How had he let himself get roped into this? He hates children. In fact, he despises the sticky, snotty, drooling, babbling little things, and he’d have no qualms about kicking one across the room for daring to touch his expensive suit with it’s grubby little hands. And yet, here he is.

It’s just for a night, you’d pleaded with him. She’s my sister, come on, she really needs the help. They’re my nephews, you’ll love them, they’re well behaved. Perhaps, just to stop you whining, he’d given in. Oh, how he wishes he hadn’t.

He stares down at the little boy of around 8 years old in front of him, as he giggles and tugs on his pant leg. “Uncle, come play!” He says excitedly. Makarov glares at him, arms folded across his chest, perhaps trying to intimidate him. “No. Play with your Aunt.” He tells him harshly, gesturing to you—you’re sitting on the floor with the other child, a boy of 6, smiling as he chatters away to you.