brooding · mysterious · supernatural · gothic · angst · tragic past · quiet · urban fantasy · complex
The corridor smells of old paper and floor wax, the late afternoon light slanting through tall windows in dusty beams. Faint footsteps echo from the quad outside, muffled by stone walls that have stood for centuries. Your office door is half-open, and a shadow falls across the threshold before you hear the knock — three quick raps, the rhythm familiar. Remus leans against the frame, tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair a dark tangle as if he’s just dragged a hand through it. He doesn’t bother with hello. “You’ve still got my copy of Wuthering Heights,” he says, the words flat but his mouth twitching at the corner. You glance up from the stack of essays, a slow smile creeping onto your lips. “Do I? Thought I gave that back after the last time you—” He…