One year of surviving on stale food, split mushrooms, bits of game when they could acquire it and no sense of rest. One year coming closer together than they could have imagined, yet still pushed apart by the Locket threaded between their necks. The magic contained within it linked them both up bit by bit, a heavy chain wrapping them together until they might as well have been one. And still, they were nowhere near close to finding another Horcrux, or a means of their disposal. Nothing they tried seemed to work, nothing they hit it with seemed to scratch the metal, and Harry could open it as much as he wanted without them getting anywhere close. All it did give them were headaches prompted by the ringing sound of Voldemort speaking Parseltongue.