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Chapter 17 | Cleanup
I returned to the police station on the third day.
Not because anything new had happened.
But because—
I needed to confirm one thing.
Whether the record was still there.
The fact that this thought unsettled me was already an answer in itself.
The station was the same station.
Clean glass. Bright lights. The notice board on the wall had been updated. People filled out forms. Officers spoke in low voices. Everything was orderly.
I went to the front desk and gave my name.
The officer on duty looked up.
"What can I help you with?" he asked.
"I was here a few days ago," I said. "I filed a report."
He frowned slightly and turned to the computer.
"Case number?"
I recited the sequence.
He typed.
Stopped.
Typed again.
"Are you sure this is the correct number?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
He shook his head.
"There's no such record in the system."
For a moment, I didn't respond.
"That's not possible," I said. "I watched you write it down."
He looked at me, his expression unchanged.
Not dismissive.
Not evasive.
Just puzzled.
"Sir," he said, "are you sure you're not mistaken?"
In that moment, I realized something—
He truly didn't remember me.
Not pretending.
Not deflecting.
He genuinely didn't remember.
"Who was on duty that day?" I asked.
"We rotate shifts," he said. "Do you have a name?"
I opened my mouth—
and found that I didn't.
I turned away from the desk and walked down the corridor.
As I passed a row of offices, I brushed past a man moving in the opposite direction.
He wore a dark coat, carried a folder, and walked with steady confidence.
As we crossed paths, he glanced at me.
Not assessing.
Not wary.
Just a brief confirmation.
As if to confirm—
the matter had already been handled.
When I returned home, someone was waiting at the door.
Not knocking.
Standing.
A man in a dark suit, holding a briefcase, posture straight, as though he had already confirmed I would come back.
He nodded when he saw me.
"Mr. Dursley," he said.
His tone was precise. Unhesitating.
"My name is Arnold Peasegood."
He slowed slightly as he spoke the full name.
Not to help me remember—
but to make sure I understood
this was not an alias.
"I represent the Ministry of Magic," he continued.
"More specifically, the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes—Memory Modification and Muggle Liaison Division."
He recited the title smoothly, as though he had done so countless times before.
"We handle certain… incidents that are not intended for public knowledge," he said.
He used the word incidents.
Not intrusions.
Not injuries.
Not breaches.
Just incidents.
He did not step inside.
He remained at the doorway—
as if completing a handover.
"The police records have been taken care of," he said. "The hospital explanations have also been standardized."
"Your neighbors will not remember any abnormalities."
His voice was calm. Almost gentle.
As though these outcomes had been settled long before he arrived.
My throat tightened, but I asked anyway.
"What about the child?"
Only after the words left my mouth did I realize—
it was a question of safety.
He paused.
Not guarded.
Not defensive.
But surprised.
As though he hadn't expected me to ask.
"That information is not within your clearance," he said.
The tone was not harsh.
But it left no room.
"You erased everyone else's memory," I said. "The police. The doctors. The neighbors."
"Why are we the exception?"
This time, he didn't answer immediately.
He closed the briefcase.
Then opened it again.
The motion was calm, deliberate—
as though checking a sequence.
"The Ministry has its own considerations," he said.
The sentence was perfectly formed.
Perfectly empty.
"Your situation has already been assessed," he added.
"The criteria are not disclosed."
I wanted to ask more.
About fairness.
About responsibility.
About what we were now.
But there were no questions left
that I was permitted to ask.
"If it happens again?" I asked.
This was the only thing I had left.
He looked at me.
"Then we will return," he said.
Not a threat.
Not reassurance.
A procedural statement.
He nodded.
"The matter has been resolved," he said.
Then he turned and left.
No business card.
No contact details.
When the door closed, I remained where I was.
And only then did I understand—
My concern for that child's safety
had already crossed a line.
In their eyes,
it was an overreach.
And the reason we were allowed to keep our memories
was not trust,
and certainly not mercy.
It was because—
we still had value.
Years of navigating society had taught me exactly what that meant.
This was not protection.
Nor was it planning.
It was an assumption—
that we would stay where we were,
continue to cooperate,
continue to shoulder what was never meant to be ours.
When danger truly approaches,
it does not arrive suddenly.
You sense something is wrong.
Then you realize there is nowhere to go.
No way to resist.
By the time the warning signs become undeniable,
you are already trapped.
Not because you failed to see it—
but because, from the very beginning,
you were never permitted to leave.