American Royalty III

Part 21: Arguments

The tension in the tent was suffocating, as if the storm outside had seeped into the cramped space. It had been a couple of weeks of bouncing from place to place, constantly on the move to avoid snatchers. The trio of wizards—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—were not accustomed to the gruelling reality of travelling long-term, camping in the wilderness, and scavenging for food. Their tempers had grown short, arguments bubbling up over the smallest things. And then there was the locket. The cursed Horcrux wasn't helping anyone. Its malevolent presence poisoned the air around them, twisting emotions and stirring bitterness.

What made matters worse was that none of the demigods could wear it. They had tried, each of them taking turns with it around their neck. But the results had been disastrous. Percy had barely managed to hold it before the ocean within him roared uncontrollably, his powers lashing out in violent waves that left him shaken. Jason's grip had faltered as memories of his time as a Roman praetor came flooding back, leaving him disoriented and short of breath. Even Annabeth, usually so composed, had ripped the locket off in a panic when flashes of her childhood fears and the weight of her mother's expectations overwhelmed her.

Valerie had tried once, just once, but the locket brought back too many memories of the storm she and Jason had barely survived. She'd thrown it across the clearing, trembling and pale. Piper and Connor hadn't fared any better. Piper had muttered something about the voices in her head growing louder, her charmspeak slipping out unintentionally, while Connor had simply stood there, staring at the ground with a haunted expression before silently passing it back to Hermione.

Now, Ron lay in the shadows, staring gloomily at the pitched ceiling, the faint murmur of the radio the only sound breaking the uneasy silence. Across the room, Hermione sat close to Harry, her red scarf snug around her neck. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through Harry's messy hair while using her wand to trim it, occasionally flipping the pages of A History of Magic.

The demigods sat scattered around the tent, trying to give the trio space while doing their best to ignore the simmering tension. Percy and Annabeth exchanged wary glances near the entrance, their expressions uneasy. Jason sat beside Piper, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee, while Connor and Valerie whispered quietly in a corner, both stealing occasional glances at the trio. The rain outside pattered relentlessly against the canvas, adding to the uneasy atmosphere.

"Oh my god," Hermione suddenly said, breaking the silence.

Harry tensed immediately. "What? What is it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," she murmured, her eyes darting back to the page.

Harry frowned as locks of his hair fell to the ground. "Maybe you could tell me now."

Hermione glanced up, her excitement bubbling to the surface. "The Sword of Gryffindor—it's Goblin-made."

"Brilliant," Harry said flatly.

"You don't understand," Hermione pressed, her voice growing more insistent. "Dirt and rust have no effect on the blade. It only absorbs that which makes it stronger."

Jason leaned forward, frowning. "Wait, it absorbs things? Like what?"

"Harry's got this," Annabeth whispered, placing a hand on his arm. "Trust her."

Harry caught on quickly. "So, it's like—what? A supercharged blade?"

"Exactly," Hermione said, her eyes gleaming with realization. "And you've already destroyed a Horcrux, haven't you? Tom Riddle's diary, in the Chamber of Secrets."

"With a basilisk fang," Harry said slowly. "If you're about to tell me you've got one of those in that bloody beaded bag of yours—"

"Don't you see?" Hermione cut in. "In the Chamber of Secrets, you stabbed the basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor. Its blade is impregnated with basilisk venom."