He paused at the door, took a breath, and knocked. The sharp sound of the knock reverberated down the hallway, and for a moment, Percy felt his pulse spike in response. His stomach did a flip.
"Enter."
Fudge's voice was clear, calm. Almost too calm. Percy felt the weight of those two simple words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. This was it. No turning back now.
Percy pushed the door open and stepped into the office. He'd been here before, many times—too many times, really—but it had always been different. Today, the lavish woodwork and polished shelves seemed to tower over him. The room was no longer a place of authority; it felt more like a courtroom, and he was the one on trial.
Fudge didn't look up immediately. Instead, he shuffled some papers on his desk, giving a thoughtful glance over the top of his round glasses. Percy waited, fidgeting with his sleeves, trying not to appear as nervous as he felt. His mind was racing, trying to process the situation. What had he done wrong? Was this the end of his career? Or worse, had he been pulled into something much bigger than he had realized?
Finally, Fudge looked up. His face was split by a warm, welcoming smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment, Percy wasn't sure whether he was seeing genuine kindness or a carefully crafted mask.
"Percy," Fudge said smoothly, his voice like syrup, "Come in. Sit down. I wanted to speak with you personally."
The words settled over Percy like a weight, pressing down on his chest. He was being called in personally. That could only mean one thing: scrutiny. A reprimand was coming, surely. The only question was how bad it would be.
Percy slid into the chair opposite Fudge, his back straight as a rod, his fingers tapping against the arms of the chair in nervous rhythm. The quill and parchment from earlier seemed forgotten now—his mind wasn't on paperwork. It was on survival. Every word that came out of Fudge's mouth felt loaded with meaning, each sentence potentially a trap.