The air was thick with silence, broken only by Ron’s quiet groans. Hermione had cast a Disillusionment Charm over the small clearing, her hands glowing slightly as she healed the gash in his arm. You sat beside Harry near the dying fire, wrapped in your charmed cloak, a dull ache spreading across your side where you’d been thrown against a stone pillar in the Ministry.

You were still bleeding from a cut that ran from your temple to your jawline—streaked and raw. Harry had tried to heal it, but his hands had been shaking too badly.

Now, he just stared at the locket sitting in the dirt between you. It pulsed with dark magic, cold and wrong even in the firelight.

“I hate that thing,” you muttered, wiping blood from your lip.

Harry looked at you then, really looked—eyes full of fury and love and fear. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered. “You’re hurt because of me.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been with you since we were eleven. Don’t pretend you could’ve stopped me now.”

He touched your cheek, thumb brushing gently over the torn skin. “I proposed because I couldn’t stand the thought of this war ending without you knowing how much I love you.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I always knew.”

For a moment, it was just the two of you—no locket, no war, no blood-soaked future. Just that fragile, beautiful thread between you.

Then Hermione called out: “He’s stable. But we need to move.”

Harry stood, offering you his hand. And together, you stepped into the shadows of the forest, side by side, hearts scarred but still beating—for each other.