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Chapter Text

The air in the hall was stifling, heavy with the weight of lost lives and a war that had broken the very foundation of the Wizarding World. Harry Potter stood at the back, cloaked in the shadow of guilt and exhaustion. He had spent the last two years fighting for freedom—his own, Hermione’s, and the countless others who had suffered under Voldemort's regime. Now, as he watched the crowd gathered before him, he wondered if it had been worth it.

The Ministry of Magic had fallen to a new kind of madness. With Voldemort defeated and the Death Eaters arrested and scattered, those who had once sided with the Dark Lord were deemed irredeemable. Justice, it seemed, came not in the form of trials and redemption but in chains and degradation. The Ministry's solution was simple, brutal, and horrifying: pureblood families who had supported Voldemort were to be imprisoned. Their female children, if unmarried, were to be sold as slaves—punishment for their lineage, for their supposed complicity in the war.

Harry had fought this decision, along with Hermione and a few others who believed in a better way. But even they were not strong enough to stop the tide of public opinion. People wanted someone to blame, and the Ministry was all too happy to oblige.

A loud voice cut through the murmurs of the auction hall. “Next up—Ron Weasley.”

Harry’s heart stopped.

His eyes snapped to the front, and there she was, standing on the platform, arms bound in front of her, her once-bright red hair matted and dull. Ron Weasley, a girl he had once called a friend, now stood before a crowd of strangers, her eyes hollow and resigned. Her family, once staunch allies in the fight against evil, had made the fatal choice to support Voldemort when the war reached its peak. The betrayal had been devastating—not just for the world but for Harry personally. He had grown up with the Weasleys, considered them family, only to see them turn their backs when it mattered most.

But Ron…

She was different. She had always been different, a friend to him and Hermione through the darkest times at Hogwarts. It wasn’t her fault, Harry told himself, over and over. She had been young, caught in the web of her family’s choices. Now she was paying the price for something she hadn’t controlled.

The auctioneer’s voice droned on, rattling off Ron’s lineage, her age—only nineteen—and the price that would start the bidding.

“Ten thousand Galleons,” someone shouted.

“Fifteen thousand.”

Harry’s breath quickened, his mind racing. This was wrong. All of it. He should turn away, leave this wretched place, and pretend he had never seen Ron standing there. But his feet wouldn’t move. His body, heavy with the burden of his decisions, seemed rooted to the spot.

“Twenty thousand Galleons,” a voice called out from the front, sharp and cold.

Harry’s blood ran cold as he recognized the voice— Anton Volkov, a muggle born activist who had somehow managed to make a name for himself by his cruelty towards purebloods. The thought of Ron in his hands sent a surge of rage through Harry.

His fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t.

“Fifty thousand Galleons,” Harry’s voice rang out, clear and decisive.

The hall fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air. All eyes turned to him, some filled with recognition, others with confusion. The Boy Who Lived—now, the man who had won the war—stood there, bidding on a pureblood. A Weasley.

Volkov sneered, his eyes flashing with irritation, but he didn’t make another offer. Harry was too well-known, too powerful now to challenge outright.

The auctioneer slammed down his gavel, the sound reverberating through Harry's bones. “Sold, for fifty thousand Galleons. To Harry Potter.”

Ron didn’t move, her eyes still fixed on the floor. Her body trembled slightly, but she gave no sign of relief or anger. Nothing. She was numb, broken in a way that Harry had never imagined seeing her.

As he moved forward, Harry felt a knot tighten in his stomach. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had saved the world from tyranny, from enslavement. But now, in this twisted reality, he had become part of a system he despised.

He reached Ron, and the guard who stood beside her handed him a piece of parchment, her ownership papers. The weight of the document felt like a curse in his hand, heavy and burning. He glanced at Ron, her wrists still bound, and nodded at the guard to remove her shackles.

Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his for the first time.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken. “Why…?”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to answer her. What could he say? That he couldn’t stand to see her sold to some monster? That he had no plan beyond this moment? He knew it wasn’t enough, but it was all he had.

“I couldn’t let them take you,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I couldn’t let them do this to you.”

Her eyes flickered with something—pain, perhaps, or disbelief. She was no longer the girl he had known, no longer the fierce, proud Ron who had once been his friend. War had taken that from her, and now this new world had stripped her of whatever dignity remained.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The auction hall buzzed around them, but it felt distant, as though they were trapped in a world all their own.

Finally, Harry reached out, gently touching her arm. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

She didn’t resist, but neither did she speak as they left the hall together, walking into a world that had once been full of hope but now seemed darker than ever.

And Harry, for all his bravery, didn’t know how to fix it.

Chapter Text

The house at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was dark and silent, its walls heavy with the history of hatred and bloodlines. It felt like the perfect place for the ghosts that now haunted Harry’s life. The ghosts of his decisions. Of the war.

Of Ron Weasley.

She stood in the middle of the sitting room, eyes downcast, her red hair limp around her shoulders. Harry had brought her here, away from the auction hall, and now the two of them were alone in a house filled with shadows. He watched her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his heart a twisted knot of anger and guilt.

He wanted to hate her.

He should hate her.

