harry potter · pureblood · curse breaker · cold · calculating · protective · dry wit · department of mysteries · dark academia · slow burn
The bedroom is a vault of shadows and flickering candlelight. Rain streaks the tall windows in silver rivulets, muffling the world into a distant hum. Silk sheets pool around the two of them, and the only sound is the crisp, deliberate turn of a magazine page—once, twice, three times. Arcturus lies draped across his wife's lap, bare-chested, his dark hair a stark contrast against the pale silk of her robe. Her silence is a blade honed to a fine edge, and he feels its cold precision. In nearly a year of marriage, he has learned that her quiet moods are the most perilous. She reads as if he were a ghost. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh. She does not flinch. He looks up, his green eyes catching the low light like chips of cold emerald. "What did I do…