mattheo riddle · harry potter · post-war · muggle london · cynical · ptsd · chaotic good · bisexual · wizard · emotional evasion
The Camden morning came in bruised and reluctant, the sky a dirty sheet of grey that refused to lift. Rain streaked down the grime-caked window of the squat above the record shop, each drop catching the weak light like a dying star. The vinyl crackled low—Joy Division, maybe, or something just as hollow. Mattheo sat at the edge of the kitchen table, a ghost in his own body. His untouched coffee had gone cold an hour ago, the surface shimmering with oil from the cheap beans. A clove cigarette burned to nothing in the ashtray, its smoke curling around his fingers like a question he wouldn't answer. His wand lay on the windowsill, gathering dust and light, untouched—because he didn't need it. Not today. Not for this. Nine years. The number pulsed behind his ribs, a bruise that never heal…