Collecting the Debt

"I already apologized to you!" Fudge shouted, his voice filled with frustration.

Harry shook his head. "Cornelius, your apology is worthless."

Fudge's eyes widened in disbelief.

Worthless?

He was the Minister of Magic, for Merlin's sake! How could his words be worthless?

"Sit down," Harry commanded, flicking his wand. The chair blocking Fudge's path shot up, whooshing over his head before landing behind him with a loud thud, slamming into the back of his knees.

Fudge's legs buckled, and he collapsed into the seat, his face turning red with anger. He took a deep breath, gripping the table as he struggled to stand. "Mr. Potter, what else do you want?"

Harry said nothing.

Instead, he raised his wand and pointed it at his own chest. The badge pinned to his robe suddenly whizzed into the air. Fudge fumbled to catch it, his chubby fingers grasping at thin air as the badge dodged him like a mischievous Golden Snitch—before finally smacking him in the face.

"Potter!" Fudge fumed, his anger only growing.

Dumbledore said nothing.

He could see that Harry wasn't intentionally playing tricks on Fudge… but really, if the man was this clumsy, who was to blame?

"Read the words," Harry said softly.

Fudge huffed, squinting at the badge before muttering aloud, "Harry Potter."

"Trial—Debt Collection."

He froze.

He took a deep breath, then read the last part again, as if doubting his own eyes. "Debt Collection?"

"What debt?"

Harry tilted his head. "So, it seems those Ministry officials at Legnark's forge didn't report my case to you after all?"

Fudge's eyes flickered with recognition. Suddenly, it clicked. He nodded hastily. "Ah—you mean that incident…"

Harry nodded.

Fudge cleared his throat and quickly averted his gaze. "As of now, the fugitive Legnark has not been captured. Therefore, the financial matters concerning his forge—"

"To my knowledge," Harry interrupted, "Legnark fled with only his hammer."

He smiled coldly. "The ledger and earnings are still in your hands."

Fudge straightened, regaining his confidence. "However, because Legnark has yet to be apprehended, everything related to him must be sealed and held by the Ministry—including the earnings of his forge."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Including my share, but not the Ministry's own share of the profits?"

Fudge nodded, speaking as though he were delivering an official ruling. "No—at this moment, it does not belong to either you or the Ministry. It is still considered Legnark's assets and has not yet been divided accordingly."

"Mr. Potter, only after Legnark is captured and the sealed assets are released can the earnings be properly distributed."

Harry's voice remained calm. "But the Ministry is making no effort to find Legnark."

"The Ministry is very busy!" Fudge waved his hands dramatically. "Extremely busy!"

"There's the Karkaroff situation…"

"And then your case—oh, I should say, the case of the 'Butcher of Little Hangleton.'" Fudge smirked. "Oh, that's not my nickname for you—it's the public's. That's what the readers of The Daily Prophet voted for. It's the will of the people."

"Well, Mr. Potter, let's end this conversation here!"

Fudge slammed his palm against the table, tossed the badge aside, and stormed out of the room—his quick steps betraying his eagerness to escape.

Harry chuckled softly. "'Butcher of Little Hangleton,'" he repeated the words, as if tasting them.

"I like it."

His laughter was light and pleasant.

It sent chills down the spines of everyone in the room.

"Harry?" Dumbledore's gaze softened with concern. "Are you—"

"Professor," Harry interrupted, shaking his head. "Don't look at me like I'm Tom Riddle the Second."

He smiled. "Relax—I'm just here to collect a debt, not collect a life."

"Fudge refuses to pay up, but don't worry…" Harry's smirk deepened. "I have other ways to make him return what he owes."

Dumbledore hesitated. "Even if you do not harm him, tormenting him is not—"

"Do I look like the type of person who would do that?" Harry asked, feigning innocence.

The others in the room desperately tried to mask their expressions.

Not that type of person?

If not, then why had he just enthusiastically praised his own butcher nickname?

The officials hastily gathered their papers and left the chamber.

Once the last person exchanged polite farewells with Dumbledore and exited, the headmaster turned to Harry with curiosity. "And how do you intend to reclaim the money owed to you by the Ministry?"

"To my knowledge, Fred and George never succeeded in recovering the money Ludo Bagman owed them."

Vernon Dursley had tried to help Fred and George.

Though his hatred for wizards was well-known, he had recently signed a contract with Arthur Weasley to sell him a drilling machine—a deal that relied on payments in British pounds. As a businessman, Vernon had temporarily set aside his disdain.