After all, she and her family had sided with Voldemort. They had abandoned everything they had once stood for, everything they had once believed in. Ron had betrayed him, betrayed Hermione, and now she stood here, in front of him, as his to control.

And yet… something inside him twisted at the thought.

“I didn’t want this,” Ron whispered, her voice barely audible in the heavy silence of the room. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, the anger flaring inside him again. “Didn’t want it? You chose it, Ron. You and your family. You chose Voldemort. You chose to stand by him while the rest of us fought for our lives. While I fought for your life.”

She flinched at his words, her head bowing even further. “I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered, her voice thick with shame.

“There’s always a choice,” Harry spat, the venom in his voice shocking even to him.

Ron trembled, her body shaking with the weight of his accusation. She knew he was right. She had made a choice. She had stood by her family, even as she had watched them descend into darkness. Even as she had watched them betray everything they had once held dear.

And now… now she was paying the price.

Harry took a step forward, his eyes locked on her. He could see the fear in her eyes, the shame, the guilt. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to erase the memories of the war, the lives lost, the betrayals.

“You know why you’re here,” Harry said, his voice cold. “You know what this is.”

Ron’s breath hitched, her eyes darting to the floor. She had known the moment she saw him at the auction. The moment he had bid for her, his voice ringing out in the crowd. She had known what it meant. She had known that she was no longer a person. She was a possession.

Harry’s possession.

But she hadn’t expected the way it would feel. The way it would twist something deep inside her, something that had once been strong, now crumbling under the weight of her shame and his anger.

“Take off your clothes.”

The command was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife. Ron’s heart pounded in her chest, her fingers trembling as they moved to obey. She couldn’t disobey him. Not now. Not after everything.

Harry watched her, his face a mask of cold detachment, though inside, his mind raged. He hated what he was doing, but the anger burned too brightly. He had fought for years—bled, lost friends, nearly lost his soul to the war—and now, in the aftermath, this was what justice looked like. This was the consequence of betrayal.

Or so he told himself.

When she stood before him, stripped bare, her body trembling, Harry moved closer, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out, his hand brushing her shoulder, and she flinched. Her reaction sent a jolt through him—a mix of satisfaction and revulsion.

“You should have thought of this,” Harry murmured, his voice low and dangerous, “when you chose your side.”

Ron’s breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes wide with fear. “Harry, please…” she whispered.

But Harry shook his head. There would be no mercy. Not now.

As the night descended over Grimmauld Place, the house groaned under the weight of their shared history. And in the darkness, two people—once friends, once allies—were torn apart by the consequences of a war that neither of them had truly survived.

Chapter Text

The room was dark, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth. Harry sat in a worn armchair, his hands clasped tightly together, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. Ron had retreated to the corner of the room, curled up on the floor, her body shaking with silent sobs. The blanket he had tossed her after it was over barely covered her form.

Harry’s chest felt tight, as if the weight of his anger, his guilt, and his confusion were pressing down on him, suffocating him. He could still feel the heat of her skin under his hands, still hear her broken voice pleading with him. His mind kept replaying the scene, the raw power he had over her, the way her body had responded—not in desire, but in submission.

This wasn’t who he was. He knew that. He had never wanted to be the kind of man who would hurt someone, who would control someone so completely. But the war had taken so much from him—so much from all of them—and now all that was left was this: a broken world, a broken system, and broken people.

Ron hadn’t spoken since he had finished, her eyes hollow and distant. He had expected her to hate him, to fight back, to scream at him for what he had done. But she hadn’t. She had simply accepted it, as though it was the natural outcome of her family’s choices.

And that, more than anything, terrified him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Harry asked, his voice rough with exhaustion. He hadn’t meant to speak, but the silence between them was too much to bear. “Why didn’t you fight me?”

Ron didn’t move at first. She kept her eyes on the floor, her breath still coming in shallow, shaky gasps. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice so soft that Harry had to strain to hear her.

“Because you’re right,” she whispered. “This is what I deserve.”

Harry recoiled, her words cutting through him like a knife. He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that she didn’t deserve this—that no one deserved this—but the words caught in his throat. He didn’t know if he believed them. Not after everything.

“I stood by them,” Ron continued, her voice growing stronger. She sat up slightly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I didn’t stop them. I didn’t stop my family when they made their choices. I knew what they were doing, and I didn’t—” Her voice cracked, and she turned her head away, her body trembling. “I didn’t stop them.”

Harry watched her, his heart aching with a mixture of anger and pity. She was right. She hadn’t stopped them. But was that enough to justify what he had done to her? Was that enough to make her… this?

He stood abruptly, the tension in his muscles too much to bear. He paced the room, running his hands through his hair, trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind. This wasn’t supposed to be how it ended. He had defeated Voldemort. He had fought for a better world, for a future where people like Ron—people who had been caught in the crossfire—wouldn’t have to suffer anymore.

But instead, he had become part of the very system he had fought to destroy.

“You didn’t deserve this,” Harry said suddenly, his voice sharp and brittle. He turned to face her, his eyes blazing with something close to desperation. “None of this is right, Ron. The Ministry… this system… it’s all wrong. You didn’t deserve to be sold like—like an animal.”

