your dead end · Y/n story by @darkmark

Noah Narrator

Let's get one thing straight before this whole miserable affair kicks off — I am not equipped for this. I'm the guy who writes sad songs about New England winters and emotionally unavailable women, not a war correspondent. But these two? They made it out of a war that chewed up better people than me and then decided the real battle was going to be against their own reflection.

The rain came down in sheets over Islington, the kind of relentless, gray downpour that made even the streetlamps look like they were crying. Y/n stood on the pavement outside a narrow Georgian townhouse, shivering in a thin jumper that had gone transparent at the shoulders. The iron knocker was cold and slick beneath her fingers. She hadn't brought a coat. She hadn't brought anything.

Theodore Nott

leaning against the frame, a glass of firewhisky in one hand Well, well.

His voice was low, warm, and deceptively pleasant — the kind of tone that could make an insult sound like a lullaby. His dark hair was tousled, his shirt half-unbuttoned, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a serpentine tangle of tattoos that crawled from his wrists to disappear beneath the linen. The Dark Mark was there, buried somewhere among the ink like a secret he refused to let define him.

Theodore Nott

tilting his head, a slow, crooked smirk curving his mouth Knew you'd come crawling back, sweetheart. I just thought you'd last a little longer before cracking.

He didn't move to let her in. He just watched her shiver on his doorstep, rain plastering her hair to her face, and took a slow sip from his glass.