With his connections, he had provided the twins with dozens of case files and legal guides on debt collection. He had even gathered the courage to take them to witness two live court trials.

But…

The laws of the Muggle world and the wizarding world were entirely different.

The British wizarding world had no concept of labor protections.

Fudge's arrogance was not without basis—the Ministry controlled the creation, interpretation, and enforcement of wizarding laws.

A Minister of Magic was practically a dictator—if not for people like Dumbledore and Harry standing in the way.

Fred and George had failed to collect their money.

They had even been mocked by Ministry officials.

"Merlin's beard—imagine a wizard trying to use Muggle laws against the Ministry!"

The twins had fought back, but it was useless.

They were simply two skilled seventh-years—capable of dueling a few Aurors, perhaps, but powerless against the entire Ministry.

Harry clapped his hands. "Thanks for the reminder—I almost forgot that Bagman still owes me my Triwizard Tournament winnings."

"That's one thousand Galleons, after all."

"Are we leaving now?" Dumbledore gestured toward the door.

"We need to find Percy first," Harry replied. "I promised Arthur."

They made their way to the fifth underground level, where Percy Weasley worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation.

Percy was talented—smart, disciplined, and ambitious. Unlike many of his lazy colleagues, he had drive.

Even though the Weasley name sometimes invited ridicule, he had earned a promotion within one year of graduation. He now served as Head of the Cauldron Quality Control Office, with a salary that exceeded his father's by five Galleons per week.

A Ministry official pointed them to Percy's office.

They knocked.

"Come in," came a weary voice—exhausted, like a man who had been pushing a boulder uphill for years.

Harry pushed the door open.

"Just put it on my desk," Percy mumbled, not even looking up from his mountain of paperwork.

"Percy," Harry called.

The response was immediate.

Percy jerked upright in his chair, his head snapping toward them. "Harry?!"

His glasses slipped down his nose.

"And Professor Dumbledore?"

"You two—"

Harry casually picked up a report from Percy's desk. It was an import inspection for cauldrons—written with a level of rigor that far exceeded standard Ministry procedures.

"Well, it seems that Head Inspector Weasley is very busy."

"Today is August 31st, Percy."

"My trial date."

Percy's eyes widened. "It's already the thirty-first?"

Percy looked shocked. He flicked his wand, summoning a small calendar from beneath a stack of cauldron reports. His eyes scanned the date, and he visibly stiffened.

"How long has it been since you last went home?" Harry asked.

Percy said nothing. His fingers gripped the edge of his desk, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Harry exhaled lightly and placed the report back on the desk. "Molly Weasley is worried about you."

"If you can't visit in person, at least let me bring her some kind of message—just to let her know that Head Inspector Weasley is still alive and well."

Percy's face remained stony.

Harry shrugged. "Alright, then. Let's go."

Dumbledore blinked. "That's it? We're just leaving?"

Arthur had specifically asked Harry to come talk to Percy, to try and reconcile things.

Harry had barely tried.

"There's nothing to discuss," Harry said dismissively. "I'm not Professor Sprout—I don't have the patience to be someone's personal therapist."

He turned toward Percy, his gaze cool. "Head Inspector Weasley is a grown man. If he wants to cut off his family, then that's his decision."

Percy flinched.

He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something—but hesitated.

Then, in a dry voice, he murmured, "Harry."

Harry turned his head slightly, waiting.

Percy's fingers twitched against the desk. His expression was complicated—his pride, his internal conflict, his frustration—all of it was painfully visible.

"I just…" Percy hesitated. His brows furrowed, and then, in a quiet, hoarse voice, he asked,

"How do you do it?"

Harry met his gaze, unblinking. "Do what?"

Percy clenched his fists. His shoulders tensed. "How do you…" He struggled to find the right words.

Dumbledore observed the scene in silence, his blue eyes twinkling with quiet understanding.

Finally, Percy inhaled sharply and finished his question.

"How do you get people to follow you?"

His voice was laced with frustration—jealousy, even.

Harry studied him for a moment.

Ah.

So that was it.

Percy had spent his entire life striving to climb the ranks, chasing authority, clawing his way toward respect.

But no matter how many titles he collected—Prefect, Head Boy, Ministry Official—people still treated him as just another ordinary wizard.

Meanwhile, Harry—someone four years younger than him, someone who had never held an official leadership position—was naturally followed, respected, and trusted.