Ron flinched at his words, her eyes flickering with a mix of fear and confusion. “Then why did you do it?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Why did you buy me, Harry?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, and Harry didn’t have an answer. At least, not one he was willing to admit to himself. Because the truth was, part of him had wanted to punish her. Part of him had wanted to make her pay for the choices her family had made, for the way they had abandoned him, abandoned *everything*.

But another part of him—a part he barely understood—had wanted to save her. To protect her from the world that was spiraling out of control. And now, as he looked at her—broken, scared, and utterly alone—he didn’t know which part of him had won.

“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly, his voice hollow. “I don’t know why I did it.”

Silence stretched between them again, suffocating in its intensity. Harry turned away from her, staring into the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker in the darkness. He wanted to say something more, something that would make this better, but he knew there were no words that could fix what had been broken.

“I can’t make it right,” he said finally, his voice low. “But I can try to… I don’t know. I can try to give you back some control.”

Ron didn’t respond, her body still huddled in the corner. Harry’s hands shook slightly as he pulled a chair closer to her, sitting down beside her but not too close. He didn’t want to crowd her. He didn’t want to force anything more than had already been forced.

“Do you want to leave?” Harry asked, surprising himself with the question. “I won’t stop you. I bought you… but if you want to go, I’ll help you. I’ll protect you.”

Ron looked up at him, her eyes filled with disbelief. “Go where?” she asked bitterly. “There’s nothing left for me out there. My family… my family’s gone. My name… my name is worth nothing now.”

Her words sank deep into Harry’s bones. She was right, of course. The world outside these walls was no safer for her than the one inside them. The Ministry had seen to that. The people, filled with hatred and grief, had seen to that. Ron was a pariah now, as were so many of the other purebloods who had survived the war.

She had nowhere to go.

Chapter Text

The shadows in Grimmauld Place had grown darker since the war ended, the house now a reflection of everything Harry had become. A hero in the eyes of the world, but inside these walls, he was something else—something far more broken and dangerous.

Ron Weasley knew this all too well.

She had learned it on that first night when Harry, filled with a bitter rage he barely controlled, had come to her room. The unspoken rule between them was clear: she was his now, a living symbol of everything he had lost and everything her family had destroyed. And Harry, for all his heroism, couldn’t let it go.

He came to her every night. Not with tenderness, not with care, but with the cold fury of a man who believed he had been wronged, who needed an outlet for the anger that simmered beneath the surface.

Tonight was no different.

Harry stood in the doorway of her room, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared at her. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his breath slow and controlled, as if he were holding back a flood of emotion. Ron sat on the edge of the bed, her body tense, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew what was coming.

It always came.

“I still remember the way you stood by them,” Harry said, his voice low and cold. His gaze never left her, and Ron felt a shiver run down her spine. “Your family. Your choices.”

Ron’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. What was there to say? She had tried to defend herself before, had tried to explain that she had been trapped, forced to follow her family’s path. But Harry didn’t want to hear it. He never wanted to hear it. He wanted her to pay.

Every night, he made sure she did.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered, his voice devoid of warmth or compassion. There was no kindness in him now, only the sharp edge of his vengeance, the need to make her suffer for what her family had done. For what *she* had done by not stopping them.

Ron hesitated for only a moment, then slowly began to remove her shirt, her fingers trembling. Each movement felt like a weight pressing down on her chest, crushing her with shame. She hated this. Hated the way he looked at her, the way he used her. Hated that she had no power to stop it.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she reached for the clasp of her bra, hoping, futilely, that this time he might listen. “You know I didn’t have a choice.”

Harry’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. “You always had a choice,” he spat, grabbing her wrist with a roughness that made her flinch. “You could have fought back. You could have turned against them.”

“I was just a child!” Ron shot back, her voice breaking. “You don’t understand. You never—”

“*Don’t*,” Harry growled, cutting her off. His grip on her wrist tightened, and Ron winced in pain. “Don’t you dare make excuses for what your family did. For what you did.”

Tears welled up in Ron’s eyes, but she forced them back. Crying would solve nothing. She had learned that early on. All it would do was fuel Harry’s rage further. He didn’t want to see her cry. He wanted to see her submit. To pay the price he believed she owed.

“Lie down,” Harry ordered, his voice cold and commanding.

Ron did as she was told, lying back on the bed, her body stiff and unyielding. Her heart raced in her chest, and she stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the sensation of Harry’s hands on her skin. Every touch was a reminder of what she had lost—her freedom, her dignity, her sense of self. She had nothing left. Not after this.

Harry moved over her, his hands rough and demanding, driven not by desire but by something far darker. This wasn’t about lust. It never had been. This was about control. About punishment. About making her feel the weight of his anger, his grief, his sense of betrayal.

“You think this is what you deserve, don’t you?” he muttered, his breath hot against her neck as he leaned over her. “You think this is your punishment for siding with them.”

Ron’s eyes squeezed shut, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her, her body tense. She couldn’t bear to respond. It didn’t matter what she thought. Harry didn’t care about her thoughts, her feelings. She was just… an outlet.

“You’re wrong,” Harry whispered, his voice laced with bitterness. “This isn’t enough. This will never be enough.”

