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riddlemelater · 10 days ago

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I will never ever ever get tired of reading your lovely thoughts, baby <3

“Are we sure you’re not a witch in the wizarding world recounting a true story that you witnessed? 🤨”

Who told you to say that, huh?😶‍🌫️ Accusing me of that magic nonsense… No, seriously who outed that information to you? Merlin, I’ll need to contact the ministry at once, It’ll be so much paperwork–

You’re such a cutie, thank you so much for your endless support angel <3

Last Call - M.R (Part 3)

masterlist | nav | part 1 | part 2

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/dependency, mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, dark themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma, reader suffers from night terrors, Mattheo is being a little shit...

w.c: 4k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

The walls of Hogwarts would always feel like home to you, no matter what age you were, or how long it had been since you'd last stepped foot in the castle. There was just something comforting in the flickering sconces that lit every hallway, the warm crackle of wood burning that was always in earshot, or the distant smell of that evening's feast carrying through the air. Fresh pastry, roasted chicken, caramelised vegetables— all wafting through the heavy stone walls.

Your shoes clicked against the thick stone floors, the sound both familiar and comforting, reminding you of a younger version of yourself, trodding through the hallways as you tried to remember the route back to your common room. But something was amiss, something was different, and no matter how hard you tried to pinpoint it, you couldn't figure it out.

The halls were empty, for starters. Not just quiet, but empty. No portraits muttering to themselves or conversing with each other. No shifting suits of armour, or cheerful ghosts floating by. Not even the hum of magic in the air, something so small but so innately part of the school's charm.

No, all that remained was silence. Cold, hollow, silence.

You slowed your pace, gaze flickering to the stained-glass windows lining the corridor. They didn’t show the usual saints of Hogwarts or the heroic founders that you'd so often admired in your youth. Instead, they were blacked out. Not shattered or covered, but blank. As if the once colourful glass had been painted over with shadows.

Any attempt to peer outside was useless. Where you would normally catch a glimpse of the Scottish landscapes, the tall hoops of the Quidditch pitch, or even the distinct outline of the giant squid lounging in the Black Lake, there was nothing.

You squinted, as if by some miracle that might somehow bring the world back into focus, might claw something back from the nothingness. But instead, the darkness just stared back at you, cold and unflinching.

An unsettling sensation ghosted up your spine, like you'd suddenly materialised in some sinister, other world. One that looked exactly like Hogwarts, but in some twisted way wasn't.

Your feet moved as if they had a mind of their own, carrying you deeper into the castle. But with each step you took, you noticed something different, something wrong.

Each altered detail stuck out to you. As you passed the Great Hall, your brows furrowed at a stairwell you didn’t remember being there. Your fingers tensed at your sides as you turned down a hallway that definitely never existed. The air grew colder, and with each step, your chest burned as breathing grew harder and harder.

The torches were lit, but the flames didn’t flicker. They burned still and silent, blue-white and unnatural, casting no warmth over your chilled skin.

You didn't recognise your surroundings, and when, finally, blessedly, you heard a sound other than the gnawing stillness, your blood ran cold.

It wasn't comfort. It wasn't the chatter of students filing out of their classes, or the sound of cutlery clinking together as the feast began.

It was a scream.

A choked breath. A broken groan. Someone struggling to speak through clenched teeth— like they were drowning in their own blood.

Your walk became a run. Shoes pounding against the stone floors, echoing against the walls in sharp thuds. The persistent ache in your side forgotten, chest heaving with each laboured breath. You didn’t know what you’d find; all you knew was you had to get to whoever it was.

Before it was too late.

The corridor ended in an arched doorway, and the moment you crossed it, the world shifted. The warmth of Hogwarts vanished, flickered out like a flame with no more air. You were somewhere deeper now, older.

The walls were carved with symbols that seemed to squirm if you looked too long. The air damp and metallic, thick with the scent of earth, blood, and fire left to die.

And in the middle of it all— Mattheo.

Bound. Kneeling. Head bowed like he couldn’t lift it anymore.

