Don’t own it.

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Percy stepped into his spacious, corner office. He looked out the window to see a brilliantly blue sky, a tall, purple mountain, and a few cows grazing in a lush field beside a sun-dappled brook. He sat down at his rich, mahogany desk, with its gold-emblazed “Percival Weasley” nameplate. A piping hot mug of Brazilian roasted coffee sat next to a chocolate croissant and a neat stack of papers. But, as always, in his inbox…

“Shit,” Percy sighed resignedly. There it was; a pile of it, magically kept in its fresh and steaming condition.

Years ago, when he’d still been working as an undersecretary to the Ministers of Magic – both Fudge and Scrimgeour – Percy had stowed the dung under his desk and taken it away every evening. He’d bring it to a small park outside his flat and each evening, cheeks burning, he’d bury the dung. He would be embarrassed and annoyed that the old dingbat, whoever he was (and Percy had never been able to get a straight answer as to just exactly who it was) had inexplicably latched onto him. Back then, Percy had just hoped no one noticed those five days every week when a young man walked into the park holding a sack and left with nothing.

But now he was the Minister of Magic. His office, his flat, his wardrobe, even his haircut reflected the fact that he had accomplished his goal. He, Percy Weasley, had risen to the most powerful position in the wizarding world, despite his humble beginnings. A little thing like dragon dung was not going to fetter him. There was no reason for him to dread the large waste bin at the end of the hallway, no reason to fear that someone might question that sack, whether he levitated it or carried it himself. He had his youngest undersecretary to do that now.

Percy transferred the dung into one of the many spare sacks he kept in his desk, cursing for the ten thousandth time the fact that dragon dung was just too damn stubborn to be Scourgified. He pressed a little button on his desk, to summon the office bitch. “Here,” he said imperiously, waving the sack at the boy. “You know where to take it.”

The little blond shuffled across the room, half-bowing with each step. “S-s-sir, m-maintenance said they c-c-couldn’t deal with anymore poo, sir.”

“Tell them to use it as fertilizer,” Percy said impatiently.

“Y-yes, sir. I t-told them that, sir, but they said dragon dung actually r-ruins plants, sir.” The pale boy ducked his head as if he feared Percy hurling the dung at him.

“Fine,” Percy snapped. “Get out.”

“Yes, s-sir,” the boy said quickly, slipping out the door in an instant.

Percy sighed again, and stared at the sack, lying so solidly on his desk. He knew from experience not to let it sit for long; it might start leaking.

This problem had been plaguing him for far too many years. Ministers of Magic shouldn’t be troubled like this. Ministers of Magic should have everything sorted out. They should be taken seriously, damn it. And Percy knew what he’d have to do to be taken seriously, who he’d have to face, the crap he’d have to swallow…

“Shit,” he repeated.