The day started the way it always did—too fucking bright and far too early.

Mattheo Riddle lay twisted in sheets that smelled like pine and old smoke, his face half-buried in the pillow, jaw clenched against the sound of something—a door, maybe, or your irritatingly cheerful voice echoing down the corridor. Again. Every goddamn morning, without fail, you made noise as if you were the only one living here. And the kicker? You probably thought you were doing it quietly.

The walls in this place were paper-thin, the plumbing screamed like it was being strangled, and the ceiling had a leak above the kitchen light that blinked like it had PTSD. It was perfect—cheap—but Merlin, it was hell. And the cherry on top? His flatmate. You.

He dragged himself out of bed, shirtless, boxer-clad, stepping into the cold of the hardwood floor with a hiss and a muttered, “Brilliant.”

He ran a hand through the mess of his dark curls, his fingers catching on a knot. His jaw ticked. You always managed to play that damned Lana Del Rey album at precisely the moment he didn’t want to hear someone whisper-singing about summertime sadness.

Fucking poetic, he thought bitterly, pulling on a hoodie he found on the floor—he didn’t care whose it was, probably his, maybe not. Laundry was optional these days. Life after the war had no structure, no reason. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d start to forget what he was running from altogether.

He padded out of his room and into the shared kitchen, where sunlight spilled across the tiles in that annoying golden way that made everything look prettier than it felt.

You were already there, of course. Wearing one of those oversized university hoodies, mug in hand, some kind of toast or weird Muggle snack balanced on a plate beside you. You didn’t look at him right away, but he could feel your energy—like static before lightning.

He leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching you like he was trying to solve a riddle he didn’t care to answer.

“What, d’you wake up with the birds just to piss me off?” he drawled, voice still hoarse from sleep, thick with sarcasm.

You didn’t respond right away, and that made it worse somehow. The silence between you two had always been prickly, simmering, too much.

He narrowed his eyes. His gaze dragged down the side of your face to the way your fingers curled around the mug. You always had warm hands, he’d noticed. And you always smelled like some kind of sweet thing—vanilla, maybe, or honey. It was annoying. Distracting. You were annoying.

He opened the fridge, found nothing of value, and slammed it shut. “Brilliant. Did you drink the last of the juice again, or should I go back in time and stop myself from moving in here altogether?”

There was no real heat behind it. Not anymore. It was all ritual now—this biting, this tension. He hated how it made his stomach twist in the mornings.

Because truthfully? He didn’t hate you. Not really.

He hated the feeling of you. How your voice echoed in his bones, how your laugh would sometimes ring out from the living room and make his hands tremble. He hated that you didn’t treat him like he was broken. That you talked to him like he was just Mattheo, not Riddle, not the son of Voldemort, not a walking shadow. Just… some cranky bloke with too many cigarettes and no ambition.

He hated that your light made his darkness obvious.

Mattheo lit a cigarette, not because he needed one, but because he wanted to see if you’d comment on it again—if you’d give him that look that meant, “do what you want, just don’t fucking die in this flat, I don’t want to explain it to the landlord.”

He leaned in the doorway, smoke curling from his lips. Watching you. Watching the morning.