The House of Control

A Test of Patience

Eight weeks had passed since Ron had begun his training at The House, and though he'd fallen into the daily rhythm of work, meals, and sleep, he still struggled to fully adapt. The grueling routine—punishing drills, silent meals, and nights in his cramped cell-like room—had become an unyielding cycle. Each day wore him down, but he refused to let himself be fully subdued.

He'd tried to keep his head down, to get through the exercises and drills without causing trouble, but it wasn't in his nature to stay quiet or blend in. His temper simmered constantly under the surface, ready to ignite at the slightest spark. And every time he lost control, every time he snapped at an order or muttered a complaint, he was met with swift, brutal punishment.

One morning, as they were lined up in the training yard, Master Jacob watched them with his usual cold scrutiny, his eyes flicking over each servant, assessing them with the silent threat of discipline. As always, Ron found himself bristling under Jacob's stare, the intense feeling of scrutiny only making his frustration burn hotter.

"Move faster!" Master Jacob's voice cut through the air as the servants carried heavy stones across the yard. "Any of you slowing down will stay out here until you understand the meaning of obedience."

Ron grit his teeth, hoisting a stone that felt like it weighed as much as a troll. His muscles strained as he lugged it across the yard, feeling every bone in his body protest. His hands were rough and blistered from the relentless labor, and sweat stung his eyes as he fought to keep up.

Just as he reached the end of the yard, he stumbled, the stone slipping from his grip and thudding to the ground. Master Jacob's eyes locked onto him immediately, his expression darkening.

"Weasley!" Jacob barked, striding over. "Did I say you could stop?"

Ron took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand up straight, though his arms trembled with exhaustion. "No, sir," he muttered, swallowing down the frustration that threatened to spill out.

"Then pick it up!" Jacob's voice was harsh, unyielding. "Or would you rather stay here all night until you learn how to control yourself?"

The words bit at Ron's pride, and he felt his temper flare despite his better judgment. "I'm doing the best I can!" he snapped, his voice louder than he'd intended. "It's not like I'm some—some machine!"

Silence fell over the yard as every head turned to look at him, the other servants frozen in place. Master Jacob's eyes narrowed, his expression turning dangerously cold.

"Is that so?" Jacob's tone was chillingly calm. "Well then, perhaps you need another lesson in discipline."

Without another word, he ordered Ron to stand in the center of the yard, lifting the stone above his head and holding it there. Ron's face burned with anger and humiliation, but he didn't back down. He lifted the stone, his muscles screaming in protest, his arms trembling as he held it aloft. Master Jacob watched him with a calculating gaze, waiting for the inevitable moment when his strength would falter.

The other servants returned to their tasks, each of them keeping their eyes carefully averted, unwilling to risk sharing in Ron's punishment. And so he stood there, his anger simmering beneath the weight of the stone, each second feeling like an eternity.

Why did we even come here? he thought bitterly. Why didn't we just leave that stupid amulet alone?

But as much as he cursed the decision, he knew he couldn't give up now. Whatever this place was, whatever strange hold it had on Harry and Hermione, he had to understand it. He had to find a way to endure.

Finally, when Master Jacob deemed that Ron had suffered enough, he allowed him to set the stone down. Ron staggered, his arms aching, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Jacob looked at him with a hint of satisfaction, as if he'd proven some point.

"Control your temper, Weasley," Jacob said, his voice low and menacing. "You're here to learn discipline, not to question orders."

Ron didn't respond. He clenched his fists, swallowing his anger, knowing that any reply would only make things worse.

The day dragged on, each drill and exercise designed to test not only his body but his patience. Ron had never been one to keep his emotions in check, and in the strict environment of The House, this lack of control became his greatest weakness. Each time he slipped, each time he muttered a curse under his breath or dared to question an order, he was punished—made to hold stones over his head, run laps around the yard, or stand perfectly still in the searing heat of the sun.

Every night, he collapsed onto the narrow cot in his small cell-like room, his body bruised and sore, his temper burning hotter than ever. But despite the exhaustion, the punishment, and the endless silence, he couldn't fully submit. There was a spark in him, a refusal to break.

During meals in the servant dining hall, he would sit silently like the others, though every now and then he would glance around, catching snippets of expressions from the other servants—a flash of frustration, a hint of resentment. He knew he wasn't the only one struggling, the only one bristling against the oppressive rules. But the others had learned to keep their heads down, to avoid the wrath of the guards.

One evening, during dinner, he accidentally bumped the servant next to him while reaching for a slice of bread. The servant shot him a warning look, quickly averting his eyes as a guard approached.

"Is there a problem here, Weasley?" the guard asked, his tone laced with a quiet threat.

Ron clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep calm. "No, sir," he muttered, trying to ignore the frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.

The guard stared at him for a moment longer, then nodded, turning away. Ron exhaled, relieved but still seething inside.

As the days wore on, Ron slowly began to understand the game he was being forced to play. The House wanted obedience—complete and unquestioning. It demanded silence, compliance, the ability to hold back one's emotions. But Ron was determined to hold on to his sense of self, to keep that part of him that refused to submit.

Late at night, locked in his room, he would lie awake, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting to Harry and Hermione. He wondered if they were going through the same hell he was, if they were as angry and frustrated as he felt. Or were they adapting, falling in line with the House's rules? Were they becoming part of this place, letting it mold them?

The thought sent a chill through him. He knew Harry's determination and Hermione's resilience, but The House was relentless, breaking people down in ways he'd never seen before. He worried for them, wondering if he'd ever truly see his friends again—or if they'd all be changed, shaped by this place into something unrecognizable.

As the weeks passed, Ron began to find small ways to endure, to keep his spirit alive despite the harsh discipline. He learned to breathe through his frustration, to keep his comments to himself, to release his anger in small ways, silently, without drawing attention. He learned that silence was sometimes his only defense, that patience could be a weapon.

But he also knew he couldn't submit completely, couldn't let this place take away his fire. Each day, he reminded himself that this was temporary, that he was here for a reason. And no matter what The House demanded, he would hold on to that reason, to his anger, his determination, his loyalty.

Whatever it took, he would make it through. He would find his friends again, and they would find a way out of this place.

And as he drifted off to sleep each night, his muscles aching and his mind heavy, he clung to that thought like a lifeline, his only source of strength in the silence of The House.