You tried to call out, but no sound came. Your lips didn’t move. Your hands wouldn’t lift, no matter how hard you tried. Frozen, like you’d just caught the reflection of a Basilisk.

He looked up slowly. His face was drawn tight with pain, shadows under his eyes like bruises. Mattheo looked like hell personified; gaunt, bloody, and broken.

He heaved, gaze fixed on your face, eyes pooling with desperation. You tried again to reach out, to move closer and release him from the rope that dug painfully into his skin, but your feet felt glued to the floor.

Helpless you tried to call out to him, watching in horror as Mattheo’s figure lurched forwards once more, writhing, mouth wide in a soundless gasp of agony.

Growing desperate your pulse quickened, body twisting to look for a way out. But the hallway behind you was gone, you were trapped. Frantic now, your head whipped around scouring the stone walls for an explanation, for help, for mercy.

You were alone. Helpless but to watch as he squirmed in pain.

Nauseated, your gaze fixed on Mattheo. His body arched sickeningly, contorting as a silent, strangled sound wretched from his throat. His eyes wide and burning with terror.

Your own pulse roared in your ears as you tried to scream, pleading to Merlin, God— whoever— to make it stop.

Just as you were certain you couldn't watch another second, the scene before you began to warp— walls bending, light distorting, the sconces flickering and stretching like flames underwater.

It was like all oxygen had been stolen from the air, your throat too tight, lungs burning with each strained breath. Then, like a candle snuffed out between two fingers, darkness.

You gasped awake, thrashing against the damp sheets twisted tight around your limbs like ropes. Your pulse was hammering, sweat beaded on your forehead as your hands skimmed the damp sheets around you.

Gasping you propelled forward, panting as your bedroom came into focus. You blinked, head snapping from side to side, room illuminated only by one flickering candle you’d forgotten to blow out.

Mattheo wasn't here; he wasn't in agony. You weren't trapped. It wasn't real.

You didn’t move for a moment. Just sat there, spine rigid, chest heaving, hands fisted in the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring you to reality. You half-expected the candle to go out, for the silence to crack open again. Like the dream hadn’t finished with you yet.

But the candle on your bedside table only guttered in the quiet, its glow casting trembling shadows across the room. Your gaze fixed on it, unblinking, as if it might suddenly flicker out too. Cautious, anxious almost, you waited for it to morph once more into the still blue-white light from your nightmare.

Your pulse was still racing, still beating that sick rhythm in your ears like a war drum, but the change never came. Slowly, your fingers loosened, releasing the twisted fabric beneath them. You flexed your hands, not even noticing the way they shook as you held them out in front of you.

It was just a dream, you reasoned. Knees coming up to your chest without thinking, wrapping your arms around them as if to make yourself smaller— less exposed. Your forehead dropped to your knees, eyes fluttering shut as you let out a shaky breath.

Just a dream. A horrid, twisted dream you repeated in your mind.

The pressure behind your eyes was sharp, hot and searing, like something inside of you had cracked and hadn’t quite sealed right. That look in his eyes. That look of pure, unbridled fear settled at the forefront of your mind. Flashing across your vision, no matter how hard you tried to blink it away.

It had felt so real.

You pressed your forehead harder against your knees, squeezing your eyes shut. You knew what this was. You'd had dreams like this before—trauma dreams from the war. Not always like this one, but close enough. Dreams where you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop something from happening.

Couldn't protect someone from death.

Your body hadn’t caught up, so it didn’t matter what your mind said; didn't matter how many times you told yourself it was only a dream—it still felt like you'd been there. Like you’d failed him.

You pushed a shaky hand through your hair, dragging it back from your face. Your fingers snagging on the damp strands. Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mick Tolliver’s voice crept in—quiet and offhand, but echoing now in the quiet of your bedroom.

"Fellas like that? They don't come back clean, that's for sure."

You let out another long, shaky breath. You weren’t a seer. You didn’t have visions. This wasn’t that. It was your brain, dredging up things it didn’t know how to process. A pressure valve releasing in the ugliest way possible. You knew that.

But it didn’t make it any easier to sit with.

