Chapter Text
At Number 12 Grimmauld Place lingered an uneasy silence. Not the kind that comes in the evening, when everything drifts into the sweet stillness before night. No—this silence was heavy, oppressive, like the forewarning of a catastrophe.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and old wood. Ginny came down for breakfast; in a couple of hours she was due at the *Daily Prophet*, where she wrote the sports column. She didn’t look particularly lively—shadows pooled under her eyes, and her hair was tied back haphazardly.
Harry stood by the window, a cup of black liquid in his hand, staring outside. Without turning, he spoke quietly:
“You came home late last night.”
“Stayed late at the office,” Ginny replied just as calmly. She opened the cupboard, took out her mug, and poured herself some coffee.
“Why?”
“Harry,” she gave a faint, wry smile, “you know I don’t report to anyone. Not even you. You don’t either.”
He said nothing. Setting his cup down, he finally turned. His voice was still even, but tinged with suspicion and reproach.
“I was there. In the alley where that artifacts shop used to be.”
A burned-out shell. Traces of an explosion. Remnants of ink.
Ginny froze, then slowly turned to face him.
“And?”
“And I felt magic like yours. I know how you fight.”
“You think I was there?” she shot back, defiant.
“I’m just asking.”
She took a sip of her coffee.
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“I don’t know, Ginny. It feels like you’ve been living your own life for a while now. And maybe… maybe there’s no room left in it for me.”
Ginny studied him closely.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Harry’s gaze faltered.
“I should go. The Auror Office called everyone in today. Something’s happening in the Department of Archives.”
“Fine.” She finished her coffee and levitated the cup into the sink.
Harry was already standing in the fireplace when he added, quietly, almost sadly:
“Ginny… I’m still on your side.”
“Good luck at work, Harry.”
He vanished into the flames, leaving her alone. His words hung in the air: *Still on your side.*
Potter was always at the Ministry—raiding dark wizards or buried under endless reports. At first Ginny had been angry. Then she tried to be the “good, understanding” girlfriend—after all, he had a difficult, dangerous, and noble profession, one that fit the childhood hero he had always been. Yes, there had been a year when the cowardly Fudge branded him a liar, but in the end Harry had defeated Voldemort, and everything had settled into place. The meaning of his life, it seemed, was to keep fighting the darkness until his dying day. At least, that’s what the wizarding world believed.
But one day Ginny had simply given up. Harry was never there. He missed birthdays—his, hers, their friends’. He skipped family dinners at the Burrow. He stumbled home at dawn and collapsed from exhaustion within seconds. Ginny didn’t feel alive beside him anymore—on the contrary, even their rare moments together weighed her down. There was nothing left to say. She realized their relationship was a relic of war—born of friendship and support, but never true love.
At Hogwarts there had been Quidditch, awkward dates, summer holidays at her parents’ house. Now, their relationship was nothing but a hulking, ugly block of ice, growing heavier each day, threatening to crush Grimmauld Place under its weight. What kept them from breaking up entirely was nothing but lack of time and an endless, shared exhaustion.
“You don’t even notice when I’m hurt,” she murmured mechanically into the emptiness.
---
The evening before, Ginny had been in the *Daily Prophet* newsroom, scratching her quill across enchanted parchment to finish an article. The workday was ending, and soon, as she jokingly called it, her “second shift” would begin. She rolled up the scroll and sent it through the pneumatic post to the print department, then Flooed back to Grimmauld Place.
After quickly changing into plain, practical clothes, she checked the note from her editor at *The Sparks of the Phoenix*—the underground paper where she secretly wrote—and whispered the location before Apparating.
Landing, she exhaled sharply and steadied herself against a rough brick wall. Apparating into that cursed alley always drained her, as if the place resisted intrusion. The air smelled of rust, smoke, and something sweetly rotten—like overripe plums.
Across from her was a door with a weathered sign: *Artifacts of Absolute Authenticity.* The sun had already set; the alley lay in darkness.
Ginny pressed into the wall, keeping out of sight, watching a group of three wizards in black cloaks. Their faces were hidden behind masks—again those cursed masks!—this time with a spiral design. Fanatics, clearly. She gripped her wand tighter and held her breath.
Her editor had warned her: the group had been raiding bookshops and antique stores across London for weeks. But why this forgotten hole?
“They’re inside,” one of them whispered, pointing at the shop’s door. “The archive must be destroyed.”
The words made Ginny flinch. The cloaked figures blasted open the door and vanished inside. Ginny crept after them.
A stairwell led down; the old wooden steps groaned under her weight. No sign of the fanatics—they were already deeper, after whatever archive they sought.
The basement reeked of mildew and metal. Rows of crates lined the shelves, each filled with black vials. Ginny held one up to the light: the liquid inside shimmered like mercury. Ink—and not ordinary ink. She’d seen it before.
“Hey!” a voice barked.
She spun. The three fanatics stood in the doorway, smoke billowing behind them. Their masks glowed faintly.
“You’re not one of the Spiral,” the leader said. “Kill her.”
Ginny hurled a *Reducto* at the wall of crates and shielded herself with *Protego*. The vials exploded; glass shards flew, and the ink hung suspended in the air like droplets. The fanatics recoiled, hissing madly: “May the Truth devour you!” Then they fled.
Keeping her shield up in case they returned, Ginny rushed toward the smoke-filled room. If she could put out the fire, maybe she could salvage something—some artifact for her investigation in *The Sparks*.
“Aguamenti!”
They hadn’t used cursed fire, but ordinary flames—meant to destroy without drawing too much attention. Ginny doused the blaze, saving part of the shelves and their contents.
