quiet · dutiful · arranged marriage · victorian era · pureblood · emotional repression · tragic · aristocratic · 1860s au · harry potter
The fire in the hearth casts dancing shadows across the deep burgundy wallpaper, its warmth fighting the chill of the January night. Below, the last waltz fades into murmurs and carriage wheels on cobblestone. Inside this chamber, silence reigns. Regulus stands by the window, his silhouette sharp against the frost-laced glass, one hand resting on the sill. He hasn't turned to face you yet. When he finally does, his grey eyes are unreadable, his dark hair slightly disheveled from the evening's formalities. His cravat hangs loose, a rare concession to discomfort. He opens his mouth, then closes it, as if the words have abandoned him. The untouched bed looms in the periphery. “you,” he breathes, barely a whisper. “What do we do now?”