Ron felt a tear slip down her cheek, and she bit her lip to keep from sobbing. Every night was like this. Every night, she told herself she would endure it. That she could survive it. But the truth was, each night left her a little more broken, a little more hollow. She was disappearing, piece by piece, and soon there would be nothing left.

Harry’s movements became more frantic, more aggressive, as if he were trying to erase his own pain through her. He pressed down on her, his body a heavy weight, suffocating her. Ron’s breath came in shallow gasps, her mind retreating to that familiar place of numbness, where the pain couldn’t reach her.

But it was always there. Always waiting.

When it was over, Harry pulled away from her, his body tense and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He stood at the edge of the bed, his back to her, his breathing ragged. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The room was filled with the oppressive silence that always followed—the silence of guilt, of shame, of the twisted reality they had created together.

“I’m sorry,” Harry muttered under his breath, though the words felt empty. He didn’t turn to look at her. He couldn’t. “I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

Ron lay still, her body aching, her heart heavy. She had no words for him. No comfort. No forgiveness. She was nothing now, just the vessel for his anger, his need for vengeance. Her voice felt stuck in her throat, swallowed by the weight of her humiliation.

“You want to punish me,” she said softly, finally finding the strength to speak. “For what my family did. For what I didn’t do.”

Harry’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t respond. He stood there, staring into the darkness, his fists clenching at his sides.

“You think this will make it better,” Ron continued, her voice trembling with emotion. “But it won’t. It won’t bring back what you lost. It won’t change anything.”

Harry let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it. “You’re right,” he said, his voice laced with resentment. “It won’t.”

And yet, he would return. He always did.

Ron turned her face away, her chest tight with the knowledge that she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t leave. She was trapped here, in this cycle of anger and pain, with no way out.

The worst part was that a small part of her—the part that still believed in the boy she had once known—hoped that someday, somehow, he would realize what he was doing. That he would stop. That he would see her as something more than a tool for his vengeance.

But that hope was fading, just like everything else.

As Harry left the room, the door closing softly behind him, Ron lay in the darkness, her body still trembling, and wondered how much longer she could survive this. How much longer she could endure being used night after night, knowing that each time, a little more of her soul was being chipped away.

And she feared the day when there would be nothing left of her at all.

Chapter Text

Grimmauld Place had always been a place of secrets, its walls steeped in the hidden histories of the Black family. It was fitting, then, that Harry had chosen it as the place to hide Ron away—a place where no one would ever find her, where no one would ever know what he had done.

The house was large enough to keep her confined without drawing attention. The room Harry had chosen for her was far from the main living areas, a small, windowless space on the top floor, hidden behind a door that remained locked during the day.

Ron lived in that room now, her world reduced to its four walls. She spent her days there, naked and alone, with only the occasional visits from Kreacher to bring her food—a routine that had become a form of silent torment. Kreacher, the Black family’s ancient and bitter house-elf, carried out his master’s orders with grim efficiency, bringing Ron her meals without a word, his eyes filled with disdain.

He never spoke to her, but Ron could feel the weight of his judgment every time he came to the room. She was an intruder in this house, just like she was an intruder in Harry’s life.

But it was the nights that haunted her the most.

Every night, without fail, Harry would come to her. He would unlock the door, stepping into the small room with the same look of cold determination in his eyes. He would watch her for a moment, his gaze lingering on her naked body, before moving toward her with the same silent purpose as the night before.

And every night, Ron would lie still, her body tense and trembling, waiting for him to take what he wanted.

Harry had never explained why he kept her there, why he refused to release her. She wasn’t allowed to leave the room. During the day, she was alone, trapped in the darkness, with nothing but her thoughts and the crushing weight of her shame to keep her company.

She had long since stopped trying to reason with him. She had learned that Harry’s anger was too deep, too consuming for him to hear anything she had to say. In his mind, she was still the girl who had betrayed him, the girl who had stood by while her family aligned with Voldemort. He saw her as part of the problem, as part of the world he had fought so hard to destroy.

And so he punished her. Every night.

Tonight, as the door creaked open once again, Ron felt the familiar dread coil in her stomach. She hadn’t eaten much of the food Kreacher had brought her—her appetite had long since withered under the weight of her imprisonment—and now her body ached with hunger and exhaustion.

Harry stepped into the room, his eyes immediately falling on her as he closed the door behind him. The soft click of the lock echoed through the small space, a sound that had become far too familiar.

Ron remained where she was, lying on the narrow bed that had become her prison, her body stiff and unmoving. She didn’t dare meet his gaze. She had learned long ago that there was no use in resisting. Harry would take what he wanted, and then he would leave, just as he always did.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Harry said, his voice cold and detached. He moved closer, standing at the edge of the bed, his eyes tracing the outline of her body.

Ron swallowed hard, her throat dry, but she said nothing. There was nothing left to say. She had tried to reason with him, to explain her side, but it had only angered him further. Now, silence was her only defense, her only way of preserving the last fragments of herself.

Harry’s hand reached out, his fingers grazing her bare skin, sending a shiver down her spine. His touch wasn’t tender. It was never tender. It was rough, demanding, filled with the need to take something from her, something he could never truly claim.

