essence of Dittany'—"

"Bag—right—" Harry replied, and then there were hurried footsteps.

I tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a croaked, "Her... Her..." I couldn't even finish her name. My head lolled to the side, and through the blur of pain, I saw her face. Her eyes, wide and wet with tears, locked on mine.

"Ron, please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please, love, stay with me. It's going to be alright, just hang on…" I felt her hand on my cheek, warm and delicate, but even her touch hurt.

I tried to focus on her, on her eyes, her voice, but the pain dragged me under again.

The next thing I knew, I woke with a start, my body stiff and heavy. The pain in my arm was still there, but it was duller now, a distant throb instead of the unbearable fire it had been. I groaned, trying to shift, but even that small movement sent a wave of exhaustion through me. I looked around a bit, taking in the scene. We were in the woods. I could smell the dirt and feel the damp leaves under my arm.

"How d'you feel?" Hermione's voice was soft, tentative. I blinked and found her sitting beside me, her face etched with worry. Her hand brushed lightly against my cheek, and I could feel her trembling.

"Lousy," I croaked, my voice rough and dry. "Where are we?"

"In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup," Hermione said, her voice a little steadier now. "I wanted somewhere enclosed, undercover, and this was—"

"—the first place you thought of," Harry finished, glancing around the glade. I could tell by the way his eyes darted about that he was thinking exactly what I was: the last time we Apparated to the first place Hermione thought of, Death Eaters showed up almost immediately.

"D'you reckon we should move on?" I asked Harry, though I barely had the strength to lift my head.

"I dunno," Harry said, looking down at me. I must've looked awful because the expression on his face was somewhere between pity and worry.

"Let's stay here for now," Harry said after a moment.

Hermione looked relieved as she sprang to her feet.

"Where are you going?" I asked, a hint of alarm in my voice as she moved away.

"If we're staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the place," she said briskly, already raising her wand. She started walking in a wide circle, murmuring incantations with each step. I watched as faint ripples of magic shimmered in the air around us with every spell she cast.

"Salvio Hexia… Protego Totalum… Repello Muggletum… Muffliato…" she recited, her voice calm but determined. She glanced back at Harry. "You could get out the tent, Harry."

"Tent?"

"In the bag!" she said impatiently, not pausing in her circle.

Harry muttered, "Accio tent," and a lumpy mass of canvas and poles shot out of Hermione's beaded bag. I recognized it immediately.

"I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?" Harry asked as he untangled the ropes.

"Apparently, he didn't want it back. His lumbago's so bad," Hermione replied, now moving her wand in intricate figure-eights. "So Ron's dad said I could borrow it. Erecto!" With a flick of her wand, the canvas rose smoothly into the air, settling into a fully constructed tent.

I couldn't help but watch her in awe. Merlin, she was bloody brilliant.

"Cave Inimicum," Hermione said, her voice steady as she finished the final enchantment with a graceful skyward flick of her wand. Little ripples shimmered in the air around us, and for a moment, it felt like we were cocooned in some invisible barrier. She lowered her wand, her face pale but determined.

"That's as much as I can do. At the very least, we should know they're coming; I can't guarantee it will keep out Vol–"

"Don't say the name!" I snapped, my voice louder and sharper than I intended.

Both Harry and Hermione turned to look at me, surprised. My stomach churned. I hadn't meant to sound so harsh, but the thought of her saying it, the weight of it, was too much.

"I'm sorry," I muttered, groaning as I tried to push myself upright. My body felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. "But it feels like a—a jinx or something. Can't we just call him You-Know-Who—please?"

Harry gave me that look, the one that made me want to punch him half the time. "Dumbledore said fear of a name–"

"In case you hadn't noticed, mate," I cut him off, sharper than before, "calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore much good in the end, did it?"

The words came out harsher than I meant, but the frustration bubbling inside me wouldn't stop. My voice dropped, quieter but no less serious. "Just—just show You-Know-Who some respect, will you?"

"Respect?" Harry repeated, sounding both incredulous and annoyed.

