The first thing Fudge thought when the explosion hit, was 'Voldemort', the second was, 'Oh bugger' and he didn't manage to get to the third because the door of his office was blown inwards rather rapidly and he was too busy cowering to think straight.

"P-p-p-please d-don't hurt m-me!"

He found falling prostate onto the floor usually helped in this kind of situation.

"Oh, oh! P-please! I'll do... I'll do anything! J-just s-spare me! S-spare m-m-my l-life p-please! Oh, oh, p-please!"

Add some tasteless grovelling...

"I-I-I c-could ...I-I-I mean w-we c-could..."

...Make the bastard think he was in charge...

"W-we c-could do... a-anything! W-w-with m-my p-powerful p-p-position a-and your, haha... erm... y-your b-brains and..."

...Oh, yes... and boot-licking. Couldn't forget boot-licking. If you're going for the ego, go for the boots; that's what he always said. Good old boot-licking. Nothing like it to-

"Pathetic, un. You Fudge?"

Oh. The boot-licking had failed.

"P-p-p-please, s-sir! Sp-sp-spare m-m-!"

"Shut up."

There was a pause and the sound of footsteps. Several miscellaneous desk items were inspected (at least, he heard them being picked up and put back on the desk in turn, so it must've been something like that) and the magical duplicating-machine in the corner of the office that constantly churned out tomorrow's newspapers for him to read was knuckle-rapped and contemptuously snorted at.

"Huh," said a voice, "Who actually runs this place anyway?"

Fudge bristled. Prostate position suddenly became a distant memory. He got to his feet.

"Well, I do, of course!" he snapped. The boy in the room looked surprised.

"Haven't you read the plaque on the door? It says Cornelius Fudge Esquire, Minister for Magic. That alone should give you-"

"What door?"

"The-...oh...that door." Or, that hole, more like. Splinters were all that was left of it, and they weren't called doors, they were called splinters.

"Yeah, un. Kinda hard to read it, if you know what I mean."

The sides of Fudge's mouth dropped, like unhappy ends of a piece of string. He sighed.

"If I'd never become a secretary..." he muttered. Then he stopped. "My secretary," he said to the boy in the room. The boy in the room raised an eyebrow.

"No," he said. "Not your secretary, un. Deidara. Of Iwa, un. Previously, anyway."

"I mean... um... Tina. Ms. Brown," said Fudge. "I haven't seen her this afternoon. She usually comes in at two. Er... five foot four, shoulder length brown hair? High heels? You haven't seen her, have you?"

The boy, Deidara, blinked his incredulity.

"That girl who wet herself and fainted?" he said. "Yeah, un. She gave me directions here. Pretty bitch, but not good for much else."

Fudge gaped. "Tina," he said, in a hoarse voice, and went pale. "What happened to her?"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," said Deidara. "She's decorating the 6th floor basement."

Fudge's terror gave way to relief.

"Oh good," he said. "I was getting bored of white walls everywhere. Don't tell the interior designer I said that. He'd have my head. He said white is the new blue, or something ridiculous like that. What colour is she painting it again?"

"It's still white," said the boy. "Splattered with red."

"Oh?" said Fudge. "One of those modernist movements, I suppose?"

"More like old as walls, un." A snigger.

Fudge stiffened. His face went grey.

"Yeah," said Deidara. "It's what you're thinking."

A skilful flick of the boy's wrist, and a white blob of what to Fudge's eyes looked like chewing gum landed in a wet splodge on top of the duplicator.

"Anyway, lots to do and all," said Deidara. "Nice meeting you, un."

He strode across to the window and took a look at the (very fake) seaside view, seemed to slump in irritation, and then made his way back over to the door.

"Jaa mata," and the boy was gone.

"Reciprocated," whispered Fudge. He sat weakly down. The carpet, stuck with splinters as it was, was nicer to look at than a blonde-haired face. He wondered if the floo was still up and running; if he could go and get help?

There was a laugh from outside the (now permanently open) former door. Fudge looked up, eyes wide.

"Forgot something, un," came a very familiar, very unwelcome voice. He whispered something. It started with a 'k'.

The voice left.

Fudge gave a sigh of relief. Whatever spell the boy had used hadn't worked and he was safe. He was safe. He was safe and his secretary was dead, but he was safe. This was not his last day in office. This was not his last day on Earth. He would just have to get a new secretary; that was all. Arthur Wellsbey's boy was looking promising... how old was he now? Eighteen? Seventeen? And, anyway, new secretaries weren't hard to come by these days. Especially as a ministry position.

Unfortunately for him, just as he was about to get up to hire one, the room exploded.