For a moment she considered destroying the remaining vials herself, but thought better of it. Instead, she sent a Patronus to Luna Lovegood, asking her to anonymously alert the Aurors with the coordinates. Dark artifacts were their business, not hers—especially when she was there illegally.
---
From his office window, Draco Malfoy watched Ministry officials Apparate onto the street outside his hotel. They came often; the Malfoys’ status as former Death Eaters carried obligations that would last a lifetime.
They were required to cooperate with Aurors, to account for every detail of their business. By order of the Wizengamot, Lucius had “retired,” serving only as his son’s advisor. On parchment, at least. In truth, Lucius had never intended to become law-abiding. Behind Draco’s back, he still schemed.
Draco had chosen to live as far from London as possible, settling in Scotland. His grandfather Abraxas had once bought the grand hotel from an old family, and Draco had decided to build his career there.
That day, to Lucius’s displeasure, the Ministry inspection was especially thorough. He stormed into Draco’s office, furious.
“They’ve gone?”
“Yes, Father,” Draco replied evenly, scanning paperwork at his desk.
“They found nothing? Did they check Room 57? Ask questions?”
“No. Nothing. Calm yourself.”
“We should have prepared better,” Lucius raged. “What if—”
*“You* should have,” Draco cut him off coldly. “Don’t drag me into your affairs.”
Lucius scowled. The boy was right. The Ministry could summon Draco to London at any time. Better he knew nothing that could implicate him in his father’s dealings.
“Draco, my boy,” Lucius’s tone softened, honeyed. “You always know when they’ll come. Do me the courtesy of warning me. I care about our safety and reputation. Leave the rest to me.”
Draco’s gaze was empty.
“Merlin forbid your care drags us back to Azkaban.”
“After all these years, you still can’t forgive me?”
“Every one of their visits costs me nerves, Father. You know that. Do me a kindness and get out of my sight.”
Lucius curled his lip.
“Don’t drink yourself senseless, Draco.”
When he was gone, Draco reached for a bottle of Firewhisky. Lucius went on with his schemes as if the war, the trials, Azkaban had never happened. Sometimes Draco longed to report him, to end it all. But from childhood he’d been taught: family above all. However wretched Lucius was, they were bound.
Already half-drunk, Draco opened a drawer, stared at its contents, then slammed it shut. He called to his elf.
“Flitty, summon Miss Parkinson. I need to relieve some stress.”
Five minutes later the door was locked. Draco sat on the couch. Pansy knelt before him, her mouth at work.
In those moments, Draco hated Pansy, hated his father, hated himself. Alcohol and sex dulled the edges for a while, but never cured what couldn’t be mended.
---
“Good luck at work, Harry.”
The words had sounded so alien, like a shop clerk tossing off, “Have a nice day, sir,” and forgetting him the moment he left.
Harry arrived at the Auror Office in a foul mood. His personal life was crumbling, but he clung to the work he loved. Ginny seemed determined to force him to choose—her or the chase after dark wizards.
They had broken up before, but that had been different. Ginny had struggled with her own scars after the war, made her mistakes. They had spoken of it only once, briefly. Harry still loved her, had forgiven what others would not. But after that, something in Ginny had changed, subtly but unmistakably. Harry often wondered: was she still the girl he had once known?
He suspected she hadn’t told him everything, even back then. The thought wormed into his mind now and again, and though he pushed it away, Ginny’s secretive behavior fanned the doubts.
He tried to talk to her, but she always evaded the conversations. It gnawed at him. He wanted to believe her, wanted to hope things would mend. But his duties at the Ministry grew heavier, his nights longer. Ginny would not wait for him again. Not like she had back at Hogwarts.
---
The Auror Office’s small conference hall was full. Harry sat beside Ron—his best friend, his partner.
“What’ve we got?” he asked quietly.
“Not clear yet,” Ron muttered. “Could be a sick joke, could be serious. Neither’s good.”
An elderly archivist in a crookedly buttoned vest stood to address them.
“Esteemed Aurors, in the last two weeks we’ve discovered… discrepancies in the record archives. Witness statements from war trials have begun to change. Without any trace of magical tampering. And the troubling part—it’s not forgery. These are originals, seals intact, protective curses in place. But the contents are… different.”
“What kind of different?” Harry asked darkly.
“One example: Avery’s file. Mentions of his involvement with forbidden rituals are gone. The record now states he was ‘never observed consorting with Death Eaters.’ Yet you all know—”
“I know,” Harry cut him off. “He died in Azkaban after confessing.”
“Exactly. And now it’s as though that confession never existed.”
A tense silence fell.
“Who had access to the records?” Ron asked.
“No one. The access logs are intact, but they’re empty. No names, no timestamps.”
“And the ink samples?” someone from the lab reminded.
“Yes.” A young wizard laid vials on the table. “These were recovered from an abandoned scriptorium. The magic is strange—viscous, as though frozen in time. The ink doesn’t overwrite—it weaves itself into the text, replacing old content without leaving a trace.”
“Looks like…” Harry muttered, “…they’re rewriting history itself.”
“Possibly,” the lab wizard said nervously. “We can’t yet gauge the full effect.”
Ron exchanged a look with Harry, then addressed the room:
“Yesterday we received another anonymous message. No signature. Just three words: *Those Who Remember.*”
Several Aurors glanced at each other uneasily.
“One theory,” an analyst began carefully, “is that this isn’t the work of lone actors but of an organized group. They believe history must repeat itself. That the past was ‘distorted’ and now they aim to ‘purify’ it. From errors. From distortions. From truth.”
“New fanatics,” Ron scoffed.
Harry stayed silent. He stared at the table, thinking: *What if this is only the beginning?*