Chapter Text
The late afternoon sun slanted through the Ministry’s high glass windows, casting long golden lines across the floor of Hermione Granger’s office. Everything in the room glowed with that filtered warmth — stacks of parchment gilded at the edges, the brass handles on her filing cabinets catching the light. Even the ever-present scent of ink and dusty books seemed softer in the sunlight.
Harry Potter sat in the corner armchair, one leg draped lazily over the other, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, mug of tea cooling in his hand. His hair was even more unruly than usual — windswept from the Floo and several hours of restless pacing.
He looked very much like a man who hadn’t slept well in weeks.
Hermione, as always, was efficient even in comfort — hair pulled back, sleeves neat, quill scribbling notes in sharp staccato. She sat behind her desk with the air of someone managing half the country’s magical infrastructure — which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.
Ron Weasley, meanwhile, was perched on the desk itself, balancing a biscuit on one knee and using it to gesture at Harry in between bites.
“Alright, but explain how you went from ‘I’ll take a break from fieldwork’ to ‘I’ll reorganize every drawer in my office by quill type’ in under two days?” Ron asked. “Even Hermione doesn’t do that.”
“I do,” Hermione muttered absently, not looking up.
Harry sighed and slouched deeper in the chair. “I just needed something to do. Something that didn’t involve paperwork or handshakes or being asked what it was like to duel a Lethifold in slippers.”
“That was one time,” Ron grinned.
“Twice.”
Hermione set her quill down and gave Harry a look. “You’ve been pacing around like a caged Hippogriff for weeks, Harry. You said you wanted out of the spotlight. Out of the mess. Now you’ve got time to breathe, and you’re still trying to fix the air.”
He didn’t answer right away. The light through the window caught the faint silver thread near his temple — stress, not age, but it clung stubbornly to him.
“I just… thought stepping back would feel better,” he said finally. “But instead I wake up and stare at the ceiling wondering if I forgot how to be useful.”
“You haven’t,” Hermione said simply.
“Not to mention,” Ron added, “you did solve three cold cases this year, broke up that smuggling ring in Dover, and nearly got your eyebrows hexed off chasing that cursed chessboard across Knockturn.”
Harry gave him a flat look. “That was your fault.”
“I maintain it was fifty-fifty.”
Hermione cut in before they could spiral. “Which is exactly why I’m giving you something completely non-explosive to do.”
Harry arched a brow.
“There’s a batch of recovered property from a fire — no curse residue detected,” she said. “They need someone to sort and catalog the contents. No Dark wizards, just basic logging, nothing fancy.”
“That’s what you said about the chessboard.” Harry grumbled.
She gave him a tight smile. “This time I mean it.”
Ron finished his biscuit and dusted off his hands. “I told her I’d come help. Could be fun. Like treasure hunting for bureaucrats.”
“You’re both insufferable,” Harry muttered, but there was no heat in it.
Hermione slid a folder across the desk toward him. Inside was a Ministry clearance badge for the Archives, a simple inventory sheet, and a clipped note marked Batch 7 — Property Fire / Unsorted.
“Consider it fieldwork for the soul,” she said. “And if you finish it by the end of the day, I’ll owe you a dinner.”
Harry stared at the folder for a beat. Then, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed it and stood.
“Fine. But if I find any cursed artifacts, I expect dessert to be included.”
Hermione just waved him off as she turned back to her papers. “Tell the Archives staff I sent you.”
As he made his way out, Ron trotted along beside him, still chewing thoughtfully. “What do you reckon we’ll find? Old wands? Secret family skeletons?”
“Hopefully just boring furniture.”
“Famous last words.”
The lift doors closed with a soft clink, shuddering faintly as it began its descent, the soft whir of enchanted gears a far cry from the clattering menace it used to be in their school days. The Ministry had modernized it since the war — smoother travel, better lighting, and far fewer incidents involving accidental dismemberment.
Harry leaned back against the brass railing and watched the levels tick past in slow, deliberate sequence. Department after department scrolled by in gold-lettered plaques on dark stone walls — International Cooperation, Magical Games and Sports, Department of Mysteries.
Ron stood beside him, arms folded, eyes distant.
Neither of them spoke as the lift dropped lower. It wasn’t uncomfortable — just familiar, like the kind of silence that came easily between people who had walked through fire together and came out the other side bruised but standing.
With a soft chime, the lift came to a halt.
Level B-8: Archives – Restricted Access
The doors slid open with a whisper of air.
