It's All His Fault

Some people grabbed onto nearby fixtures.

Some remembered they were wizards and cast spells to protect themselves.

Others clung to their companions, dragging them along as they tumbled and slid away.

A few wizards who barely managed to hold their ground against the rushing water stared at Harry in shock.

Is this how you break a curse?

You're supposed to return the money, put the water back into the fountain—not flood the Ministry of Magic.

Ding-dong—the elevator stopped.

A team of Aurors rushed out.

They waved their wands, and with well-trained efficiency, they cleared away the water, which held no magical effects, leaving behind only a ground littered with "dead fish."

"Mr. Potter." Scrimgeour stepped onto the wet floor, his voice low and restrained, mixing with the sticky, dragging sound of his footsteps. "What exactly are you doing? Trying to destroy the Ministry?"

"I'm just collecting a debt." Harry waved his hand, his eyes carefully observing the statue in the center of the fountain.

Scrimgeour was taken aback.

On his way here, after receiving urgent news, he had considered several possibilities.

Perhaps Mr. Potter had an unpleasant conversation with Minister Fudge and was venting his frustration.

Or maybe, as some rumors within the Ministry suggested, Mr. Potter had been hiding his true nature all along and had finally lost control.

But he had never expected Mr. Potter to be a "debt collector."

"Debt collection?" Scrimgeour's determination wavered at those two words. "Mr. Potter, I don't quite understand what you mean."

Harry turned his head, his slit-like pupils locking onto Scrimgeour's gaze. "You don't know?"

"Ragnok escaped, the Ministry shut down his forge, but they don't intend to pay me my share of the profits."

Scrimgeour remained silent. He genuinely had no idea about this matter.

"Since Fudge refuses to pay me, I have no choice but to handle it myself," Harry said, sounding rather helpless.

"Mr. Potter, even if the Ministry hasn't paid you yet, that doesn't mean—" Scrimgeour began, struggling with his words.

Harry cut him off. "Are you saying I should just sit back and take the loss?"

"Because it's the Ministry, Fudge can shamelessly refuse to pay his debts?"

Scrimgeour opened his mouth again, preparing to argue.

"Director Scrimgeour, this matter has nothing to do with your Auror Office," Harry continued. "Either you help an ordinary young wizard reclaim what rightfully belongs to him, or you turn a blind eye."

Behind Scrimgeour, an Auror's expression twisted.

An ordinary young wizard?

Mr. Potter, how can you say that with a straight face?

"Of course, you could also try to stop me," Harry tilted his head, looking at Scrimgeour with an innocent expression. "You could side with Fudge and bully me—this helpless, debt-ridden, lonely little wizard."

He paused.

"The Butcher of Little Hangleton—you accused me of that, didn't you?"

"Out of courtesy, perhaps I should return the favor?"

"The Butcher of Londinium—how about that?"

"Oh, maybe that's too broad. Should I narrow it down? Do you have any suggestions for what would be more appropriate?"

Return the favor?

Is this what he calls courtesy?

No, just thinking about it feels highly inappropriate.

Several older Aurors hesitated, taking a few steps back. Though they still held their wands, they no longer dared to point them directly at the young wizard, instead letting them drift aimlessly.

The newer Aurors, fresh out of training, didn't understand why the senior members were acting this way.

But following their lead was always a safe bet.

Scrimgeour took a deep breath. "Mr. Potter, perhaps you are right—perhaps you are simply defending your rights and reclaiming what is yours. If I were Minister, I would certainly treat you fairly. No, I wouldn't have let such unfairness happen in the first place."

"But right now, I am the head of the Auror Office, an official of the Ministry. I must stand with the Ministry."

His words carried an implicit message.

As he spoke, he raised his wand and pointed it at Harry.

Harry smiled slightly. "Mr. Scrimgeour…"

"Expelliarmus!"

He slowly drew his wand, pointed it at Scrimgeour, and cast the spell in an unhurried tone.

Scrimgeour had no time to dodge the leisurely spell. He was struck, his wand flying from his hand and smacking someone else squarely in the face.

Harry flicked his wand again.

A curtain tore free, soared through the air, and wrapped Scrimgeour up like a tightly bound mummy.

"You're adorable," Harry complimented him.

Scrimgeour struggled, letting out muffled protests, but with his mouth gagged, he couldn't say a word.

The Aurors exchanged uneasy glances.

What just happened?

Why didn't their director put up any resistance at all?

Harry waved his wand once more.

The statue in the fountain dismantled itself, piece by piece, flying into his pocket.