Your hands were still shaky by the time morning came. Showering had no effect; no matter how hard you scrubbed at your skin, it was impossible to wash the dream away fully.

Your appetite was non-existent; the thought of eating made you gag, never mind the uneasy feeling that had settled at the pit of your stomach. Even as you walked to work, your mind couldn't sit still, couldn't detach itself from the memory of Mattheo strung out and writhing before you.

"You're slow today."

The voice pierced through your clouded thoughts— Albion, already behind the bar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a crate of Odgen's Firewhiskey bottles in his arms.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze and glancing up at the voice disorientedly. You’d been standing still, one hand on a drinks tray and staring blankly at the wall of spirits behind the bar like they owed you something.

"Didn’t sleep," you muttered, realising Albion was expecting a response, and setting the tray down before your fingers dropped it. Avoiding his gaze, you busied yourself with unloading the glassware from the washer, wiping over the already dry glasses to keep yourself busy.

Albion didn't answer straight away. Just set the crate down with a thud, and looked at you the way someone might study a mirror that had fallen from the wall for fractures.

"You've looked better," he said finally. Not in a judgmental way, you knew he didn't mean it like that, but you could hear the concern in his voice as he said it.

"Thanks," you retorted flatly. You tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite land. More of an awkward grimace than anything. Your bottom lip stung beneath your teeth, willing yourself to keep it together.

But Albion didn’t push. He never did, and he didn’t look away either.

“You look like you didn’t come all the way back from wherever you went last night,” he commented, voice dry but quiet. "Is it the dreams again?"

Your hand paused mid-reach for a bar towel. Lips twitching as you tried to pretend he wasn't right. But he saw through you, immediately.

That was the thing about Albion. He noticed everything and always seemed to know the right thing to say, perks of being a bartender, you assumed.

You didn’t answer. Just nodded once and busied yourself wiping down the already-clean bar. Albion knew about the dreams more than anyone else; he was the only person you trusted not to have you checked into St Mungo's the minute you opened up about them.

Albion didn’t say anything for a moment. Just leaned against the back counter, arms crossed, watching as you lined up the tumblers with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched, but not unkindly.

“Is it still the same ones?” he asked, brow arching curiously. “From the war?”

You hesitated. That was usually the answer. But this time, it wasn’t true. You debated lying for a moment, but he always knew when you were lying to him. It was like a sixth sense, you weren't entirely convinced he wasn't a legilimens at times, no matter how much he denied it.

“No.” Your voice was quiet, ashamed almost. “A... different one.”

Albion tilted his head slightly, waiting. You took a breath and reached for the next glass, only to stop short, fingers trembling just enough to rattle it against the one beside it. Your eyes closed in frustration, grasping at the back counter to steady yourself.

Albion moved toward you and began placing tumblers onto the shelf like he'd not noticed. "You know," he spoke, sparing a glance over at your shaking hands, "some things in that part of town… they’re built to see your weaknesses before you even step inside."

You swallowed dryly and nodded, solemn and slow.

Albion gave a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his mouth. “Always said you Gryffindors are terrible at keeping your noses out of trouble. And worse at pretending you don’t care.” He nudged a tumbler into place with a small clink, just as he fixed you with a stare. “Hearts on your sleeve's even when it’s bleeding through your jumpers.”

You laughed under your breath, even when he meant to chastise, Albion seemed to know how to make you crack a smile.

"Knockturn's a dodgy place, love. No wonder your mind's playing up again." He continued, softly and with the wisdom that people his age seemed to possess. "Don't let it get to you."

You nodded awkwardly and pressed your palms flat to the bar top. The polished wood was cool beneath your skin, grounding.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It was stupid, Albion. I know.”

Albion let out a long, slow breath. Not disappointed. Not surprised. He'd probably expected you'd do it, likely even knew the second you made a move to leave the night before.

“Well... did you find him?”

“No.” You swallowed. "That Mick Tolliver's got a few loose cauldrons rattling around upstairs, though." A small smile spread across your face as you spoke.

