The winter wind cut through Harry’s cloak as he trudged through the snow-laden forest, his breath curling in the frigid air. December had settled heavily over the countryside, muffling the world in an eerie silence that only made their task feel more impossible. His fingers, numb even beneath his gloves, tightened around the wand in his pocket as he glanced back at the tent, its canvas barely visible between the skeletal branches. Ron and Hermione were inside, their whispered voices carrying just enough for him to know they were still awake, still arguing, still trying to make sense of their next move. He turned away, staring into the darkness, the weight of the locket against his chest a constant reminder of how little progress they had made. Somewhere out there, another piece of Riddle’s soul lay hidden, and they were no closer to finding it than they had been weeks ago.