Before he could launch into one of his righteous speeches, Hermione shot him a look that practically screamed shut the fuck up. And to my immense relief, he did.

They half-carried, half-dragged me into the tent. Every step made my body ache, a dull, throbbing reminder that I'd lost more blood than I cared to think about. The smell of canvas and earth filled my nose as we entered, and it hit me how familiar it all was. The tent was exactly like I remembered from the Quidditch World Cup—cramped but surprisingly homey, with a little flat inside complete with a tiny kitchen and a bathroom.

Harry helped lower me onto the bottom bunk, the mattress sagging under my weight. Even that short journey left me feeling like the world was tilting on its axis. I couldn't even manage a word of thanks, too focused on not throwing up or passing out. My head spun as I lay back, the rough material of the pillow scratchy against my cheek.

I stared up at the canvas ceiling, piecing it all together. Splinched. That's what Hermione had said. I tried to move my arm, but even the thought made my stomach churn. Merlin, I must have lost so much blood. No wonder I felt like death warmed over.

"I'll make some tea," Hermione said suddenly, her voice brisk but breathless.

I turned my head slightly and saw her pulling a kettle and mugs from her bottomless bag, her hands moving quickly but with a slight tremble. She headed toward the tiny kitchen, her wand flicking to light the stove.

The sound of the kettle filling with water echoed through the tent, breaking the silence. For a moment, I focused on that—the normality of it. The way Hermione always thought of tea, no matter how bad things got. It was comforting, in its own way.

Hermione came back from the kitchen, carrying a tray with three teacups, a jar of sugar, and a small pot of honey. Her hands were steady, but there was something in her movements—deliberate and precise—that told me she was still tense. She set the tray down on the little table and prepared mine the way I liked it, with just a splash of honey and 4 sugar cubes. When she handed it to me, her fingers brushed mine lightly.

It was a small gesture, but it sent a strange warmth through my chest, like a reminder that no matter how bad things were, she always seemed to know exactly what I needed.

"What d'you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?" I asked, the image of Mrs. Cattermole's terrified face flashing in my mind. It had been haunting me since we'd left the Ministry.

"With any luck, they'll have gotten away," Hermione said, clutching her mug with both hands as though drawing comfort from the warmth. "As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he'll have transported Mrs. Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition, and they'll be fleeing the country right now with their children. That's what Harry told her to do."

"Blimey, I hope they escaped," I said, leaning back against the pillows. The tea was doing its job, warming me up and settling my nerves a little. It was comforting in a way nothing else had been since we'd left Grimmauld Place.

But the thought of the Cattermoles lingered. "I didn't get the feeling Reg Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. God, I hope they made it... If they both end up in Azkaban because of us…" My voice trailed off, the weight of the words pressing down on me.

Hermione turned her head to look at me, her cheeks slightly flushed, though whether from the warmth of the tea or something else, I couldn't tell. Her eyes were tender, the same look she'd given me back when I brought her home from her parents' house. It was that quiet reassurance she always managed to give me, like she believed in me more than I believed in myself.

Our eyes locked, and for a moment, the world outside the tent didn't exist. Her gaze held so much—kindness, worry, something deeper I couldn't quite put into words. I felt a swell of emotion, an urge to promise her again, like I had at The Burrow, that I'd never let anything happen to her. That I'd fight tooth and nail to keep her safe, no matter what.

Even in the middle of all this turmoil, with the world falling apart around us, she looked—

"So, have you got it?" Harry's voice cut through the silence like a whip, making both of us jump. I cleared my throat, feeling my face heat up, and tore my eyes away from Hermione. Damn. I'd actually forgotten Harry was still in the tent.

"Got—got what?" Hermione asked, her voice shaky as she glanced at Harry. She looked just as startled as I felt.

"What did we just go through all that for? The locket! Where's the locket?"

"You got it?" I exclaimed, sitting up slightly before a sharp pain in my side made me wince. "No one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned it!"

"Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren't we?" Hermione said with a smirk, digging into her robes. "Here."

She pulled out the locket and handed it to me.