Unlike the rest of the Ministry — polished and orderly — the Archives were older. Quieter. The lighting here came not from torches or enchanted orbs, but a slow, steady ambient glow built into the very walls — like the Ministry itself was reluctant to let this part be forgotten, but couldn’t quite bring itself to care.
A draught rolled in past the lift doors, cool and smelling faintly of old paper and earth. The temperature dropped noticeably as Harry stepped out.
“Bloody freezing,” Ron muttered behind him, rubbing his arms. “Why do all the ghosty bits of this place have to be down in the arse-end of nowhere?”
Harry smirked. “You could’ve stayed upstairs.”
“And miss the thrilling joy of cataloguing half-melted cauldrons? Never.”
They followed the corridor past rows of locked doors, narrow alcoves stacked with unused trolleys, and a map etched into one wall in fading gold thread. A squat witch at the main desk — spectacles like saucers and a quill the size of a wand — barely glanced up as Hermione’s authorization charm glowed on Harry’s badge.
“Batch seven’s straight down,” she said in a smoker’s rasp, motioning vaguely to the left. “Green seal on the crates. No hexes flagged. If anything starts singing, walk away.”
Harry blinked. “Singing?”
She didn’t elaborate.
They turned the corner into a long, low-ceilinged room, and the hush grew heavier.
The Archives felt like a library built by ghosts — endless shelves of unclaimed history, private worlds sealed in quiet decay. Scrolls, books, charmed mirrors, shrunken cabinets, bundles of letters stamped with family crests no one remembered.
Thousands of lives, scattered in fragments.
“Here we go,” Ron said, eyeing the crates lined up on the central tables. Each one bore a glowing green wax seal, pulsing faintly in the dim light.
Harry rolled up his sleeves. “Alright. Let’s get to it.”
Ron drew his wand and tapped the seals one by one. Each hissed faintly, then cracked with a brittle snap, the glow fading as the wax split down the center.
They worked in silence for a while — Harry sorting through parchment folders, Ron digging into a satchel of soot-stained crystal vials. There was no real system, just broad categories to fill out on the inventory sheet: Damaged Magical Artifacts, Personal Effects, Unsorted Magical Documents.
Most of it was unremarkable — scorched spell books, letters half-eaten by fire, a handful of melted gobstones and waterlogged photographs.
Here and there were items that hinted at stories.
A brass locket missing its chain.
A broken wand carved with initials.
A child's shoe, its leather cracked and faded.
A music box, silent now, bore a dent as if it had been dropped in haste.
Each object seemed to hum with memory, whispering fragments of lives once lived — love lost, promises broken, magic spent.
Harry picked through it methodically, soot smudging his fingers, occasionally jotting notes.
Then, near the bottom of the crate, tucked under a collapsed drawer of warped stationery and ribboned scrolls, he saw it.
A book.
Small. Black leather-bound. The kind of thing that didn’t stand out unless you were really looking — but something about it made Harry pause.
It wasn’t grand or ornate. No clasps, jewels or protective enchantments. Just… plain. A little worn.
But he didn’t reach for it straight away.
For a moment, he simply stared at it, a quiet flicker of unease tightening in his chest.
Another journal. Another time. Another quiet place where curiosity had gotten the better of him.
He remembered cold stone and flickering torchlight. Remembered how ink had moved like spilled blood. How a voice — charming, clever, manipulative — had slipped into his mind and nearly torn him apart from the inside out.
His fingers curled away instinctively. He almost closed the crate and left it there.
But this one didn’t hum with dark magic. It was silent. Just a battered old book, scorched and forgotten in a Ministry box.
He drew a steadying breath, shook off the memory, and reached for it gently, brushing aside crumbling parchment.
The cover was soft with age, the leather darkened and smooth like it had been handled often. The edges were singed, corners curled as if it had barely escaped the fire — just enough to wound it without destroying it. The pages inside were yellowed, curled faintly at the corners, but intact.
There was no title, no initials, not even a publisher’s mark. Just a dark green ribbon and a small emblem, pressed into the center of the cover — a dragon, rendered in fine gold embossing. Stylized, but delicate in detail: wings unfurled, tail coiled beneath it, mouth slightly open as if mid-breath.
Harry turned it over once in his hands. No magical residue, no enchantment hum. Just the faint scent of smoke and age.
Curious, he flipped through it and found handwritten pages in a tight, slanted script. The ink had faded in places, and there were clear signs that it had been written in over the course of many years—some entries were smudged and messy, others crisp and careful. He turned to the first page.
