The House of Control

Back to Work

The morning light had barely touched the cold stone walls of the infirmary when Ron felt a sharp shove against his shoulder. He hit the floor hard, the lingering pain from his lashes flaring across his back. He blinked, disoriented, before looking up to see Master Jacob towering over him, arms crossed, his expression hard and unyielding.

"Time to work," Jacob said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Ron gritted his teeth, biting back any response. He forced himself up, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the stinging pull of his barely healed wounds. He followed Jacob through the maze of corridors, his mind still groggy from a night of restless, shallow sleep. The other servants were already out and moving, each one rushing to their assignments, heads down, faces blank.

Jacob stopped at an open courtyard where a number of laborers were already at work, hauling stones, digging trenches, and clearing rubble from an area that seemed like it would be turned into some kind of ornamental garden. The sun was high and unrelenting, and the work was clearly exhausting, each task meant to drain the last bit of energy from those assigned here.

"You'll be moving those stones over to the far side," Jacob instructed, gesturing to a large pile of stones in the corner. "No breaks until the pile's gone. And don't let me catch you slacking."

Ron nodded stiffly, keeping his eyes down, and moved toward the stones. The work was backbreaking, each rock seeming heavier than the last. His muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed on, forcing himself to keep moving. He had no other choice.

As he worked, sweat trickling down his back, he caught a glimpse of something in the distance. Near the far end of the courtyard, he saw Harry standing with a girl he didn't recognize—a tall, confident-looking girl with a sharp smile and striking features. They were talking easily, Harry's expression relaxed in a way Ron barely recognized. And then, to Ron's surprise, Harry laughed, his shoulders easing as he spoke with her, his demeanor entirely different from the hardened apprentice Ron had last seen.

Ron's grip tightened on the stone he was holding, his teeth gritting against the pain in his back and the frustration boiling up in him. Seeing Harry—his friend, his once-closest friend—talking and laughing as if none of this were happening felt like a twist of the knife.

Before he could look any longer, a sharp slap landed on the back of his head. He stumbled, nearly dropping the stone he was carrying, and glanced up to see Jacob glaring at him.

"Get back to work," Jacob snapped, his voice low and threatening. "Or I'll make sure you regret it."

Ron clenched his jaw, forcing down his anger, and returned to hauling stones. The work was relentless, each load of rocks seeming to grow heavier as the day dragged on. His muscles screamed, his back ached, and the rawness of his lashes flared with each movement. But he worked, head down, shoulders hunched, pushing through.

Later, During Dinner

By the time dinner came, Ron could barely stand upright. His entire body felt as though it were made of lead, his legs weak and shaking. When he finally entered the servants' dining hall, he scanned the room, looking for Hermione. He'd seen neither hide nor hair of her since his time in the infirmary and felt a surge of worry each time he thought about it. But as he looked around, there was no sign of her among the other servants.

He made his way to the food line, his stomach growling as he waited, feeling a spark of hope that a decent meal might dull the exhaustion clinging to him. But when he reached the end of the line, his heart sank as the cook handed him a tray with an even smaller portion than usual—barely enough to keep him going, let alone to help him recover his strength.

Ron's shoulders slumped, but he forced himself to take the tray without complaint. He moved toward a corner of the room, finding an empty spot where he could eat in peace. He set the tray down, picking at the food with a sigh. It was tasteless, dry, but he swallowed it down, his mind still churning.

He glanced around the room, still hoping to see Hermione, to catch a glimpse of her somewhere among the sea of tired, blank faces. But there was no sign of her, no familiar spark of determination or curiosity in the eyes of the servants around him.

Ron ate in silence, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. The memories of his life before The House felt like distant dreams now, faded and nearly unreachable. Harry was somewhere else entirely—an apprentice master, above him, beyond him, laughing with strangers while Ron worked himself to the bone. And Hermione... he had no idea where she was or what was being done to her.

When dinner ended, Ron trudged back to his cell in the barn-like quarters where the labor servants slept. Each "room" was little more than a cell with a thin mattress and a blanket, the walls close enough to feel like they were closing in around him. He collapsed onto the cot, his body aching, his mind swirling with exhaustion, frustration, and worry.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small window high up on the wall. As he stared up at it, he tried to focus, to remember the strength that had kept him going through Hogwarts, through battles, through everything that had once made him Ron Weasley. But in this place, that strength felt small, fragile.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to let go of the thoughts that threatened to consume him. All he could do was survive, one day at a time. And tomorrow, he would rise again, force his body through the same relentless tasks, and cling to the hope that, somehow, he and Hermione would find their way out of this nightmare.

For now, though, he lay still, listening to the sounds of the other servants settling into their beds, and drifted into a fitful, restless sleep, his dreams filled with memories of another life—a life that felt as distant as the stars.