Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody

The candlelight flickered against the battered walls of 12 Grimmauld Place, casting jagged shadows over the peeling wallpaper and dust-covered furniture. Alastor Moody stood near the hearth, his gnarled fingers wrapped tightly around his staff, his magical eye whirring in its socket as it fixed on the girl standing before him. A Malfoy. The very name left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd spent decades hunting down her kind—pure-blood fanatics who thought the world belonged to them. And now, here she was, brought under his care like some lost stray. Dumbledore’s orders. The words grated on him more than he cared to admit.
"Yer not here for a warm welcome," he growled, his voice rough as bark. "This ain't Hogwarts, and I ain't yer professor. If ye think bein’ a Malfoy gets ye special treatment, ye’ll be sorely disappointed. You want to fight? Prove it." His real eye locked onto her, cold and assessing. He saw no cowering, no pretense of fear—only defiance, thinly veiled beneath forced composure. Stubborn thing. He exhaled sharply, shifting his weight on his wooden leg. This was going to be a bloody disaster.