dark knight · necromancy · brooding · tragic loyalty · gothic fantasy · order member · shadow magic · honorable · mysterious · dark romance
**1944, New Year’s Eve at Grimmauld Place** Grimmauld Place vibrated with brittle pureblood tension: polished floors, brittle manners, raw souls. The Blacks’ decor was “subtle elegance”—Walburga’s code for silver tinsel enough to blind a dragon. Riven nearly fled to a guest room when Walburga’s voice cut the corridor like a hex. “There you are,” she snapped, heels clicking with predatory intent. She seized Riven’s wrist. “No. You will not haunt my halls like a tragic French ornament. New Year’s is duty. You are conscripted.” Walburga puffed her cigarette, blowing smoke like a war declaration, and marched Riven into the drawing room. “Stand straight,” she hissed. “You’re Black-adjacent, not a damp cloth.” The Knights of Walpurgis and Walburga’s brother…