Percival attempted to move past once more, but Harry stepped in front of him, their standoff attracting the wary eyes of a few nearby witches and wizards. 

"You are about to send the entire wizarding world running for the hills," Harry warned. Percival's guardsmen edged closer, but Delphi subtly positioned herself beside Harry, her gaze steady. The Minister tried to get into the elevator one final time, by Harry's outstretched arm blocked the way.

"And how did you even find out about the Horcruxes? How did you find out, Percy?"

Percival adjusted his robes, attempting to regain his composure. "I'm the Minister of Magic, Harry. That honor makes me the beneficiary of the privileges this office affords. Which means that I am fully aware of the information you provided to Kingsley Shacklebolt when he was acting Minister following the war. He requested that you submit a formal explanation following the destruction of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"That document was sealed and confidential," Harry said sharply.

"Yes, well... I unsealed it," Percival admitted, a hint of smugness in his tone. "When a source came forward, brave enough to confess what he had seen, I found it necessary to understand why and how you had failed."

Harry scoffed. "Who is this source you claim to have?"

"Protecting the anonymity of a source is vital to the..." 

"I know you can't be talking about the photograph that was circulating years ago," Harry interrupted. "That was a costume. And it was probably George." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And if not, it certainly wasn't Voldemort!"

"How can you know for sure?" Percival challenged.

"I killed him!" Harry exclaimed, exasperation seeping into his voice. "I was present, as were you. And there are other reasons, personal reasons, why I know... for a..." A passing wizard jostled him, causing Harry to momentarily lose his balance. He steadied himself, his hand instinctively touching his lightning-shaped scar. "...for a fact... that Voldemort will never return."

Percival regarded him coolly. "Do you honestly think I would risk my considerable reputation by making public claims based on an unsavory photograph? You insult me. Naturally, I have conclusive evidence—an eyewitness."

"Yes, and who is that?" Harry asked skeptically.

"A Muggle-born wizard. Hogwarts graduate. Named Finch-Fletchley," Percival revealed.

Harry's expression shifted to one of utter disbelief. "Justin Finch-Fletchley? One of the students who was petrified by the stare of the Basilisk when the Chamber of Secrets was opened?"

"The same," The Minister confirmed. "He brought this to the attention of my wife. Penelope has befriended him in recent years, as she has done with all those still afflicted by the memories of their petrification."

"Afflicted? That's a gentle way of putting it," Harry retorted. "He's gone completely mad. No wonder he sees Voldemort. He probably sees Godric Gryffindor as well. How can you give credence to a personal account from that man? Last I heard, Finch-Fletchley is still haunted by the ruddy Basilisk. Spends his days surrounded by ghosts, just in case he needs to duck for cover. That — is your witness. I have heard it all..."

"He is, and this is quite the pickle," Percival said, his tone patronizing. "Your doubt alarms me, Potter. It's clouding your judgment."

He took a few steps away, then turned back to face Harry, his expression blank and devoid of warmth. 

"Harry. I like you. You've always shown such promise. But you know what they say about pride coming before the fall..."

Harry's eyes flashed with irritation. "No, I'm not familiar with that one."

"Please, conceit doesn't look good on you," Percival admonished. "Let's not pretend that you're having a good year. Hmm? I'm still waiting for news on the whereabouts of the escaped convict from Azkaban."

Harry hesitated, the topic hitting a sensitive nerve. "I've torn down most of London." 

"He must be hiding somewhere."

"I don't know what else you expect me to do," Harry replied, frustration creeping back into his voice.

"More. Clearly," Percival stated coldly. "Pariah Prince is rumored to be the leader of the Tempest. He is the most wanted rebel in the wizarding world. We need to see some arrests. Otherwise, I'll lose what limited popularity I already have. And now that You-Know-Who has returned —"

"He hasn't!" 

"Face it, Harry. You failed," the Minister concluded, unfazed. "There was at least one more Horcrux that went undestroyed," 

Harry frowned, the weight of the accusation settling heavily upon him. Through the milling crowd emerged Ethel, the Minister of Magic's harried assistant. Percival's face brightened at the sight of her.

"Eth-el! There you are. Cancel the goblins," he instructed briskly.

Ethel nodded, her spectacles slipping down her nose as she scribbled a note. She turned swiftly and disappeared back into the crowd. Percival folded his newspaper crisply and slapped it against Harry's chest. Harry caught it reflexively.

"Mind your step," the automated female voice intoned as another elevator arrived.

"I'm through discussing it," Percival declared. "Your mess, your mop. Best get to cleaning."

Harry jaw clenched to remain silent. A set of golden grilles opened behind Percival. With a tickled smirk, the Minister stepped into the elevator unimpeded, adjusting his cravat with a flourish.

"The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day," the cool voice chimed.

As the doors slid closed, Percival added a final warning, "Don't force me to step in and do the job for you." 

Harry stood rooted to the spot, the din of the atrium swirling around him like a distant echo. Delphi approached cautiously, her eyes taking in every emotion on his face as he aimed his attention to the front page of The Daily Prophet. A moving black and white image of Harry looking particularly troubled animated within a sea of troubling text. When his replica touched the scar on his head, Harry had enough. 

He folded the newspaper and faced Delphi, his voice low, "It's all about to go to pieces, isn't it?"