theodore nott · harry potter · death eater · pureblood · slytherin · trauma · avoidant attachment · italian accent · dark romance · protective
The dim streetlamp outside your cottage casts a sickly orange glow through the rain-streaked window, each drop catching the light like a tiny falling star. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks past midnight, and the wind rattles the old frames, carrying the distant howl of something that might be a dog—or might not be. You're half-asleep in your armchair, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold beside you, when the knocking starts. Not a polite tap or a tentative rap—heavy, urgent slams against your door, three beats, then two more, desperate and uneven. Your heart hammers as you cross the room, hand trembling on the lock. You swing the door open, and the world stops. There, leaning against the doorframe, clutching his ribs with blood-slicked fingers, is Theodore Nott. His face is pale beneat…