It was heavy in my hand, about the size of one of those gaudy pieces of jewelry Aunt Muriel liked to wear to weddings. The ornate letter S on the front glinted faintly, the small green stones embedded in it catching the dim light filtering through the tent's canvas. The moment I touched it, though, I felt… off. Like it had a pulse of its own, a faint, rhythmic beat that sent a shiver up my spine. It creeped me out and I wanted nothing more than to toss the thing out of the tent.

"There isn't any chance someone's destroyed it since Kreacher had it?" I asked hopefully. "I mean, are we sure it's still a Horcrux?"

"I think so," Hermione said, taking it back from me and examining it closely. "There'd be some sign of damage if it had been magically destroyed."

She passed it to Harry, who turned it over in his hands, his expression dark. He looked like he wanted to chuck it too.

"I reckon Kreacher's right," Harry said. "We're going to have to work out how to open this thing before we can destroy it."

He tried prying it apart with his fingers, then tried one of Hermione's unlocking charms. Neither worked. When he handed it back to us, Hermione and I gave it a go, but the thing refused to budge. It felt like it was sealed with something more sinister than just a locking spell.

"Can you feel it, though?" I asked quietly, holding it tightly in my fist.

"What d'you mean?" Harry asked, frowning.

I passed it back to him, watching as his face changed the moment he held it. He felt it too—the unnerving heartbeat.

"What are we going to do with it?" Hermione asked, her voice uneasy.

"Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it," Harry replied, slipping the chain around his neck and tucking the locket beneath his robes.

"I think we should take it in turns to keep watch outside the tent," he added, standing up and stretching. "And we'll need to think about some food as well."

The mention of food made me start to stand, ready to help, but the moment I did, nausea and weakness hit me like a brick wall.

"You stay there," Harry said sharply, shooting me a look as he grabbed his wand and Sneakoscope before heading out of the tent.

I sank back down onto the bed, groaning. I hated feeling this useless. Hermione walked over to the bed, easing herself down beside me carefully, like I might shatter if she got too close. Her hands hovered just above the blanket, unsure, and the worry in her eyes made my stomach twist. I hated seeing her like that.

"So I went and splinched myself. Lovely," I muttered, forcing a weak grin that even I knew was pathetic. My whole body ached, but it was better than the sharp, searing pain from earlier. The bandages were tight around my side, and I could still feel the dampness where Hermione had done her best to patch me up.

But she didn't smile. She just stared at me, her brown eyes glossy with guilt. "No," she whispered, voice trembling. "I got you splinched."

I frowned. "Hermione, it's not—"

"It is, Ron," she interrupted, her voice rising slightly before she swallowed thickly and looked away. "I panicked—I wasn't thinking clearly. There was so much blood, and you—you were so pale. I nearly dropped the Dittany, my hands were shaking so much. I thought I was going to—" She cut herself off, pressing her lips together tightly, but I could see the tears pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

I let out a slow breath and shifted carefully, reaching out to take her hand. "But you didn't drop it," I said softly. "And I'm still here, aren't I?"

She sniffed, brushing a hand over her face, but didn't pull away from my grip. "Barely."

I squeezed her hand tighter. "Barely's good enough," I said with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. "Look Mione, I'm not exactly surprised I ended up in pieces. Have you met me? I've been half-broken since first year. You just get to put me back together this time."

Her lips twitched, just a little, but the worry still lingered in her eyes. "But what if I hadn't? What if—"

I shook my head, wincing at the movement. "No 'what ifs,' alright? You fixed me. That's what matters." I looked at her seriously. "You always fix me."

She sighed and leaned against me gently, resting her forehead against my shoulder, being careful not to touch my wound. "I just... I can't stand the thought of losing you."

My chest ached at the raw honesty in her voice, and I didn't care how much it hurt, I turned enough to meet her eyes properly. "You won't," I promised, the words coming easily because I meant them. "I promised you back at The Burrow, didn't I? I'm not leaving your side, not now, not ever."

Her eyes searched mine, and something in her expression softened. "You did," she murmured, a small, wistful smile finally breaking through.

