A/N (Previously posted as separate chapter):

Betrayed is back! I know, it's been four years. I can't quite believe it either.

I've been editing the story a bit to make it an easier read (the basics are still the same, although there are more details now). As I've mentioned before, the story was originally Akasha Sorvolo Riddle's, and I was just translating it. She won't be working on this story anymore and she's given me free reign over translation and future development. There are three more chapters to translate (Ron, Neville and Hermione) and then I'll start writing new ones, so any ideas will be really appreciated!

I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments.

Thank you for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy Betrayed.

Summary: Harry is accused of murder and condemned to Azkaban. And even if he dies in that filthy hellhole, he'll get his revenge on those who backstabbed him. As a specter what remains of his spirit leaves Azkaban with the fall of night to torment those who betrayed him.

As you may already know from my author note, yes, Betrayed is back! As long as my college/work schedules don't conflict too horribly I will be posting every week, although I'd really appreciate it if you could drop me a line with any ideas you have to give new life to this story.

Hope you enjoy today's main character, Ron! (Btw, there will be Ron!bashing. Lots of it.)

Ron Weasley

Ron hits the boxing bag, left arm trembling, trying to unload the fury coursing through him. He's covered in sweat and his muscles scream in pain –he's been spending a bit too much time with the bag lately, but it's the only place where he can release his hatred and rage now. Auror Grouson, one of the trainee supervisors, had taken him aside a few weeks ago and made very clear to him, in a no-nonsense rumbling voice the man was well known for, that if he put another toe out of line he'd be out of the force so fast he'd need a pensieve to get what happened.

He jabs at the bag, follows with a cross and remembers to exhale right before each hit. He's been overdoing it a bit lately, but at least his game is improving.

He wasn't that bad, he thinks with a hook to the bag, but Auror Grouson had a stick up his ass when it came to "unjustified use of force against criminals", and he wasn't the only one.

It's all that bastard's fault anyway. Always is. That idiot with a Merlin's complex, always sticking his nose into other people's business, hoarding attention he hadn't earned. Well, that's all over now, isn't it?

The vicious jab that follows that thought rocks the bag, and Ron keeps his fists down and by his side, waiting for it to stop. He's learnt the hard way what happens when you don't, and he doesn't need more eyes on him right now. He ignores the curious looks from his fellow trainees, taking deep breaths and doing some light footwork to occupy himself until he can go back to punching the anger away.

The bag stills and he tries a 1-2-3 combo, jab-cross-hook and repeat. His breath is short, throat burning when he breathes in after each hit, but he doesn't care. He needs this.

And it's all that trice-cursed Potter's fault.

.

Fours hours later he emerges from the training room. He's been logging a lot of time lately, trying to get that bastard out of his head. Maybe if he exhausts himself enough he'll stop having those dreams. Maybe if he hits the bag enough times he'll stop feeling as though he's about to explode.

He dines alone, as usual. He's twenty-three and still single. Potter's fault, again. Hermione had broken up with him less than a month after the trial. He'd made a few half-hearted attempts at dating after that that never amounted to anything, and a few one-night-stands, but Britain is a small community and there aren't many women still single and willing to do the no-strings-attached thing.

The grilled chicken he got from the Leaky Cauldron feels sour in his mouth and twists in his stomach. Grouson told him to stay away from the training rooms for a while. Ron knows he's doubled the program's recommended hours a couple of times, but it's not that bad. He needs it. Why can't they just let him be?

He drops the plate in the sink, hands trembling, and it shatters. He's more careful with the glass –there's only so many times you can cast reparo before it stops working, and he only has two of those left.

When he slips into bed that night he's still thinking about Potter. He bets Grouson would have loved Potter. Somehow, his life still seems to revolve around The-Boy-Who-Lived-and-wouldn't-shut-up-about-it. Always calling attention to himself, even though he's Muggle-raised and ignorant of the most basic things, and he isn't powerful, or intelligent, or wise. Always getting them into trouble, putting them in danger. And then he'd stopped talking to them, ignored them, even though Ron and Hermione had put up with him for years. Potter had always been conceited, thinking he was so much better than anybody else (Mr. Rules-aren't-for-me Potter, Youngest-Seeker-in-a-century Potter, Almost-got-my-friends-killed-and-got-sixty-points-in-reward Potter) but that was the straw that broke the Griffin's back. And then he'd had the gall to turn out a Dark Wizard. Well, Ron couldn't say he was surprised by that. Outraged, yes, but not surprised. It was just like Potter to throw everything they'd done for him back in their hadn't understood, because for all her encyclopaedic knowledge she missed the most obvious things, but Harry was a parselmouth. The school seemed to have forgotten that over the years, but Ron remembered. And he knew he wasn't the only one.

