Ron pushed himself stiffly to his feet, taking a wary step back from where the locket had landed. It had eyes, and it seemed as though they were locked on him. He found he couldn't turn his head, try as he might to look away from it.
All of a sudden it was more than eyes - as he stared into the depths of the locket he saw Hermione growing up out of it, wearing an expression he had never seen before, a cruel smile with brutally cold eyes. And although it was new, he could read it perfectly clearly: it confirmed all of his worst fears in a glance. He was an idiot, a fool they'd never needed - dead weight more often than not - and nothing, nothing compared to the boy he was presumptuous enough to call his best friend.
He could hear her speaking to him, as if from a distance. He didn't want to listen, but he knew what she was saying. He shouldn't have come back, shouldn't have bothered. He wasn't wanted. What good was he? What could he possibly offer that Hermione and Harry couldn't manage together?
Harry was beside her then, looking at him with nothing more than a faint sneer, his eyes glinting red behind his glasses. Ron knew Harry didn't hate him. He wasn't worth hating; he was pathetic, a hanger-on who had somehow failed to realize, over the span of seven years, that his only purpose lay in being fodder for mockery. Harry had tolerated him long enough to take what he could - his entire family preferred Harry, his own mother had admitted as much, his brothers openly favored him, his sister was Harry's without question. All the school felt the same way. And why wouldn't they? What had Ron ever done but tagged along in the shadow of the Boy Who Lived? How could he think he had anything to offer Harry Potter? Why had he come back at all?
Harry's image turned from him to slide its arm around Hermione's waist. Ron's shoulder sagged with the weight of the memory of why he'd left in the first place. Why had he come back?
Then Harry kissed her. Ron felt as though someone had dumped him in the water again. "Stop it," he muttered, his face flaring up as Hermione snickered at him, her arms twining around Harry's neck. Ron ran to the locket before he realized what he was doing, and stomped on it, shoving it clumsily down into the mud. Harry laughed. His hands were lost in Hermione's hair.
"Stop it!" Ron shouted, falling to his knees to grab the locket off the ground - but it was white-hot, and he drew his hand back with a yelp. He looked around desperately for something, as Hermione slipped her hands down Harry's shoulders, her eyes shut to Ron. He found a rock, and slammed it down on the locket's open face. It only brightened. Harry and Hermione seemed to grow stronger, and more opaque. Ron stood, and turned to run away - but there they were reflected in the water of the lake, together, more than content to forget him. He saw Hermione's lips twitch up into a much warmer smile than she had given him when Harry's lips trailed down to her throat.
"Stop it!" he screamed, his voice cracking in his throat. The sword caught his eye; in a rage, he bent down to grab it, tripping over something soft and cold that felt like a body. He caught himself on the ground, seized the sword's handle, and brought it crashing down onto the locket's jeering eyes.
There was a faint scream, and a smell like burning flesh. Harry and Hermione disappeared into the darkness. Ron stood with the sword clutched in his hands, his shoulders heaving. Then he looked down at the shattered, smoking locket, and saw Harry, half frozen and still, covered in muddy water. He let the sword drop, and knelt down again to shake Harry's shoulder, his mind still reeling.
"Harry." He put his arm around him and hauled him up off the ground, stopping only to gather up the broken locket. Where's the tent? The sense of urgency that had been with him since he had left Hogwarts was fading, and when Ron realized what he had just destroyed, it went away entirely, and his load felt much lighter. He started dragging his friend away from the lake, trusting that he would find the right direction, even though he felt half out of his wits.