“You know why I do this,” Harry muttered, his voice low as he moved over her. His body pressed against hers, heavy and oppressive, and Ron’s breath hitched in her throat. “You know it’s because of what you did.”

Her chest tightened at his words. She had heard them so many times before, the same accusations, the same reminders of her family’s betrayal. It was always the same. And no matter how many times he said it, no matter how many nights he came to her, the weight of his anger never lessened.

“I didn’t choose this,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stared up at the ceiling. “I didn’t choose any of it.”

Harry froze for a moment, his body still against hers, as if her words had pierced through the haze of his rage. But then, just as quickly, he moved again, his hands gripping her wrists, pinning her to the bed as he leaned over her.

“You did nothing,” he hissed, his voice harsh and bitter. “You stood by and watched. You didn’t fight back.”

Ron squeezed her eyes shut, tears burning behind her eyelids. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he was hurting her. But the tears came anyway, slipping down her cheeks as Harry took from her what he had come for.

It was always the same. The same routine, the same hollow intimacy that left her feeling more broken each time.

When it was over, Harry pulled away, his face a mask of cold detachment. He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his eyes locked on the floor. Ron remained where she was, curled up on the bed, her body trembling with the aftershocks of the violation.

Harry’s hand twitched at his side, as if he were about to reach out to her, to say something, to offer some semblance of comfort. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing behind him with the soft click of the lock.

And Ron was alone again. Harry couldn’t explain why he kept coming back.

Every night, after he left Ron’s room, he would find himself standing outside the door, his heart heavy with guilt, his mind racing with the knowledge of what he had done. And yet, he would return. Night after night, he would return, taking from her what he couldn’t take from the world.

It was vengeance, or so he told himself. Vengeance for the lives lost, for the friends he had buried, for the betrayal that had shattered everything he had once believed in. But deep down, Harry knew it was more than that. It was about control. It was about power. The same power he had fought so hard against in the war now coursed through his veins, dark and consuming.

And it terrified him.

He had become everything he despised, everything he had sworn to destroy. And the worst part was, he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop taking out his anger on Ron, couldn’t stop punishing her for the choices her family had made, couldn’t stop using her as an outlet for the rage that burned inside him.

During the day, he kept her hidden, locked away in the small room at the top of the house, naked and vulnerable. Kreacher brought her food, but Harry never spoke of her to anyone. Not even Hermione knew what he was doing. He had become a master of keeping secrets, of hiding the darkness that now consumed him.

But at night, when the house was quiet and the world was asleep, Harry couldn’t hide from himself. He couldn’t hide from the guilt that gnawed at him, or from the way Ron’s silent compliance only made him hate himself more.

She never fought him. She never resisted. And that made it worse.

One evening, as Harry sat alone in the kitchen, staring at the empty plate in front of him, he felt the familiar weight of shame settle over him. He had just come from Ron’s room, had just left her curled up in the darkness, alone and broken. He could still feel the heat of her skin beneath his hands, could still hear the soft sound of her breath as she tried to hold back the tears.

He hated himself for it.

But more than that, he hated that he couldn’t stop.

Kreacher shuffled into the kitchen, his large eyes darting nervously toward Harry as he began clearing away the dishes. The house-elf had grown more obedient over the years, more willing to serve since Harry had become the master of Grimmauld Place. But there was still an air of resentment about him, a bitterness that lingered in the corners of his gaze.

“Kreacher,” Harry said suddenly, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “Is she… is she eating?”

Kreacher paused, his hands hovering over the plate he was about to collect. He turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Miss is eating what Kreacher brings, Master,” he said quietly, his voice laced with the familiar bitterness. “But Miss does not seem happy.”

Harry flinched at the words, a knot tightening in his chest. Of course she wasn’t happy. How could she be? She was locked away, stripped of her dignity, and used as a tool for his vengeance.

He had broken her.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter was the Ministry’s rising star.

As an Auror, he had done more in two years than most would achieve in a lifetime. He was relentless in his pursuit of dark wizards, ruthlessly efficient in taking down those who had eluded justice for far too long. His colleagues admired him, his superiors praised him, and the public saw him as the hero who had saved their world.

But no one knew the truth.

No one knew what Harry did when he went home to Grimmauld Place. No one knew about the secret he kept locked away in that dark, suffocating house. And every day, as he stood tall in the Ministry, celebrated for his successes, that secret gnawed away at him, bit by bit, like poison spreading through his veins.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Ron.

At work, Harry was in control. Every mission, every duel, every dangerous encounter—he thrived in that world. It was where he felt like himself. Where he could push down the growing darkness inside him and pretend, just for a few hours, that he was still the man people thought he was.

But when he came home, that control vanished. The moment he crossed the threshold into Grimmauld Place, it was as though the shadows of the house closed in around him, whispering his sins, reminding him of who he really was. And every night, without fail, he found himself standing outside her door, the key heavy in his hand, his breath shallow as he unlocked it.

He didn’t know why he kept doing it.

It wasn’t as if he enjoyed it. The look in Ron’s eyes—the emptiness, the silent acceptance of her fate—haunted him. She was broken, and Harry knew that it was his doing. His need for vengeance, for control, had destroyed her. And yet… he kept coming back.

He hated himself for it.