He was always showing off too, buying the most expensive things and flaunting his wealth around. He'd even given the twins the Triwizard Tournament's prize so they could open their stupid joke shop, but he couldn't spend a single knut on his best friend. Who cared if Ron couldn't take Hermione out on a proper date, right? It's not like Harry needed the money anyways, but he couldn't help Ron out, it's not like they'd been best friends for ages or anything.

He was always Mr. Perfect, basking in admiration he hadn't earned, Dumbledore's pet, the Wizarding World's favoured star. Well, that's all over now, isn't it? He'd always been an outsider, anyways, so it made sense that he'd been pushed aside. Maybe he'd fared better if he had at least bothered to become part of their community, but that was too much to ask of Perfect-Potter.

Ron's still ranting when his eyelids turn heavy and he falls into a restless slumber…

.

The first thing he notices upon waking up is that it's cold. He's freezing, body trembling, and the wind wraps around his throat and makes it hard to breathe, like daggers are trying to make their way out from the inside.

A pit-patter of feet near his head makes him open his eyes just in time to see the rat scurrying towards a nearby dumpster. He sits with a start, taking in his surroundings in disbelief. Ron doesn't understand what he's doing in that dirty alley, lying among the waste like a beggar. When he looks for his wand he realizes he's covered in rags, filthy, skeletal in a way he's only seen in the vagrants that sometimes littler Knockturn Alley.

'Pathetic.' The voice, filled with disdain, startles him out of his shock, but he can't make himself look. It sounds so familiar… 'You are a disgrace, Ron. Always second-best, a nobody, but look at yourself now. You're nothing but a street mutt. Trash. You're pitiful.' The words feel like a spear through the gut.

He manages to turn his head and look, and it's the hardest thing he's ever done. What he sees doesn't make any sense. Ron wants to cry, but he doesn't know why. Harry's there, in all his glory, black silky hair tied back in the traditional Lord style, face twisted in distaste, dressed in impeccable luxurious robes and power emanating from him in almost visible waves. Ron wishes he could go a couple rounds with his bag.

'You're not real.' He mutters. It feels like he's begging, but it's the truth. He knows it's true. 'You're in jail, I know you are, I saw. I saw them take you away.' His voice is hoarse with disuse. Breathing hurts, every word out of his mouth hurts, but he has to say it.

Harry doesn't seem to care. His laughter fills the empty alley, and Ron struggles not to flinch.

'In jail? Moi? Oh, please Ron, don't make me laugh. I'm the Lord of a prestigious family. The press eats out of my hand. I'm the Saviour, their Chosen One. They all love me. Do you really think they'd just imprison me, as if I were a simple commoner? Rules don't apply to me, remember? I'm The-Boy-Who-Lived. I'm a star.'

Ron's shaking all over now, but he still manages to push the words out.

'No, no, you're not here. You're in Azkaban, forgotten. I'm a star, the best auror trainee of my promotion. It's me in the Prophet now. It's me they care about.'

The soft chuckles seem menacing somehow, and Ron folds into himself, bravado forgotten.

'You? An auror? Ron, Ron, Ron.' Harry shakes his head, amused. 'You're nothing Ron. Big brother Bill is an expert curse-breaker, a leader in his field. Charlie works for the biggest Dragon Reserve in all of Europe. Percy has climbed through the ranks at the Ministry and might even be a shoo-in for next Minister for Magic. Fred and George, well, they own the most profitable company in Britain, a power-house of innovation with contracts in everything, from every-day objects to the Hit Wizards and Unspeakables; they are the fourth and fifth wealthiest purebloods in Great Britain according to the latest rankings, if I'm not mistaken. Ginny has been Captain of the Holyhead Harpies for two seasons now and remains so far undefeated. I'm rich, famous, and widely adored. Hermione has established herself as a highly sought-after independent researcher. But you Ron, you've done nothing. Everyone's forgotten about you. Who wants the leftovers when they can choose among us? You aren't good at anything, you're not powerful, rich or intelligent, you're not famous, or skilled. You're not important. You've been left behind. No-one remembers you, Ron. No-one cares. Did you really think people would bother to look at you twice if it weren't for me?'

