The House of Control

The Black Courtyard

The next morning, Harry awoke with a start, the events of the previous night replaying in his mind. His encounter with Ron, the guard's intervention, the way Ron had looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and anger—it all weighed heavily on him. Today, he knew, was the day he would have to fulfill his duty, just as Master Callum had instructed.

Dressing in his formal attire, Harry kept his expression calm, focusing on the role he was meant to play. When he left his quarters, he found Callum waiting for him outside, his face unreadable.

"Are you ready?" Callum asked, his voice measured and calm.

Harry nodded, meeting Callum's gaze with a steady look. "Yes, Master Callum."

"Follow me."

They walked through the long, stone corridors, the echo of their footsteps filling the silence. As they approached an arched doorway, the air seemed to grow colder. Beyond the door lay a part of The House Harry hadn't seen before—a stark, circular courtyard surrounded by high stone walls that gave the space a sense of eerie confinement. Dark stone seats rose in rows around the courtyard, forming an amphitheater where servants and family alike were already gathered, faces somber and still.

At the far end, on a raised platform, Mother and Father sat side by side, their expressions serene. Mistress Eleanor and the other masters flanked them, and beside them sat the princesses, Amara and Alana, whose contrasting expressions revealed their feelings—Amara's face was tense with curiosity, while Alana's silver eyes held a calm, reserved intensity.

In the center of the courtyard stood a single ominous fixture: the whipping pole. Its iron rings glinted in the cold light, a stark reminder of the purpose of this gathering.

Callum's voice was low, meant only for Harry. "This is your duty today, Apprentice. Ten lashes. Show no hesitation."

Harry took a steadying breath as Callum handed him a leather whip, its handle smooth and cool in his grip. He tightened his hold, forcing his mind to quiet. He'd known this day would come—a moment when his loyalty to The House would be put to the test.

A hush fell over the courtyard as the guards appeared, dragging Ron into view. His hands were bound, his face flushed with anger and defiance as he struggled against the guards. They led him to the pole, securing his wrists to the iron rings, leaving his back exposed.

Harry took his place, stepping forward with measured calm. He saw Hermione in the crowd, seated near the front of the servants' stands, her face pale and her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her eyes met his for a brief, painful moment, filled with disbelief and sorrow.

"Harry," Ron muttered, his voice barely audible as Harry approached. "You don't have to do this."

Harry kept his expression steady, forcing himself not to react. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him, the expectations of The House, the princesses, his masters. This is your duty, he reminded himself, trying to bury the conflict within.

Drawing his arm back, he brought the whip down against Ron's back with a loud, sharp crack that echoed through the courtyard. Ron grunted in pain, his shoulders tensing, but he didn't cry out. Harry kept his face expressionless, the rhythm of each strike steady and precise as he administered the lashes.

Each blow left a dark red welt, the harsh line marring Ron's skin. By the fifth lash, Ron's defiance wavered, his shoulders trembling as he fought to remain silent. Hermione's gaze dropped, her face paling as the punishment continued, but Harry forced himself to complete the task, every strike carving a deeper weight in his mind.

After the tenth lash, Harry lowered the whip, his movements controlled, his face unreadable. The guards untied Ron, whose face was contorted in pain, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. They led him back to the holding cell, his shoulders slumped, his head bowed. But as he passed Harry, Ron looked up, his eyes filled with a raw mix of hurt and betrayal.

Without a word, Harry returned the whip to Callum, who gave him a slight nod of approval.

"Good work," Callum said quietly. "You fulfilled your duty with precision."

Harry inclined his head, keeping his face calm, though inside he felt a hollow ache. He turned and left the courtyard, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Later That Day

By afternoon, Harry found himself wandering the garden, seeking some sense of relief from the tension that had gripped him since the morning. The familiar chill of the garden soothed him as he walked, his thoughts drifting, his mind heavy with the events of the day.

As he reached a shadowed corner, he noticed Princess Alana sitting quietly, her silver gaze focused on a cluster of dark flowers blooming beneath the shade. She looked up as he approached, her expression calm and perceptive.

"Master Harry," she greeted, her voice soft. "You look troubled."

He hesitated, then joined her, sinking down beside the flowers. "It's... been a long day," he replied carefully. He didn't need to explain; her gaze told him she already understood.

Alana nodded, her eyes drifting back to the flowers. "Sometimes the duties we carry can be heavier than we expect," she murmured, her tone thoughtful. "But even in the darkest places, there is strength."

Harry looked down at the flowers she had been studying—delicate, shadowy blooms nestled against dark green leaves. Their deep color seemed to absorb the light around them, yet they were striking, beautiful in their own way.

"What kind of flowers are these?" he asked, eager to turn his mind to something lighter, something outside of himself.

"They're called shadowlilies," Alana replied. "They only bloom in darkness, away from the sun. Their beauty is subtle, hidden, yet undeniable." She paused, looking at him. "I think there is strength in embracing the parts of ourselves that remain unseen."

Harry nodded, feeling a strange sense of comfort in her words. "I think you're right. Sometimes it's the hidden parts of ourselves that carry the most strength."

They talked for the rest of the afternoon, the conversation easing the weight on his mind as they discussed the flowers, the beauty of the night, and the quiet moments they both seemed to value. By the time they returned to the main house for dinner, he felt a calmness settle over him, a brief reprieve from the turmoil within.

That Evening

At dinner, Harry took his seat with the other masters, the familiar routine of the meal providing a sense of stability after the day's events. He kept his expression composed, each gesture measured, just as he had been trained. Though he felt the occasional glance from the others—some curious, some approving—he maintained his calm.

Across the table, Princess Alana met his gaze with a faint smile, her expression reassuring. For a moment, he felt understood, even if only in part.

When the meal ended, Harry bowed politely to the princesses, then made his way back to his quarters. As he lay down that night, the events of the day lingered in his mind, each memory a reminder of the path he had chosen, the sacrifices he had accepted.

And as he drifted into sleep, he resolved to carry on, to become the master The House had trained him to be, even if it meant burying parts of himself along the way.