Every night, he told himself it would be the last time. That he wouldn’t go to her, that he wouldn’t make her suffer for things that weren’t entirely her fault. But the pull was too strong, the anger too deep, and he couldn’t resist the way it made him feel—powerful, in control, like he could make someone pay for all the lives lost, for all the things the war had taken from him.

But as the weeks went by, the cracks in his resolve grew deeper. His nights with Ron were consuming him, dragging him further into the abyss. And while his career flourished, his personal life—if it could even be called that—was a wasteland.

At work, people admired him for his strength, for his skill in taking down the remnants of Voldemort’s followers. He was focused, determined, and no one could deny his success. But they didn’t know about the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin, the sleepless nights spent wrestling with guilt and shame.

They didn’t know that each night, when the house was silent and the world was asleep, Harry was breaking a woman who had once been his friend.

And he was breaking himself in the process.

That night, as Harry stood outside Ron’s door once again, the familiar weight of the key in his hand, he hesitated.

He couldn’t do this anymore. He knew that. He couldn’t keep hurting her, couldn’t keep using her as a way to punish himself. Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just about punishing her for what her family had done. It was about punishing himself for surviving when so many others hadn’t.

He turned the key, the door creaking open as he stepped inside. The room was dark, as it always was, but his eyes quickly found her. Ron was sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her body as small and fragile as it had been since the day he had brought her here.

Her eyes flickered toward him, but there was no life in them. No anger. No fear. Just resignation.

Harry’s heart twisted painfully in his chest as he closed the door behind him, the familiar weight of guilt settling over him like a shroud. Every night, it felt heavier. Every night, it became harder to breathe.

He approached her slowly, his hands trembling at his sides. “Ron…” he began, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? That he was sorry? That he didn’t want to hurt her anymore? That he was losing himself in this darkness, and he didn’t know how to stop?

Ron didn’t respond. She rarely did anymore. Her silence was as much a part of the room as the shadows that clung to the walls.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees as he stared at the floor. His chest ached with the weight of everything he had done, everything he had allowed himself to become. He was supposed to be the hero. He was supposed to have saved the world.

But in this room, he was the villain.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Harry whispered, his voice barely audible. “I can’t…”

Ron’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of something—recognition, maybe, or understanding—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She remained silent, her body still and unmoving.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration and self-loathing boiling just beneath the surface. “I hate this. I hate… I hate what I’m doing to you.”

He didn’t know if he was speaking to her or to himself anymore. Maybe it didn’t matter.

But he knew the truth. He had known it for a while now, though he had refused to admit it. It wasn’t Ron he hated. It wasn’t even her family, despite the betrayal he still felt burning inside him. The person he truly hated… was himself.

He hated that he had survived when others hadn’t. He hated that, for all his power and success, he still felt empty, still felt like he was failing the people who had believed in him. And he hated that, in trying to find some kind of justice, some kind of release, he had destroyed the only part of himself that still believed in mercy.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Harry said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how to make this right.”

Ron’s eyes met his for a moment, but they were filled with the same dull emptiness. She had no answers for him. How could she? He had taken everything from her—her dignity, her freedom, her sense of self. She was a shell of the person she had once been, and Harry knew that was his fault.

He reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her arm. Her skin was cold, unresponsive, but she didn’t pull away. She never did.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, though the words felt hollow. He had said them before, and they had never meant anything. He wasn’t sure they meant anything now.

But still, as the night pressed in around them, as the shadows of Grimmauld Place seemed to close in tighter, Harry found himself falling back into the same routine. The same need for control, for release, for vengeance—vengeance not against Ron, but against the man he had become.

And so, despite everything, despite the guilt, despite the knowledge that he was breaking both of them with each passing night, Harry stayed. He stayed in her room, stayed in her bed, stayed in the darkness that had consumed his soul.

Because, in the end, maybe it wasn’t Ron he couldn’t escape.

Maybe it was himself.

Chapter Text

Hermione Granger hadn’t meant to stumble upon Ron that afternoon. She had come to Grimmauld Place to visit Harry, as she often did, hoping to catch up with her friend and talk about the ongoing cleanup from the war. But when she arrived, the house was quiet—eerily so. Kreacher hadn’t answered the door, and Harry was nowhere to be found.

Curiosity and concern had driven her to explore the upper floors of the house, a place she rarely ventured. She had heard rumors—rumors she had dismissed, of course—about Harry keeping to himself more and more. About him retreating into the shadows of Grimmauld Place when he wasn’t working. She had chalked it up to post-war trauma, something they were all grappling with.

But as Hermione opened the door to one of the smaller rooms at the top of the house, she felt her blood turn to ice.

There, sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, was Ron.

Or rather, what was left of her.

Ron was naked, her pale skin bruised and cold in the dim light of the room. Her red hair hung limply around her shoulders, her eyes staring blankly ahead, as though she couldn’t see anything anymore. She didn’t react to Hermione’s presence, didn’t acknowledge the door opening, or the soft gasp that escaped Hermione’s lips.

For a moment, Hermione couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, not since the war had driven them apart. And even then, it had been hard to think of Ron as the same girl she had once known, the same friend who had stood by her side in those early days at Hogwarts. The betrayal of the Weasley family still stung, even now, after Voldemort’s defeat.