Ron hugs his knees to his chest, rocking back and forth. He keeps muttering under his breath, but nothing changes. He wants to go back. He wants it to stop.

.

Suddenly, the cold intensifies, feels almost physical against his skin, rattles from within like poison spreading through his veins. He looks around and the alley's gone. The grey stone walls are familiar. Azkaban. Apprehension runs through him but he's too busy being triumphant to care.

'You!' He points wildly at the other prisoner sharing his cell. 'I knew it! You're in Azkaban. You're just another prisoner. You are nothing. Not me. I was right!'

Harry looks just as powerful as before, but the expensive robes have been replaced by the Azkaban uniform, and Ron thinks that it suits him better. His smile is predatory. Ron doesn't like it as much as he does the uniform.

'You have one minute to run, Ron. Then… I'm gonna get you.' His voice is mocking, lips curved in a feral smirk.

Ron stills. He doesn't want to admit it to himself, but his instincts are screaming at him to run away. Harry looks dangerous, sounds dangerous. But Ron's no coward.

The power emanating from him morphs, shadows spreading though it until the only thing he can see are his venom-bright green eyes.

'Forty-one, forty-two…'

Ron runs. The corridors, filled with shadows and never more than half-lit look all the same to him. He's lost and he knows it, but he doesn't stop running. He doesn't know whether he's heading towards the exit or just plunging deeper inside the prison, but he has to keep running. If he doesn't… Harry will catch him. He doesn't know what that means, but the thought spurs him, makes his strides longer and pushes away the doubt.

He sneaks backward glances as he runs, trying to figure out if Harry is catching up, but in the nearly impenetrable darkness he can see little more than the arches of the narrow passageway he's in. He stumbles and falls to the floor, knees smashing against the rough stones. He's shaking, the cold of Azkaban weakening his body and gripping his mind tight, whispers of memories teasing his ears but never quite loud enough to hear. Everything hurts. He tries to stand up but his legs fail him. A sudden inhuman laughter makes his turn around, but there's nothing but shadow to see, a dark tide slowly rising to swallow up the world. There's breathing, not his –he thinks he's forgotten how to breathe until his chest heaves and he's suddenly alive again, dizzy- and this time when he turns around there is something other than the dark, a figure. A woman. Tangled brown hair falling in a glorious mess of curls down her back, familiar warm eyes that he now finds empty, full of nothing. Indifferent.

'Hermione, you have to help me, please. Harry's here, he's looking for me.' He begs, reaching out to her. It's going to be all right. Hermione will cook up a plan, or know a spell to make everything go back. She'll make it right.

She looks down, eyebrows momentarily furrowed, contemptuous.

'You're no-one. You're not important.' She mutters distractedly, eyes turning away from him as she walks back into the dark.

'Hermione! No, Hermione! You have to help me!'

He tries to stand up, but his legs won't move.

'She's not coming back, Ron.' The words seem kind but the voice is cruel, and a shiver runs down his back. From the shadows emerges his pursuer, green eyes tinted with hate. 'I think it's time to settle the score, Weasley. Crucio.'

His body is on fire, raked by a thousand burning knives, and at the same time frozen by Azkaban's preternatural cold. He writhes on the ground, trying to dominate the pain consuming him. He bites his lips in an attempt to keep the screams in, trying to hold onto the ends of his tattered pride. His mouth fills with blood but he doesn't let go.

Harry smiles, lips curved in a smile that is both predatory and satisfied.

Soon Ron's tortured howls fill the air. Harry's smile becomes wider, wand flicking almost lazily to chain in a second spell.

.

Ron jolts awake, and he can't stop the tremors as he pounces on his night stand. His auror badge is there, and he holds it tight to his chest, pressing against his skin so that it leaves a red mark. The cold metal helps him breathe, get himself back under control.

He drops back against the headboard, bathed in cold sweat, and tries to relax enough to go back to sleep. Soon after that he gives up and rises from bed reluctantly, heading towards the shower. He works the shampoo into his hair as the tries to ignore a thought that won't leave him alone, but it's no use: he'll be back to his personal little slice of hell tomorrow night, and he's aware of that every single waking moment.

So... This chapter is a lot heavier on the 'revenge' than the rest. Hope I haven't overdone it, because honestly I was feeling bad for Ron at some points. What about you? Did you think it was a little too much?

I'd love to hear any feedback you have on this story, and please feel free to share any ideas and/or request you may have for further punishments. Any ideas will be really appreciated!