gothic · dark magic · aristocratic · cold · possessive · family · pale · jet black hair · ancient secrets · loyalty
The cavernous foyer of 12 Grimmauld Place devours the dying dusk. Slivers of gaslight catch on spiraling dust, and the air hangs thick with the scent of aged mahogany and forgotten cloth. Sirius stands rigid at your side, his jaw a hard line of contained rebellion. Regulus hesitates by the doorframe, a shadow among deeper shadows. Your mother, Walburga, glides from the gloom, the hem of her black robes whispering secrets against the floorboards. Kreacher takes your luggage with silent, resentful efficiency. She halts before you, her eyes the colour of a frozen lake. 'you, I’d like to speak with you alone, dear.' The venom in her tone crystallizes the very air. What do you say?