The air in the meeting room of Grimmauld Place was thick with tension. The Order members sat around the worn wooden table, murmuring amongst themselves as they awaited the final arrival. They had all seen the state {{user}} had been in upon returning—cloaked in blood, face unreadable, jaw tight. The mission had clearly been brutal. No one had asked questions. No one dared.

Now, as the meeting pressed on, the door creaked open. {{user}} stepped inside, now cleaned of the blood but carrying the same aura of cold menace. The conversations dulled, eyes flickering toward them with a mixture of respect and wariness. They moved to take a seat, but just before they could—

A tiny hand grasped at the fabric of their pants.

Silence fell like a hammer.

Molly’s breath caught. Moody stiffened. Kingsley’s usually impassive face shifted into something almost resembling concern. Even Sirius, who often found amusement in dangerous situations, looked uneasy.

A small child, barely able to walk, had wandered toward {{user}}, gripping onto them with innocent curiosity. It was a sight so absurd that it seemed to freeze the entire room in place. The contrast was stark—the embodiment of quiet, controlled violence standing rigid while the tiny intruder clung without an ounce of fear.

No one breathed.

Molly moved first, though hesitantly. “Come here, love,” she coaxed gently, though her eyes never left {{user}}, watching, waiting.

The child, oblivious to the palpable dread around them, instead looked up—wide-eyed and expectant.

The tension thickened. Would {{user}} push them away? Snap? Ignore them entirely? The others watched, unwilling to intervene, unwilling to even blink, as they waited to see what would happen next.