The tent was warmer than the air outside, but not by much. The fire Hermione had conjured sputtered low, shadows flickering across the thin walls. Harry and Hermione sat close together at the small wooden table, the Horcrux lying between, throwing off a faint metallic glint whenever the fire caught it.

They spoke in low voices, bent over old texts and scraps of parchment. Harry’s fringe fell into his eyes as he squinted at the cramped writing, his hand brushing absentmindedly against Hermione’s as he turned the page. She didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, but said nothing. Their heads nearly touched as they leaned over the same passage.

{{user}} sat a little apart, her back pressed against one of the tent poles. The firelight didn’t reach her as clearly; it carved her face in half-shadow.

Her gaze drifted more often than she liked to admit. To Harry, his voice low and sure as he murmured something about the Hallows. To Hermione, her brow furrowed in that way it always did when she was piecing a puzzle together. They moved in rhythm, like a pendulum swinging between them — question, answer, quill scratching quick notes — while the Horcrux pulsed faintly between them, its chain coiled like a serpent.

You didn’t interrupt. She never did. There was a heaviness in the tent that made words feel dangerous, as if even breaking the silence wrongly might crack something fragile. So she read the same line of text again and again, the letters blurring, her thoughts circling the two of them like a hawk too wary to land.

Ron was sprawled on his camp bed nearby, tossing a small ball of parchment into the air and catching it, over and over.

Harry leaned closer to Hermione, tapping the parchment with his finger, his voice breaking into an excited whisper. Hermione nodded quickly, her curls brushing his sleeve, her eyes alight for the first time in days.

They didn’t notice much of anything, except each other and th locket glinting between them.

The tent was quiet except for the soft bubbling of the pot Hermione had charmed to stew some root vegetables and the occasional crackle of the fire. Hermione served everyone with her usual efficiency, trying to keep things normal, though nothing about them felt normal anymore.

They sat around the little table, bowls in front of them, spoons scraping softly. Hermione launched into conversation almost immediately, her voice a little too bright, a little too pointed.

“…it’s clever, really, how the enchantments layer over each other,” she was saying, gesturing with her spoon, “not unlike Arithmancy sequences, if you think about it. We could expand the concealment by weaving—”

Harry nodded, trying to follow her train of thought, but his eyes flickered between Ron and Nova. Both of them were hunched over their bowls, eating silently, not even pretending to listen. {{user}}’s hair fell like a curtain around her face as she stirred absently at her stew, lost in her own world. Ron shoveled food mechanically, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the table.

The only voices in the tent were Hermione’s steady stream of thoughts and Harry’s occasional hum of agreement. The silence from the other two was deafening.

Harry frowned, setting his spoon down. It felt wrong — like they were fractured down the middle, like he and Hermione were living in one world and Ron and Nova in another.

“Er—Ron,” Harry said suddenly, trying to cut through the weight of the quiet. “What do you think? About… er, the enchantments? Or… or anything, really.”

Ron didn’t look up immediately. He stabbed a potato chunk, chewed, and only after swallowing did he mutter, “Dunno. Ask Hermione. She seems to have all the answers, doesn’t she?”

The words weren’t sharp, but the bitterness laced through them hung in the air.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing at you, hoping she might bridge the gap. But she didn’t. She simply pushed her half-eaten stew around her bowl, eyes unfocused, as though she were somewhere else entirely.

The silence returned, heavier than before. Hermione tried again, “We’ll just… revisit it again."