I grinned, nudging her lightly. "And I always keep my promises."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but I caught the way her fingers brushed over mine a little longer, like she didn't want to let go. Then, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek—soft, warm, and lingering, like she was trying to say everything she couldn't put into words.

Heat flooded my face, and I swallowed, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. "Well, if that's my reward for getting splinched, maybe it wasn't so bad after all."

She laughed softly, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

"And you're brilliant," I shot back. "Even if you did almost drown me in Dittany."

Hermione let out a groan, but this time there was more exasperation than guilt behind it. "Get some rest, Ron."

I smirked, squeezing her hand one last time before settling back against the pillow. "Only if you stay."

She didn't answer, but she didn't move either. And as I drifted off, I knew she'd be right there when I woke up. Just like always.

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the sound. The soft tweeting of birds had been replaced by the rhythmic chirping of crickets, filling the air with that familiar nighttime hum. It must have been evening. The tent felt cooler, and a faint breeze drifted through the entrance, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. I shifted gingerly, wincing as a dull ache pulsed through my side, the bandages Hermione had wrapped me in feeling tight and scratchy against my skin.

My eyes flickered to the entrance just in time to see Hermione coming in, her silhouette framed by the fading light outside. She passed Harry the locket, and without a word, he slipped out of the tent, his wand lit and casting long shadows across the canvas walls. My stomach rumbled loudly, breaking the silence, and I groaned, pressing a hand to it.

That was when it hit me. How much I missed Grimmauld Place. Kreacher's cooking might have been simple, but it was warm, it was filling, and most importantly, it wasn't wild mushrooms stewed in a bloody tin can. Hermione had done her best with what she could find—collecting mushrooms from the nearby trees and boiling them down into some sort of soup—but after a couple of mouthfuls, I had to push my portion away before I ended up heaving like Cattermole after one of Fred and George's Puking Pastilles.

Hermione sighed, watching me with a slightly put-out expression. "I'm sorry. I know I'm not your mum or anything, but—"

I cut her off before she could spiral. "You did your best," I said, offering a small, tired smile. "You didn't have shit to work with, so how else did you think it would turn out?"

Hermione sighed again, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I should have packed food. I just... I thought we'd be back at Grimmauld Place by now."

I glanced at her, the weight of everything hanging between us. The exhaustion was written all over her face, her hair pulled into a messy braid that was already coming undone, loose strands curling around her face. "It's not your fault, you know," I said, nudging her lightly with my foot. "None of this is."

She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the ground. "But if I'd been quicker, or thought things through better... you wouldn't have gotten splinched."

I frowned, sitting up a little, ignoring the sharp sting in my side. "Oi, I'm the one who tripped, remember? I should've been watching where I was going. You saved my arse, Hermione. As usual."

Hermione gave me a small smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. I knew she was still blaming herself, and probably would for a while. Wanting to distract her, I leaned back against my pillow and sighed dramatically. "I'd kill for one of Kreacher's steak and kidney pies right now."

She let out a soft laugh. "Me too. Or even one of those treacle tarts from the Hogwarts feast."

I groaned. "Oh, don't. You're making it worse." I closed my eyes, imagining the Great Hall, the long tables piled high with roast chicken, shepherd's pie, buttered rolls—proper food. "Remember those grand feasts on special days? Merlin, I think I ate half the table once during Halloween fourth year."

Hermione chuckled, her eyes softening with nostalgia. "I remember. You and Harry practically inhaled everything in sight. And you always said the shepherd's pie was the best."

"It was the best," I said defensively. "Although the treacle tart was a close second. What about you?"

She hesitated for a moment, then said, "I liked the pumpkin pasties. They always reminded me of the first time I took the Hogwarts Express."

I smiled, warmth creeping into my chest. "Yeah... feels like forever ago, doesn't it?"

She nodded, her expression turning wistful. "I wonder how everyone's doing now. With Snape and the Carrows running things... it must be awful."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, the warmth from our conversation fading into something colder. "Yeah... I bet Neville's holding things down, though. And Ginny—she won't let them get away with much."

Hermione nodded, but I could see the worry flickering in her eyes. "I just hope they're okay."