"Tell Fudge," Harry said to Scrimgeour. "If he wants this back, he needs to bring me what he owes—plus interest and compensation. I'll wait for him at Hogwarts for a month at most."

"If he doesn't come within a month, I'll sell these to Gringotts."

"And if the sale doesn't cover what I'm owed—including interest and compensation—I'll pay the Ministry another visit."

Harry raised his hand toward Dumbledore.

Dumbledore grasped his wrist.

With a crisp pop, they Disapparated together.

For several minutes, the vast hall remained eerily silent.

Then, a new wizard stepped out of the fireplace, looking around in shock at the now-strange and disheveled scene before him.

A loud exclamation shattered the quiet, bringing the hall back to life.

"Director!"

"Mr. Scrimgeour!"

The Aurors finally snapped out of their daze, scrambling to aid their leader.

Before they could reach him—

The ropes around Scrimgeour loosened and fell away, transforming back into the curtain, which dropped to the floor.

Someone rushed forward and handed him his wand.

"Potter, he—" an Auror clenched his fists.

Scrimgeour cut him off. "No, this has nothing to do with Mr. Potter."

"This is Fudge's fault."

The Minister?

Some took a moment to process this.

Others immediately understood, clenching their fists in excitement.

Fudge's approval rating was plummeting. Ludo Bagman had fled with stolen money. Barty Crouch was dead.

The list of viable candidates for Minister was growing thin.

Senior Undersecretary Umbridge was one possibility, but her chances were slim—so slim, in fact, that Dumbledore suddenly deciding to commit suicide seemed more likely. She had almost no support within the Ministry and had only attained her position thanks to Fudge's backing.

Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was another contender, but she was already approaching retirement age. The Ministry needed someone experienced yet young enough to lead for a while.

Rufus Scrimgeour was the ideal candidate.

Born in 1968, he was only twenty-seven but already highly accomplished. His résumé and personal integrity had earned widespread respect. He was so mature that it was hard to believe he wasn't even thirty yet.

Fudge excelled at office politics—beyond that, he had no real skills.

The Auror Office, one of the few departments that required actual competence, had long been fed up with his nonsense.

They eagerly watched their leader.

Was this it?

Was he finally going to challenge Fudge?

"Mr. Scrimgeour?" someone asked tentatively.

Scrimgeour flicked his wand, rehanging the curtain. "Notify Umbridge to clean up this mess."

"We need to report to the Minister—because of his incompetence and negligence, Mr. Potter was forced to collect his debts himself."

He paused.

"There are no laws prohibiting wizards from collecting debts from the Ministry, nor do they specify how such debts should be collected. Minister Fudge must provide an explanation—otherwise, he will bring disgrace upon the entire Ministry."

At Grimmauld Place, Dumbledore and Harry appeared in a secluded corner.

"I didn't expect you to handle things this way," Dumbledore remarked, watching Harry. "What were you thinking?"

"The most valuable thing in the Ministry seemed to be that statue," Harry replied.

"That statue is a significant symbol," Dumbledore murmured. "The Fountain of Magical Brethren—a representation of unity between wizards and magical creatures."

Harry shot him a look. "If the centaurs heard you say that, they'd trample you into the ground."

Dumbledore shook his head. "A pile of cockroaches wouldn't crawl into one's brain."

Harry's expression remained blank. "But your brain would attract them."

"Besides human wizards—actually, even among them—it's mostly only male wizards who like that statue. No female wizard would ever favor it."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Harry, let me tell you, when Minerva was younger, she more than once expressed her desire to blast that fountain to pieces! A witch being depicted like that—it's simply unacceptable."

"And Pomona too—even someone as mild-tempered as her gets furious whenever that statue is mentioned."

"When term starts, I should take credit for this," Harry nodded.

"Minerva is not young anymore," Dumbledore shook his head. "She—"

Harry cut him off. "I'll make sure to tell Professor McGonagall you said she's old."

"That's not what I meant," Dumbledore defended himself.

Harry mimicked his earlier tone. "'Minerva is not young anymore.'"

"Harry, you're taking my words out of context," Dumbledore followed him into the house.

"I'm not. Don't worry—I won't change a single word when I tell her," Harry whispered as they stepped inside.

No one was particularly worried about Harry facing "judgment"—except for Hermione.

None of them thought Harry would suffer a loss, especially with Dumbledore by his side.

The house remained lively well into the evening, until an unexpected visitor arrived.

----------

Powerstones?

For 20 advance chapters: patreon.com/michaeltranslates