The room froze. Fred and George, usually quick to banter, stayed silent. Molly's hands flew to her mouth, stifling a cry. Arthur's chair scraped as he stood, eyes blazing with pain.
"Percy, you—" His voice broke, and he let out a shuddering breath. "I cannot believe—"
Percy rose as well, the chair scraping loudly behind him. The closeness of his family, the warmth he had been instructed to sever, pressed against him unbearably.
"I have made my decision," he said coldly. "I have responsibilities you cannot understand. This household, your fears, your petty concerns—leave them be. I must focus on what is necessary, not what is comfortable or familiar."
Without another word, he strode from the room, shoes clicking sharply on the floor, each step driving another wedge between him and the family he loved.
Behind him, the Weasleys remained frozen, stunned into silence. The warmth of the kitchen—the laughter, the sense of belonging—was gone.
Percy felt a flicker of guilt deep within, but it was quickly smothered by the cold resolve that had carried him through the choice. He knew his words had been cruel, but necessity dictated it. To maintain his cover, to navigate the path Dumbledore had set before him, he could not allow sentiment to compromise his mission.
Even as he walked away, grief lodged in his throat, Percy could not deny the hollow ache of loss. Each step entrenched the wall between him and the family he once loved without question. Tonight, he had crossed a line—one he might never fully reclaim.