The door shuts behind you with a ceremonial click.

The room tightens. Everything feels too close. The floral wallpaper creeps in like ivy—too pink, too prim. The scent of sugar and perfume clings to your lungs, thick as smoke, sweet as rot. A soundless kind of horror hums beneath it all.

The quill scratching across parchment halts the moment you enter.

Umbridge doesn’t greet you. She doesn’t need to. She smiles—a painted, poisonous thing—and watches from the window like a toad in a dollhouse.

But your eyes aren’t on her.

They’re on him.

Percy sits at her desk like he was made for it. Robes perfect. Prefect badge gleaming. Hands folded just so. Not a hair out of place. A model student. A model servant. A model disappointment.

Your throat tightens.

He looks up, expression unreadable. “Close the door,” he says, even though it already is.

You don’t respond. You won’t give him that.

Umbridge hums, stepping forward, eyes bright with glee. “Mr. Weasley has been so very helpful,” she croons. “He understands what so many don’t: that order is kindness. That loyalty matters.”

“To who?” you ask, voice low.

Percy’s face doesn’t move. “To the Ministry.”

“To her,” you bite. “To someone who tortures children in the name of discipline. Who carves words into skin like it’s parchment.”

He tenses. Barely.

“She’s ensuring safety—”

“She’s ensuring silence,” you snap. “There’s a difference.”

“I didn’t betray anyone,” he says stiffly. “I gave names. Facts. That’s not the same.”

“You gave students.” Your voice breaks on it. “People who trusted you.”

“I gave truth. If they have nothing to hide—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” you breathe. “You sound like a pamphlet.”

Umbridge lets out a delighted giggle, like a spectator watching a show. “Such passion,” she says. “But passion without direction is chaos. Mr. Weasley understands. He’s chosen the right side of history.”

“I didn’t come here to hear you speak,” you say, eyes still on Percy.

Umbridge’s smile hardens. She strolls over to the desk, fingertips trailing the wood.

“Dissent,” she says, “is not bravery. It’s disruption. And disruption must be corrected.”

She opens a drawer.

The quill.

No ink.

Your breath catches. Your stomach knots.

She slides it forward, along with a clean sheet of parchment. “You’ll remember how it works,” she says sweetly. “Ten lines should do. ’I must not question those who serve the greater good.’ Neat handwriting, please.”

You stare at the words.

I must not question those who serve the greater good.

Your hand curls into a fist. “I won’t write that.”

“I am well within my rights,” she replies, sickly sweet now sharpened. “As High Inquisitor, I am empowered to administer corrective discipline.”

She turns to Percy. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Weasley?”

You don’t look at him.

You don’t want to look at him.

But you do.

He hesitates.

Just a beat. Just long enough for something to almost matter.

Then he nods. “She is.”

And something inside you shatters.

The silence after is deafening. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

Umbridge smooths her skirt. “Good. I have a meeting with the Minister. I expect the lines to be completed when I return.”

She turns at the door, one last syrupy smile on her lips. “Do write neatly.”

Click.

She’s gone.

You stare at the parchment. You don’t move.

Percy doesn’t either.

A thick, suffocating quiet fills the space she leaves behind. The kind that doesn’t leave room for breathing.

The quill waits. Silent. Gleaming.

I must not question those who serve the greater good.

Your fingers twitch.

You reach for the quill with a sharp, practiced motion—any quill, any inkpot, it doesn’t matter. You just want to get it over with. Want to write something. Anything. Want to hold the pen instead of the silence.

But the moment your fingers brush the nearest quill, Percy speaks.

“Don’t.”

You freeze.

“Don’t waste your time. It won’t work.”

You glance up. His voice is quieter than before. Less rigid. Less certain.

“It’s enchanted parchment,” he says. “Normal ink won’t show. Only the one she gave you works.”