There was no date. Just a short entry. Harry began to read.
Mother gave me this journal today. Said it would be “good for me.” Said I should have a place to put my thoughts, as if I need help thinking. I told her it was a waste of dragonhide.She said I’d thank her one day.
(Highly doubtful.)
I don’t see the point. I don’t want to write about my day. What am I meant to say? That the tailor itched and the house-elf forgot starch in my collar?
I don’t have feelings worth recording. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t scribble them down like some lovesick eleven-year-old girl.
It’s stupid.
But here I am. Writing.
Whatever. I’ll try it once. Then maybe I can tell her I tried and she’ll stop going on about “processing” and “perspective.”
Either way, congratulations, journal. You exist.
Let’s never speak of this again.
Harry let out a quiet snort then he turned the page.
This time, a date greeted him in darker ink, centered neatly at the top:
September 1st, 1991
Harry’s breath caught, just slightly.
That was his first day at Hogwarts.
He read the first few lines:
I’m on the train.She told me to write again. “So you don’t forget the little things,” she said.
What little things? The uncomfortable seat cushions? The peppermint frog the trolley witch dropped?
It smells like dust and sweat in here. I picked a compartment near the back — no one else has come in yet. Fine by me. I don’t want to chat about what wand we got or whether we’ll all be in the same house. Some of them are already shrieking down the corridor like it’s a bloody carnival.
They all act like this is the beginning of some enchanted adventure. Maybe for them it is. Maybe that’s what it’s supposed to be... But for me, it’s just the next step in a plan someone else already mapped out. My name was written on a list before I was born. There are expectations I don’t remember choosing.
I looked out the window for most of the ride. The countryside blurred together. It didn’t calm me.
Harry frowned slightly, eyes skimming down.
We arrived just before dusk. The boats were ridiculous. I don’t understand why they make first years cross a freezing black lake like we’re reenacting some ancient legend. The castle looked impressive, though. I’ll give it that. At least it’s old in a way that doesn’t feel hollow.
Everything was louder than I expected. The Sorting, the feast, the students. Everyone wide-eyed and buzzing like this was some kind of dream.
It’s not.
I’m here because I have to be. Because there’s no other path for someone like me. I already know the expectations. I know the weight of them.
I wonder how long I’ll be able to carry it before something cracks.
It was written like a confession. Not dramatic, not poetic — just honest. The words sat heavy on the page, the kind of thoughts most people didn’t say out loud.
Harry’s thumb traced the edge of the page.
Whoever had written this — they’d been on that train with him. Someone in his year. A classmate, maybe even someone he’d passed in the corridors a hundred times. But the voice didn’t feel familiar. Not yet.
No names were mentioned. Just impressions. Atmosphere.
Still, something about it stirred a strange feeling in his chest — like reading a version of a memory from the wrong angle.
He turned the page.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a ceiling so high. The Great Hall feels like it could swallow you whole — and yet somehow it’s… safe. Floating candles everywhere, like the stars indoors. The Sorting Hat didn’t take long with me. Barely sat on my head before it decided. I wish I could say I was surprised.
I sat through the feast pretending to eat. It was too loud. Too many eyes.
And then there was him.
The boy everyone talks about — the famous one. Scar and all. He was sorted before me. The way people looked at him… you’d think he came from the stars. I want to hate him... But I don't... Not really.I kept thinking: how strange, to have people believe they know you before you even open your mouth.
But maybe that’s not so strange. Maybe that’s just how the world works.
Anyway.
I’m here now.
Let’s see what they try to make me into.
Harry’s stomach twisted faintly.
That was about him.
He stared at the page, heartbeat drumming louder in the stillness. He didn’t know why this felt like something important. Just that it did. Like picking up a thread of something long unraveled.
But before he could turn the next page—
“Oi!”
Harry jolted, snapping the book shut just as Ron turned back toward him, arms full with a half-sorted box.
“You’re not gonna believe the junk in this one,” Ron said. “I found a teaspoon carved with runes and what I think might be a cursed monocle. You?”
Harry slid the book into the side pocket of his satchel without thinking. “Just paperwork,” he said quickly, brushing soot off his hands.
Ron gave him a look—curious, but not suspicious. “Still better than cursed chessboards.”
“Barely.”
They returned to work, but Harry’s thoughts drifted. The journal burned quietly in the back of his mind — not with urgency, not even with danger.
Just curiosity.
And a question he hadn’t quite put words to yet.