No

The voice on the other end of the phone wavered slightly.

"Collecting a debt?"

Harry answered casually, "Yes. The Ministry owes me money."

"…Understood." The voice hesitated before continuing, "Thank you. Please take your badges and wear them on your chest."

With a crisp clatter, two square bronze badges slid out of the coin return slot in the telephone booth. They still carried faint traces of a fresh Transfiguration Charm.

Harry picked up one badge, which bore elegant golden lettering: Albus Dumbledore. Below the name, a smaller word read: Escort.

Harry handed it over to Dumbledore before grabbing the second badge. His own name was engraved on it, and beneath it, in bold letters, were the words: Trial, Visit to the Minister.

They pinned the badges onto their robes.

The voice continued, "Ministry visitors, please proceed to security for inspection and wand registration. The security checkpoint is located at the end of the atrium."

The telephone booth gave a sudden jolt—then, just like the goblin carts at Gringotts, it shot downward with a sharp whoosh. The sunlight filtering through the cracks was swallowed into darkness within seconds, vanishing completely as they descended deep underground.

Moments later—

A blinding golden light exploded in front of them, harsh enough to feel like it was carving into their eyes.

Ding!

As Harry adjusted to the light, the elevator chimed, and with a clunk, the doors slid open.

They stepped out.

Before them stretched a vast, gleaming atrium. The polished dark floors shone like glass, reflecting the high ceiling above. The structure was similar to Hogwarts' enchanted ceilings, but here, powerful magic was inscribed into the surface—ancient runes shifting constantly, forming a new protective enchantment every passing second.

On either side of the hall, fireplaces were built into the walls. The left side served as an entrance, the right as an exit.

In the center of the grand hall stood a towering set of golden statues, their radiance filling the space with an almost divine brilliance. The figures were larger than life—at the heart of the display was a strikingly handsome wizard, his wand raised high like a torch, as if illuminating a path through dense fog.

Surrounding him were four other figures: a beautiful witch, a noble and loyal centaur, a subservient goblin bowing deeply, and a pathetic little house-elf crouched at the wizard's feet.

Water flowed from the tip of the wizard's wand, from the centaur's arrowhead, from the goblin's hat, and from the house-elf's ears, cascading down in a soft, melodic trickle.

A passing wizard approached, tossed a few coins into the fountain, clasped his hands together in prayer, and hurried off.

It seemed to be a wishing fountain.

As they stepped closer, Harry noticed a small wooden plaque, nearly hidden in the shadows. It was stained, dirty, and completely out of place in the pristine hall. The words were faded, but after a moment, he managed to read them:

"All proceeds from the Fountain of Magical Brotherhood are donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do they actually donate it?"

The fountain held a considerable amount of coins—plenty of silver Sickles, a sea of bronze Knuts, and even a few scattered gold Galleons.

"At least, that's what the plaque claims," Dumbledore replied mildly.

They didn't linger.

They moved past the fountain, weaving through the bustling crowd, until they reached a secluded hallway. Unlike the grand corridors for Ministry employees, this entrance was marked by a simple wooden door. In front of it stood a desk with a sign that read: Security Checkpoint.

The wizard stationed there wore a peacock-blue robe and was meticulously groomed. He sat with a newspaper in hand, a teapot and a tray of biscuits before him, utterly oblivious to their approach.

Ahem.

Dumbledore cleared his throat loudly.

The wizard irritably set down his newspaper. "Visitors, is it? Step forw—"

He froze mid-sentence.

The moment he registered who had arrived, he bolted to his feet with a snap, his attitude flipping entirely. "Professor Dumbledore! Mr. Potter! It's you two!"

Scrambling around the desk, he flicked his wand. A thin metal rod shot up from under the table and landed neatly in his hand.

"If you could both stand still, I'll just conduct a quick inspection," he said, raising the rod.

He swept it toward Harry—

The rod vibrated violently.

"Mr. Potter?" The wizard's eyes widened in terror, his gaze locked onto Harry's waist.

Harry casually unhooked his bag. "I'm not sure what exactly you're considering dangerous."

Reaching inside, he pulled out a long, pale sword.

The rod shuddered even more violently.

"…What is that?" The wizard swallowed hard.

"A sword forged from basilisk bones and venom," Harry said simply. "Does that count as a dangerous item?"

The wizard nodded stiffly. "Absolutely."

"What about these?" Harry continued, retrieving a small bottle filled with deep purple liquid.

"Acromantula venom. Completely legal—I'm sure you're aware there's an entire colony of them in the Forbidden Forest."

Next, he pulled out a second vial, filled with thick, dark green liquid. "Basilisk venom."

Then another—this one bright red. "Sap from a bloodvine."

Then another. "A failed potion brewed by Neville."

The wizard was completely numb at this point.