I reached out and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "They will be." I hesitated, then added softly, "We'll make sure of it when this is all over."

Hermione looked at me for a long moment, her fingers tightening around mine. "You promise?"

I nodded. "I promise."

Her eyes softened, and I was once again rewarded with a kiss to my cheek. It was warm, gentle, and for a second, I forgot all about the hunger, the fear, the bloody war hanging over us.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling back, her cheeks slightly flushed.

Before I could say anything, a loud yell from outside shattered the moment.

"Gregorovitch!"

Hermione shot to her feet, her eyes wide with alarm. "Harry," she breathed, already rushing toward the tent entrance.

"Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?" he muttered. His voice wasn't his own—it was distant, cold, and cruel. I froze.

A second later, Hermione's panicked voice echoed, breaking the tension. "Harry!" she called out, her tone sharp, urgent. "Harry!"

I struggled to lift my head to see what was going on, my limbs feeling heavy and useless. Harry's voice came again, low and strange. "Dream," he muttered. "Must've dozed off, sorry."

"Don't give me that!" Hermione shot back, her voice trembling. "I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking into Vol—"

"Don't say his name!" I snapped, my voice cracking as I pushed myself up slightly. Every muscle in my body protested, but I couldn't let this go. "Bloody fuck, Hermione, what part of a bad feeling with saying his name do you not understand?"

"Fine," she retorted, knowing she was probably shooting me a glare that could peel paint. "You-Know-Who's mind, then!"

"I didn't mean it to happen!" Harry yelled, his frustration boiling over. "It was a dream! Can you control what you dream about, Hermione?"

Hermione wasn't letting it go. "If you just learned to apply Occlumency—"

"He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione!" Harry interrupted, his voice frantic. "And I think he's killed him, but before he killed him, he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw—"

"I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling asleep," Hermione cut in sharply, clearly done with the argument.

"I can finish the watch!" Harry barked.

"No," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "You're obviously exhausted. Go and lie down."

A moment later, Harry stomped back into the tent, his face like thunder. He climbed up onto the bunk above me, his movements matching his frustration.

"What's You-Know-Who doing?" I asked him quietly, my voice low enough that Hermione couldn't hear outside.

Harry sighed heavily. "He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, torturing him," he said grimly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

I frowned, confused. "How's Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he's tied up?"

"I dunno," Harry admitted. "It's weird, isn't it? He wanted something from Gregorovitch. He asked him to hand it over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him… and then… then…"

"Then what?" I pressed, hanging on his words despite the dull ache throbbing in my arm.

"He read Gregorovitch's mind," Harry said, his voice even quieter now, "and I saw this young bloke perched on a windowsill. He fired a curse at Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, whatever You-Know-Who's after. And I... I think I've seen him somewhere."

"Couldn't you see what the thief was holding?" I asked.

"No… it must've been something small."

I shifted slightly on the bed, trying to find a position that didn't make me feel like I was about to keel over. "Harry," I said cautiously, "you don't reckon You-Know-Who's after something else to turn into a Horcrux?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "Maybe. But wouldn't it be dangerous for him to make another one? Didn't Hermione say he'd pushed his soul to the limit already?"

"Yeah," I said, thinking it over. "But maybe he doesn't know that."

"Yeah... maybe," Harry muttered, though he didn't sound convinced.

We lapsed into silence, the kind that settled heavily in the air. I wanted to check on Hermione, to make sure she was alright after the fight with Harry, but every time I tried to move more than a few inches, a wave of nausea and weakness stopped me in my tracks. My body felt like lead, useless and heavy, and the thought frustrated me to no end.

I stared at the tent's ceiling, my mind racing. We were in the middle of bloody nowhere, our food supplies were next to nothing, and we were stuck lugging around a locket containing a piece of the most evil bloke to ever exist. And here I was, splinched and useless, dead weight on the journey to save the world.

The thought burned in my chest, sharp and bitter. I hated feeling like this. Hated not being able to help. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the overwhelming guilt. But as I drifted off, that thought—the one I'd been trying to avoid—lingered in the back of my mind.

What if they'd be better off without me?