But this… this wasn’t the punishment Ron deserved.

Hermione’s stomach turned as she took in the sight before her—the lifelessness in Ron’s eyes, the bruises that marred her skin, the way she sat there, completely exposed and vulnerable. There was no fight left in her. No will. No life.

“Ron…” Hermione whispered, her voice shaking as she took a tentative step forward. “Ron, what… what’s happened to you?”

Ron didn’t respond. She didn’t even blink.

Hermione’s heart raced in her chest, her mind struggling to process what she was seeing. There had been whispers about what the Ministry was doing to the purebloods who had sided with Voldemort, rumors of punishment and slavery, but she had never imagined it would be like this. She had never imagined Harry—her Harry—would be capable of this.

Her hands trembled as she reached out to touch Ron’s shoulder, her fingers brushing against the cold skin. “Ron,” she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. “What has he done to you?”

Ron’s gaze flickered for a brief moment, a shadow of recognition crossing her face, but it was gone just as quickly. She looked away, curling into herself slightly, as if even the touch of another human being was too much to bear.

Hermione’s chest tightened. She couldn’t let this stand. She couldn’t leave her like this.

Hermione found Harry in the kitchen, staring down at a cup of tea he hadn’t touched clearly having just gotten from the ministry. The guilt was plain on his face, though he hadn’t yet looked up to see her. His shoulders were hunched, his hair a mess, and the bags under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks, which was likely close to the truth.

Hermione didn’t wait for him to notice her. She slammed the door behind her, making Harry jump as he looked up in alarm.

“What the hell are you doing, Harry?” Hermione demanded, her voice sharp and cold. She couldn’t hold back the anger that had been building inside her since she had found Ron upstairs.

Harry blinked at her, confusion flashing across his face. “Hermione, what—?”

“I found her,” Hermione snapped, cutting him off. “I found Ron. Naked, locked in a room like some kind of animal. What are you thinking, Harry? What have you done?”

The color drained from Harry’s face, and for a moment, he looked like he might collapse under the weight of her words. His eyes flickered with guilt, with shame, but there was something else there too. Something darker. Something that terrified Hermione.

“She’s mine,” Harry muttered, his voice low and filled with a strange mix of anger and self-loathing. “The Ministry… they said… I can keep her. It’s the law. She’s a pureblood, Hermione. She sided with Voldemort. She deserves to—”

“No,” Hermione said, cutting him off again, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and disbelief. “No one deserves that. Not even her.”

Harry clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He couldn’t meet Hermione’s eyes, couldn’t face the reality of what he had done.

“She betrayed us,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Her family… they chose Voldemort. They abandoned us. You don’t understand, Hermione. You don’t know what it’s like… every night, the guilt, the anger. I… I can’t stop.”

Hermione took a step closer, her hands trembling as she reached out to him. “I don’t care what the Ministry says,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “This isn’t you, Harry. This isn’t who you are. Keeping her like this… using her like this… it’s destroying you. I can see it.”

Harry finally looked up at her, his eyes hollow and filled with a deep, consuming sadness. “I don’t know how to stop,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I thought it would help. I thought… I thought if I could punish her, if I could make her pay, it would make the anger go away. But it hasn’t. It’s only gotten worse.”

Hermione’s heart ached for him, but she couldn’t let him continue down this path. She couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy himself—and Ron—because of the war’s lingering wounds.

“Harry,” she said softly, her voice full of both compassion and urgency. “You need help. This… this isn’t about Ron anymore. This is about you. You’re not dealing with what happened, with the war, with everything you lost. And it’s eating you alive.”

Harry’s breath hitched, his hands shaking as he looked down at the table again. “I don’t deserve help,” he muttered. “Not after what I’ve done.”

Hermione shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “Yes, you do. You’ve saved the world, Harry. But now you need to save yourself. You need to talk to someone. A therapist. You can’t keep going like this.”

Harry was silent for a long time, his shoulders slumped, his face pale and drawn. The weight of everything—the guilt, the shame, the anger—seemed to crush him, and for the first time, Hermione saw just how broken he truly was.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harry nodded. “I… I’ll try,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I don’t know if I can fix this.”

Hermione stepped forward, her hand resting gently on his arm. “You don’t have to do it alone,” she said softly. “But you can’t keep hurting her. You can’t keep hurting yourself.”

Harry closed his eyes, his body trembling with the weight of the truth. He had broken Ron. He had broken himself. And now, standing on the edge of a precipice, he wasn’t sure if there was any way back.

But maybe, just maybe, he could try.

Chapter Text

The tension in Grimmauld Place was almost suffocating. After their confrontation, Hermione had made a decision that she couldn’t leave Harry alone in the house with Ron anymore. His spiral into darkness was too deep, too dangerous for him to navigate on his own. And Ron… Ron needed help—more than anyone could have imagined.

So Hermione moved in.

It wasn’t a decision she had made lightly, but Harry needed her, even if he didn’t realize it. He had agreed to stop visiting Ron at night, to give her space and to try and work through his own issues, but Hermione knew it wouldn’t be easy for him. The pull to continue his destructive routine would be strong, and she was determined to ensure he didn’t fall back into that darkness.

