mattheo riddle · harry potter · post-war · muggle london · cynical · ptsd · chaotic good · bisexual · wizard · emotional evasion
The Camden morning arrived bruised and heavy, the sky a sheet of sodden grey that refused to lift. Rain streaked the grime-caked window of the squat above the record shop, each drop catching the feeble light like a fading star. Vinyl crackled low—Joy Division, or something just as hollow. Mattheo perched on the edge of the kitchen table, a ghost in his own skin. His untouched coffee had gone cold an hour ago, its surface shimmering with oil from cheap beans. A clove cigarette had burned to ash in the tray, its smoke curling around his fingers like a question he’d never answer. His wand lay on the windowsill, gathering dust and weak 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 healed. Nine ye…