Shuddering, Albion barked a laugh in agreement. "The world's full of strange folk. I knew Mick back in the day, he's harmless—but he's a bit... full-on. Knows how to talk a good game, right enough, but you can't trust a word out of his mouth."

Albion straightened, pushing off the back counter when you didn't reply. You were already wondering how much of what Tolliver had said was truthful, if Mattheo really was in any danger at all. Albion seemed to notice the thoughts swirling around, even if he didn't let on.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found, love," he said, reaching for a bottle at the back of the bar. Something dark, and by the dust lingering on the neck, one that wasn't touched very often. "Whatever it is, he's bloody lucky he's got you lookin' out for him, eh?"

Your eyes dropped, despite his tone, you couldn't help but feel like you'd disappointed him, too. He'd warned you from the start not to get mixed up in this, yet here he was, still acting like you could do no wrong in his eyes.

He sighed as he uncorked the bottle, grabbing one of the clean tumblers he'd just stacked, and poured two fingers' worth without asking. The glass slid across the polished wood with a gentle scrape, stopping in front of you as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Drink that." He said gruffly, yet with more kindness and sympathy than you probably deserved, you'd done it to yourself after all. "Calms the nerves."

You stared at the drink for a second, then your fingers curled around the glass, eyes sweeping over him from the corner of your eye. He watched with an approving look as you took a long sip, the liquid burning as you swallowed nearly half in one gulp.

It certainly wasn't a calming draught, but it helped to settle your frayed nerves, at least.

"Was it him, then?" he asked eventually, once you'd swallowed the whiskey and your eyes had fluttered shut in contemplation. "In the dream."

Your jaw clenched as you gave the smallest nod. Embarrassed, almost, but grateful that it was Albion who was seeing this side of you. He didn’t sigh, didn’t offer comfort. Just looked past you at the dark window above the sink, deep in thought as he scratched at his beard.

“Some people,” he said, “don’t know they’re drowning ‘til they’re under. And even then, they won’t reach for help. Not unless they’ve got something left to hold onto.”

He had a way with words; sometimes he'd come out with things like this, and you'd just be left to sit with them. You set the glass down tenderly, glancing toward him.

“And you think I’m that something?”

“I think you want to be,” he said. “Which is worse, probably.”

You blinked. His answer hit hard, true in a way that made your chest tighten. But Albion had that bluntness about him, that ability to tell you something straight, no matter how hard it may be.

And it made you think. Did you really want to go chasing after ghosts? After someone you once knew— and, years ago, at that. You weren't so sure you could, not if it meant you'd never sleep well again.

“I can’t fix him,” you said finally, but you weren't entirely sure if it was Albion or yourself you were convincing. "I know that."

“No,” Albion agreed. “But you can make sure you don’t go down with him.”

Silence fell again, but it didn’t feel like judgment. Just quiet. Like he’d said his piece, and now it was up to you—cut your losses, or keep stringing yourself along.

“You plan on opening tonight?” you asked eventually, voice hoarse, dipped in humour. Grasping at straws, not wanting to speak anymore about the curly-haired boy who plagued your thoughts night and day.

Albion gave a dry snort. “Not unless you plan on helping me unload the rest of that Firewhiskey,” he gestured toward the crate, all seriousness gone from his face.

You nodded once and smirked a little at how easy things flowed between the two of you. How simple it was to have a difficult conversation and never worry about the aftermath. You grinned slightly, lifting the glass for another sip and swallowed what was left whole.

"Better get a shift on then, Albs." You said, straightening yourself up and dusting down your apron.

The next few hours passed in a blur of serving on autopilot and nodding at jokes you didn't really hear. You were split down the middle, tugged in two directions. But you kept circling back to one fact: You didn’t know Mattheo. He was just another customer at the end of the day.

Besides, he had friends. Friends who cared—even if they didn’t always show it. If he needed help, he had options. Theodore had all but crumbled at the bar not long ago when Mattheo was nowhere to be seen, and even Draco had seemed nervous when he asked after him. Which said more than words ever could.

If Mattheo Riddle truly was in danger—if he really had people after him—he should go to them. Draco Malfoy was one of Britain’s top Aurors, for Merlin’s sake. If anyone could protect him, it was Malfoy.

