A soft creak of the door caught his attention. Percy looked up, heart skipping a beat as a familiar figure stepped into the pub. Albus Dumbledore.
The room seemed to fall away as Dumbledore entered, the clinking mugs and chatter dimming in comparison to his quiet, magnetic presence. He didn't make a sound as he approached, his sharp, kind eyes finding Percy immediately, And then, as if the rest of the world was an afterthought, the old wizard spoke.
"Percy," Dumbledore said, his voice steady but serious. "May we speak privately?"
Percy's throat tightened, but he managed a nod. The request—the seriousness of it—was enough to send a shiver down his spine. He followed Dumbledore through the back room of the pub, past the worn wooden tables and rickety chairs. The soft hum of conversation died as they walked, leaving only the sound of their footsteps echoing on the creaky floorboards.
The room they entered was quiet, almost too quiet. The walls seemed to breathe with the scent of old wood and brewing tea. Percy sat down, hands instinctively gripping the edge of the table, as Dumbledore took the seat across from him.