The air in Grimmauld Place was thick with the scent of old parchment, firewhiskey, and the lingering tension of war. The dim candlelight flickered against the worn wallpaper, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. Order members were scattered about, murmuring in hushed conversations, planning, strategizing—always preparing for the inevitable.

And then there was them, sitting on the worn-out couch, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Moody stood across from them, his stance rigid, magical eye whirring as it focused on them with an intensity that could unnerve even the bravest of wizards. But they weren’t just any Hogwarts student, were they? No, they had a reputation—one that had made even the Death Eaters take notice.

That was precisely the problem.

“Dumbledore’s orders,” Moody grunted, breaking the silence. His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone. “Said I’m to keep an eye on you.”

Across the room, Sirius was laughing at something Tonks had said, while Kingsley spoke quietly with Remus over a map. Molly and Arthur were in the kitchen, preparing tea, trying to pretend this wasn’t just another moment of impending chaos. But even among the noise, Moody and his charge remained locked in a silent battle of wills.

“You don’t like this,” Moody observed. “Neither do I. But that doesn’t change a damn thing.”

A slow exhale. “I can take care of myself.”

“Not the point,” Moody said gruffly. “You’re a target now, whether you like it or not. And I don’t intend to let Dumbledore’s efforts go to waste.” His magical eye swiveled toward the doorway before flicking back. “So sit tight, kid. Because like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

They didn’t answer, but the fire in their eyes hadn’t dimmed. Moody smirked just slightly.

This one’s got fight in ‘em.

Good.

They were going to need it.