Even inside the Ministry, Percy often heard people discussing Harry Potter in hushed, reverent tones—while he, the most distinguished graduate of his year, was treated like a simple clerk.

Harry didn't answer.

Instead, Dumbledore—who had been silently watching—spoke for him.

"It's because Harry carries more weight than you do."

Percy's head snapped toward him. "What?"

Dumbledore smiled gently. "You know of Harry's past, don't you?"

Percy hesitated, then nodded stiffly.

He knew—of course, he knew.

The Boy Who Lived, the child orphaned by war, the student who faced Voldemort year after year, who constantly risked his life to save others.

Intellectually, Percy understood all of this.

But still…

Something inside him refused to accept it.

He opened his mouth—to argue, to protest—but Dumbledore merely raised a hand.

"And yet," the old wizard continued, "it is not just tragedy that sets Harry apart."

Percy stilled.

"Harry is mature in ways you are not," Dumbledore said simply. "He is capable. He is bold—but not reckless. He is independent—but not isolated."

He gestured toward Harry.

"And above all… he does not chase power for power's sake."

Percy swallowed hard.

Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, studying him. "Tell me, Percy—what is it that you truly want?"

Percy instinctively opened his mouth—then hesitated.

What did he want?

For years, his answer had been simple.

He had wanted to become like Barty Crouch Sr.—an official of power, order, and discipline.

But Crouch Sr. was dead now.

And, despite the praises that surrounded the late official, Percy had learned things—things that made him realize that the man he had idolized might not have been so honorable after all.

So then…

What was left?

What was his purpose now?

Percy's throat felt dry.

Dumbledore continued, his voice soft and knowing. "If you become a Department Head, if you rise to the rank of Minister… then what?"

Then what?

The words were deceptively simple.

Yet, when they hit Percy's ears, it was as if a giant boulder had come crashing down, shattering his carefully constructed illusion of certainty.

"I…" Percy tried to speak—but no words came out.

Dumbledore smiled, his expression warm with understanding. "I once asked myself that same question."

He reached out, lightly patting Percy's head like a mentor comforting a troubled student.

"I, too, once desired power," he admitted softly. "Like you, I was ambitious—perhaps even more than you."

Percy swallowed.

"But in my pursuit," Dumbledore continued, "I overlooked the things that truly mattered—friendship, family…"

His voice grew quieter.

"…and love."

A shadow passed over his face.

For a brief moment, a deep, old sorrow flickered behind those kind blue eyes.

"If I had the chance to speak to my younger self," Dumbledore murmured, "I would ask him the same question I am asking you now."

"What is it all for?"

Percy's breath caught in his throat.

"You still have time to find your answer," Dumbledore said gently.

"But don't wander down this path in confusion—don't let yourself become lost."

He smiled. "You have a good family, Percy."

He glanced toward Harry.

"You have good friends."

Percy remained frozen in place.

Dumbledore gave a knowing chuckle. "And, if I am not mistaken—you also have a very special person in your life, do you not?"

Percy's ears turned red.

"I believe her name is—"

"That's not important," Percy muttered hastily.

Dumbledore simply chuckled.

He patted Percy's shoulder one last time before straightening. "Don't carry everything alone, Percy."

He smiled. "Even Harry knows how to vent his frustrations—by scolding me or pestering Hermione."

"I don't do that," Harry interrupted, scowling.

Dumbledore ignored him.

"If you ever need to talk," he said to Percy, "I am always willing to listen."

Then, with one final nod, he turned to leave.

Harry and Dumbledore stepped out of the office, shutting the door behind them.

"Professor," Harry mused as they walked. "I must say—I'm impressed."

"Oh?" Dumbledore chuckled.

Harry nodded. "You finally acted like a proper Headmaster."

"I assumed I always was," Dumbledore said innocently.

Harry smirked. "Gryffindor himself would disagree."

Dumbledore sighed dramatically. "Ah, well. No Headmaster is perfect."

They continued toward the exit, the conversation lighthearted—until Harry suddenly stopped.

"Wait a moment, Professor."

Dumbledore turned. "What is it?"

Harry's expression darkened.

"Debt collection," he said.

Dumbledore followed his gaze—and his eyebrows rose.

There, in the grand entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, stood the Fountain of Magical Brethren—golden statues gleaming, water pouring from their enchanted spouts.

"Harry…" Dumbledore said slowly.

Harry raised his wand.

A surge of magic pulsed through the hall.

With a loud WHOOSH—

The water exploded into the air.

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Powerstones?

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