Not you.

You were being dramatic. Some stubborn Gryffindor streak you hadn’t outgrown. You weren’t responsible for him. No matter how much you wanted to help, it wasn’t your place.

You’d already felt guilty enough to go walking into Knockturn Alley, alone and with no backup plan if things went south. But that wasn’t bravery—it was stupidity.

It had just been a dream. A bad one. Your body would forget the worst of it soon enough. Your brain was already trying to file it away—into whatever drawer it kept nightmares full of fire and blood and people you shouldn’t care about.

Mattheo Riddle was not your problem. And by the end of your shift, you’d nearly convinced yourself it was true.

You left the bar that night with tired legs and a tighter chest, the sky above you heavy with clouds that didn’t break. The streets were wet from a drizzle you hadn’t noticed starting. You didn’t look over your shoulder once.

The curtains were already drawn, and you were certain you hadn’t left them that way.

You noticed it the second you stepped into your flat. The air was different — cooler, disturbed. The kind of change you didn’t notice with your eyes, but with your skin. Instinct.

Your hand hovered by the doorframe for longer than it should have. Listening. Waiting. Every nerve stretched taut like a bowstring. Fumbling silently, your fingers clutched your wand, drawing it out of your pocket slowly and pointing it ahead of you before you made any attempt to move.

Then you heard it. A thud. Not loud, but definite. Coming from your bedroom.

Your blood ran cold. Mind wandering back to Mick's words yesterday, "They'll come for you too."

Part of you wondered if you should call someone, but it was a small flat. Whoever, or whatever, was in your bedroom would have heard you by now; there was no time to write a letter to MLE or send a message via Patronus.

Not if you wanted to catch them before they caught you.

You exhaled shakily, knuckles white with how hard you were grasping your wand, and took a few tentative steps into the hallway.

You could hear it again, like bedsheets rustling around. Like they were looking for something. Perhaps you were being burgled, you reasoned, just an ordinary muggle thief searching for cash or jewellery. You inched closer to the door, cursing silently as the floorboard underneath your foot creaked loudly.

The rustling stopped.

You froze, wand raised, and heart hammering like it might crack a rib. The noise had definitely stopped, and no matter how much you reasoned with yourself, you couldn't get the image of a masked hit wizard waiting on the other side of the door.

You moved again, breath caught between your teeth as you edged toward the bedroom door like it might explode. Silently, your hand reached out, gently grasping the cool brass door handle and twisting it slightly. Your wand still pointed ready to use whatever curse came to mind first on your attacker.

As the door swung open, you inhaled sharply. A nasty knock-back curse on the tip of your tongue when your eyes settled on the intruder.

Collapsed halfway onto your bed, coat drenched, boots trailing muck across your floor like he'd dragged himself inside. Mattheo Riddle.

For a moment, nothing made sense. Like your brain had short-circuited from exhaustion and fear. Like your dream hadn’t ended, just bled into real life. Your first thought was that it wasn’t real.

“What the fuck?”

It came out sharp and breathless. Your wand stayed pointed. Your heart tried to claw its way up your throat. “What—how— Riddle what the fuck are you doing in my bed?"

He stirred weakly. Barely. Drunken.

You advanced one step, fury outrunning fear. “You broke into my flat? You broke in—why?”

Mattheo didn’t respond. Just slumped further onto the bed, like even holding his head up was too much.

"Godric give me strength," you whispered, your wand arm dropping limply by your side, rushing towards his slumped figure. His wand dangled uselessly from one hand, forgotten. His mouth was bloodied. One eye swollen shut.

"Mattheo," you hissed, unsure whether you wanted to slap him or tend to his wounds, "Mattheo, wake up!"

He didn’t. Just groaned once, barely conscious, arm pushing your fussing hand away, and passed out cold on your bed. He didn’t move again. Not when you dragged off his boots, not when you muttered every curse you knew— he just lay there, dead to the world, while you took the couch. Infuriated yet slightly relieved.

At least he wasn't dead, yet.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

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riddlemelater · 11 days ago