He has a coffee machine, a television, a vacuum cleaner he’s not sure how to operate. An Aga he uses to store tea towels because most of his meals are takeaway—eaten in a rush, eaten exhausted. An antique Persian runner rug in his hallway, houseplants hanging on to their lives by a thread, a prized record player in his living room, a crate of albums he’s held onto since discovering Muggle music in Eighth Year. A tiny, overgrown garden with a rusted dining set and a barbecue he used once then never again.