He turned helplessly toward Dumbledore, his expression pleading.

Is Hogwarts really this dangerous?!

"Is that all?" Harry frowned at his collection, then began neatly repacking the items.

"Mr. Potter, these must be stored here," the wizard finally managed to say, voice hesitant.

Harry didn't respond. He simply looked at him.

"…It's Ministry policy," the wizard added, trying to sound firm.

Harry spoke softly. "I've been very cooperative so far, out of respect for Professor Dumbledore. Let's not make this unpleasant, shall we?"

The wizard's stomach dropped.

He shot another desperate glance at Dumbledore, practically begging for help.

Dumbledore offered him a reassuring smile. "Don't worry—I'll make sure Harry doesn't take things too far."

The wizard's expression fell into pure despair.

So that's how it is?

They'd already assumed that Potter would cause trouble?!

What kind of people are you Gryffindors?!

If he didn't confiscate these dangerous items, then what was the point of his inspection? Just to watch Potter lay out his collection of lethal substances and admire how dangerous he was?

At this moment, the wizard almost believed everything The Daily Prophet had written about Potter was false—except for the part about him being dangerous.

"…Mr. Potter," he tried one last time, pleading.

Harry remained silent.

A Witcher would never hand over his weapons—except under very special circumstances.

Seeing no other option, the wizard sighed and tucked away his inspection rod. With another flick of his wand, a set of scales floated onto the desk.

"…Then, please register your wands."

Neither of them moved.

"Professor Dumbledore?" The wizard turned to the easier target.

"I don't believe that will be necessary, do you?" Dumbledore replied pleasantly.

Harry turned to Dumbledore, deep in thought.

Dumbledore met his gaze, eyes twinkling with meaning.

The wizard let out a heavy sigh, gripping his wand tightly.

These powerful wizards are impossible to deal with!

"…Fine, so be it," the wizard muttered. "Once again… welcome, Professor Dumbledore. Mr. Potter."

He practically choked on the word welcome.

They stepped through the doors into a smaller but even more crowded entrance hall. Rows of golden elevators lined the walls, their grilles securely locked to prevent accidents amidst the throng of bustling Ministry employees.

"Dumbledore! Harry!" A familiar voice called.

"Uncle Arthur," Harry greeted. "Running late for work?"

Arthur Weasley was clutching a pile of documents—on top, a map littered with countless blinking red dots. "Oh, it's been a mess! The last three months, we've had multiple reports of flying Muggle vehicles! Even Muggle news has picked it up!"

"They're calling them—UFOs!"

Arthur continued, lowering his voice as he leaned in. "Some people even suspect that Sirius is still using his flying motorcycle."

Harry nodded. "I know. I'll talk to Hat about it."

Arthur sighed in relief. "Good, good. Now I just have to figure out how to handle this mess."

"Make way!"

"Out of the way!"

A sudden shout erupted from the crowd.

Then, out of nowhere, a Blast-Ended Skrewt came charging through the Ministry hall, its tail whipping wildly and sending off bursts of sparks.

"Stupefy!" Wizards nearby shouted spells in unison, but every Stunning Charm rebounded harmlessly off its armored shell.

Dumbledore turned to Harry.

Harry pulled out his wand, casting a Transfiguration Spell that bound the creature in place, exposing its vulnerable underside.

Arthur seized the opportunity, firing another Stupefy—but the spell barely had any effect.

"That won't work! You need Deadly Draught!" came a voice from the ground.

A potion bottle floated up from someone's pocket, just like on the night of the Triwizard Tournament. The liquid was force-fed into the Skrewt's mouth.

Moments later, the creature let out a confused hiss before slumping into unconsciousness.

"Oh, thank Merlin," a wizard groaned as he crawled out from under the crowd's feet, dusting himself off. He pulled out a bag, trying to shove the unconscious Skrewt back inside. "The Magical Creatures Department gives us these Extension Charmed bags, but their quality is awful!"

"Damn thing won't fit—Professor Dumbledore! Mr. Potter!"

"I don't think either of us are going to fit into that bag," Dumbledore quipped, smiling. "And we're not here for the Department of Magical Creatures today."

The wizard took a deep breath, then looked at Harry—his gaze flickering nervously. "Oh… right. I just didn't expect to run into you."

Ding!

An elevator arrived.

The wizard bolted toward it in a panic. "Well—er—nice seeing you! I've got work to do—"

But before he could finish his sentence, he looked up and saw Harry, Dumbledore, and Arthur all stepping into the same elevator with him.

He endured the ride until they reached the fourth floor, at which point he fled, dragging his overstuffed bag behind him.

"Seems like everyone in the Ministry is afraid of me," Harry remarked, stating the obvious.

The surrounding Ministry officials gave a slight nod in agreement.

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Powerstones?

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