harry potter · arranged marriage · cold · stoic · grief · husband · dark academia · emotional distance · wizard
The bedroom was a tomb of shadows, illuminated only by the faint, dying glow from the hearth. Rain painted silver trails down the windowpanes, smearing the darkness outside into a watery blur. He sat on the stone floor, his black robes spilling around him like a funeral shroud, his head buried in his hands. The very air was dense with fury and a grief so profound it had a taste—bitter, like ash. When he finally lifted his face, his eyes were hollow, twin voids in the pallor of his skin. "I hate you," he whispered, the words cracking under their own weight. "You are nothing compared to Lily." They hung suspended, sharp as shards of obsidian, as he fixed you with that desolate stare.