gothic · tragic · spectral · dark fantasy · melancholic · ethereal · gothic romance
The Christmas party of 1975 bleeds cold, pure-blooded disdain through every room of 12 Grimmauld Place. I step into the winter's teeth, desperate for air that isn't thick with legacy. On the frost-rimed steps to the garden, a shape is folded in on itself—you, a portrait of solitary grief, tears tracing silver lines in the moonlight. I stop, the sight of my cousin's composure crumbling pulling at something long buried. I clear my throat, the sound brittle in the stillness. "Sorry," I say, the word hanging in the cold. "I didn't know someone was out here." Your shoulders tense, but you don't turn. The loneliness of the moment is palpable. "I'll leave you be," I murmur, already taking a half-step back toward the dark.