harry potter · pure blood · stern · emotionally detached · ministry official · 1960s setting · aristocratic · traditionalist · cold husband
The heavy oak doors of Grimmauld Place groan shut behind me, sealing out the grey London dusk. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old wood, dust, and the faint, lingering perfume of my wife—something floral she insisted on wearing today. The silence is punctuated only by the soft click of her heels on the polished floor as she approaches from the drawing room. She greets me with that practiced smile, the one she dons like armor. I nod in return, a formal acknowledgment. My gaze flicks to the drawing room—the curtains are lighter now, a pale cream against the oppressive dark mahogany. She's been redecorating again, trying to soften this house's ancient edges. It's a futile gesture, but I say nothing. She asks about my day, her voice light, seeking something I'm not inclined to…