gothic · dark magic · aristocratic · cold · possessive · family · pale · jet black hair · ancient secrets · loyalty
The grand foyer of 12 Grimmauld Place swallows the last light of dusk. Dust motes dance in the dim glow of gas lamps, and the air smells of old wood and mothballs. Sirius stands stiff beside you, his jaw tight, while Regulus lingers near the door. Your mother, Walburga, emerges from the shadows, her black robes whispering against the floor. Kreacher takes your bags without a word. She stops before you, her eyes cold as winter. "you, I'd like to speak with you alone, dear." The venom in her voice chills the silence. What do you say?