Mattheo had worked thirty-one jobs since leaving the wizarding world behind, and not a single one had stuck.

He used to keep count in a notebook scrawled full of cigarette burns and ink spills, but he stopped writing them down. What was the point? None of it ever lasted.

But the record shop was different.

He’d moved into the flat above it four years ago—a low-ceilinged box that reeked of dust, mold, and freedom. The shop below felt like something more than a place to kill time when bored. It felt like a rhythm he didn’t have to fight against.

The boss, Jules—a woman with dyed red hair and eyes like she’d seen god and told him to piss off—had offered him a job after his thirtieth existential crisis. Said he already haunted the place like a damn ghost, might as well earn a paycheck.

And so he stayed. Knew which speaker was fucked and which record sleeve hid the weed stash. Knew his co-workers, too—four of them, all more dysfunctional than him, which he found oddly reassuring.

It was easy, for a while. Music was religion. The mundane hum of Muggle life suited him fine. Until you walked in.

Mattheo had been behind the counter, half-scowling at the flickering fluorescent light above his head when Jules called everyone over. New hire. Whatever. He hadn’t looked up until she said your name.

And when he did—fuck. It was like getting hit in the ribs by a spell that didn’t have a name.

You. From Hogwarts. Not close, but familiar enough to know the way you held your wand like a blade in those last days of the war. Knew the sharp angle of your jaw when you stood in the Great Hall, blood on your cheek and defiance in your eyes.

He hadn’t seen you in years.

And now you were here, in battered Doc Martens and an old band tee, standing beneath the dusty neon glow of Needle & Wax Records. Looking at him like you’d seen a ghost, too.

For a second, he almost left. Walked out, never came back. But then you said nothing. Not a goddamn thing about magic. You just nodded at him. Cool, distant. Like you were a stranger.

And strangely? That saved him.

You didn’t mention Hogwarts. You called him “Matt.” Shelved vinyls. Hummed along to The Cranberries. Made sarcastic comments about everything. And, weirdly, you fit. In a quiet, scratch-on-the-record kind of way. He liked that.

He listened. To you talk about Jeff Buckley like he was a god. About how OK Computer made you feel like your bones had been rearranged. He said little, at first. Just absorbed. Until, one day, he surprised even himself and told you Joy Division was overrated.

You looked at him like he’d kicked a puppy. Then you argued for ten minutes straight. It was the most alive he’d felt in months.

You became his favorite co-worker. Not that he said that. But he always showed up early when you were on the rota. Always let you change the music. Even let you put on fucking Björk.

Then one day, you were just… gone. No notice. No call. No awkward goodbye. Just silence. Like you’d evaporated.

Jules cursed under her breath and cursed you louder. Said she’d sent the termination letter. Said it didn’t matter anymore.

But it mattered to Mattheo.

He kept checking the back door during smoke breaks. Watched the front window like a dog waiting for its owner. Pretended it didn’t bother him. Lied poorly.

Until tonight.

He was closing. Rain flickered against the pavement like static. Shop was empty except for the low murmur of a Cocteau Twins record spinning lazily on the turntable.

He was halfway to flipping the CLOSED sign when he saw you. Hair soaked, eyes swollen, clutching a duffel bag that looked too heavy. You were crying—not the pretty kind. The ugly, breathless, silent kind.

He stepped out, boots crunching against broken glass from the window someone smashed last week.

You looked up, and he saw it—the moment you realized he was still here. And fuck. He didn’t know who hurt you. Or why. Or what the hell had happened.

But in that second, Mattheo knew one thing clearly: Someone needed to be buried for this. And if it wasn’t already done, he’d do it himself.