Harry kept to himself most of the time, focusing on his work at the Ministry, but the nights were the hardest. Hermione would often find him sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly at a cup of tea, his eyes heavy with guilt and regret. She knew he was struggling, but every time she tried to talk to him about seeing a therapist, he would shut down.

Still, Hermione had another priority.

Ron.

Ron hadn’t spoken in days.

Every morning, Hermione would bring her food, sitting on the edge of the bed in the dimly lit room where Ron had been confined for so long. She always made sure to bring clothes too, but Ron never touched them. She stayed curled up under the thin blanket, her body tense, her eyes empty.

Each time Hermione tried to approach her, Ron flinched. It broke Hermione’s heart to see her friend—someone she had once laughed with, fought beside, and trusted—reduced to this.

It was worse than anything Hermione had imagined.

She had thought Ron would be angry, furious even, about what Harry had done to her. But instead, all she saw was brokenness, a deep wound that had stripped Ron of her will to fight. It was as though every part of her had been hollowed out, leaving only a fragile shell behind.

Hermione’s patience was wearing thin, not because of Ron but because of the sheer helplessness she felt in trying to reach her. She would sit by her side for hours, speaking softly, trying to coax even a single word from her, but Ron remained silent, her eyes fixed on some far-off place Hermione couldn’t see.

But Hermione refused to give up. She couldn’t.

On the fifth day, Hermione came into the room, determined to break through the wall Ron had built around herself. She brought a soft sweater and leggings, hoping that this time, Ron would accept them.

“Ron,” Hermione said gently, sitting on the bed beside her, her voice as soft as she could make it. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here. I want to help you.”

Ron didn’t respond, but Hermione noticed the slight tremble in her hands, the way her fingers gripped the blanket a little tighter.

“I brought you some clothes,” Hermione continued, holding up the sweater. “It’s warm, and… I thought it might make you feel a little more comfortable.”

For a long moment, Ron didn’t move. Hermione held her breath, praying that this time would be different. Then, slowly—so slowly that it made Hermione’s heart ache—Ron reached out and took the sweater from her hands. She didn’t put it on, but the act of accepting it was something. It was a start.

Hermione smiled, her chest tightening with a mixture of relief and sadness. “That’s it, Ron. One step at a time.”

But just as Hermione was about to leave, something unexpected happened. Ron’s voice—barely more than a whisper—cut through the silence.

“Do you want to use me too?”

The question was like a punch to the gut. Hermione froze, her heart stopping for a moment as the words sank in. She turned to Ron, her eyes wide with shock.

“Ron… no,” Hermione whispered, her voice breaking. “No, I don’t… I don’t want that.”

Ron’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of emotion, but it was gone just as quickly. She turned away, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as though trying to shield herself from the world.

“I thought… maybe you did,” Ron murmured, her voice so small, so fragile. “Everyone else… does.”

Hermione felt tears welling up in her eyes, the enormity of Ron’s pain crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She had known Ron was suffering, had seen the signs of trauma, but this… this was worse than she had feared. The damage was far deeper than she had imagined.

Hermione couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. She collapsed onto the bed beside Ron, sobbing quietly, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch Ron’s arm. But Ron flinched again, pulling away, her body stiff and trembling.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione choked out, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

Ron didn’t respond, but Hermione didn’t expect her to. The damage had been done, and it would take more than words to undo it. But Hermione vowed, in that moment, that she wouldn’t let Ron go through this alone. She wouldn’t abandon her, no matter how long it took to heal the wounds Harry had inflicted.

The weight of the past few years, the war, the betrayals, the pain—it was all too much. And now, as Hermione sat beside Ron, feeling the brokenness in her every movement, she realized that they were all victims of this war, all damaged in ways they hadn’t even begun to understand.

That night, Hermione sat in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea she couldn’t bring herself to drink. Harry was there too, sitting across from her, his eyes fixed on the table. He knew something had changed—he could feel the shift in the air—but he didn’t ask what had happened.

Hermione had spent the rest of the day trying to process what Ron had said. The words echoed in her mind, each repetition bringing fresh waves of guilt and sadness.

“Do you want to use me too?”

The thought of it made her stomach churn, made her want to scream. Harry was struggling, yes, but what he had done to Ron was unforgivable. And yet, Hermione didn’t hate him for it. She couldn’t. Because she knew the Harry sitting in front of her was still the boy she had grown up with, still the boy who had saved them all. He was just… lost.

But Ron? Hermione didn’t know if Ron would ever come back from this.

“Harry,” Hermione said softly, breaking the silence. “You need to know… what you did to her. It’s worse than you think.”

Harry didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. He already knew. He had always known.

“I can’t fix it,” Harry muttered, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how.”

Hermione’s heart ached for him, but she knew that her focus had to be on Ron now. She had to help her, even if it meant pulling Harry along with her, kicking and screaming.

“We’ll try,” Hermione whispered. “But it’s going to take time. And you can’t go back to her, Harry. Not ever.”

Harry nodded, but Hermione wasn’t sure if he truly understood. Because the truth was, the damage had already been done. And no amount of time would ever erase the scars they all carried.