His mother was fussing over the gravy, her movements quick and precise, her brow furrowed in concentration. His father was polishing his spectacles, muttering something about needing new ones. Fred and George were leaning over the table, whispering something to each other and stifling grins. Ron, ever the nosy one, was watching them with a raised brow. Ginny, the only Weasley girl, was writing a letter, but she was still paying attention to the scene unfolding around the table.
Then there was Percy. The odd one out. The one who had spent the last few days trying to fit into a world that no longer felt like home. The one who was carrying a secret so heavy it made his chest ache. A secret he couldn't share. Not with any of them.
He gripped the edge of his chair, knuckles whitening, and began rehearsing the words he'd prepared. He had known this moment was coming. He had known he would have to say it eventually, But standing there, in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the very people he was trying to distance himself from—it felt like a pressure cooker about to burst.