#southern! reader

Instead of being tucked away in the dungeons with his friends, Mattheo found himself begrudgingly walking down the corridor with an unexpected new responsibility. He had been “volunteered” by Professor McGonagall to show around the new transfer student.

"Mate, it won’t be so bad. Just walk her around, show her the ropes," Theo had said earlier, a smirk plastered on his face, knowing full well that Mattheo hated babysitting anyone.

"I don’t babysit," Mattheo had growled in response.

"You’ll be fine," Draco added, adjusting the collar of his robes as he walked beside them. "Think of it as a chance to make a good impression on the new girl."

"A good impression? Why do I have to make a good impression? I'm not interested in being her tour guide." Mattheo couldn’t help but sigh as he glanced at the clock. The afternoon had barely begun, and he was already regretting this.

But his friends’ words stuck with him, and reluctantly, Mattheo dragged his feet toward the entrance hall where the new student was waiting. He turned the corner, his mind preoccupied with how much he’d rather be anywhere but here.

You stood there in your black robes, nervously twisting the end of your sleeve. Your boots were a little scuffed, your uniform skirt a little too short for the dress code. And your eyes-bright, curious, framed by lashes that could kill a man - flicked up to his.

“Oh, hell,” Mattheo muttered under his breath.

She was pretty.

Like, too pretty.

For a moment, everything around him seemed to fade. The chatter, the footsteps, the hum of the castle-all of it disappeared. It was just her, and her eyes were locked on his. His chest tightened, and for the first time in ages, Mattheo felt something stir inside of him-something that had nothing to do with his usual dark thoughts or aloof indifference.

She was beautiful.

He hadn’t expected it, and that’s what made it worse. He never allowed himself to think of girls in those terms-especially not in this place, not with everything else on his mind. But there she was, and everything he had told himself about being too detached, too cynical, seemed to vanish in the wake of that first glance.

She smiled softly, a slow, warm curve of her lips that made him feel like an idiot for standing there, staring. His mouth went dry as he forced himself to take a step forward.

"Hey, you must be the new transfer student, right?" he asked, a bit too sharp. He mentally cursed himself for sounding so curt.

And when she spoke, Mattheo felt his entire world shift.

“Well, I reckon that would be me," she said with a gentle smile, her southern drawl lilting through her words like honey dripping from a jar. "Name’s Y/N. Nice to meet ya.”

He blinked.

Your voice.

Mattheo’s heart skipped a beat. He was certain he'd heard accents before, but nothing like this. There was something intoxicating about it, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The way her words flowed... it was like music to his ears.

It was like sweet tea and slow Sundays. Like porch swings in the heat and lightning bugs in jars. Mattheo wasn’t used to soft. He wasn’t used to voices that lilted like that.

“Where are you from?” he asked before he could stop himself. He was genuinely curious, but more than that, he wanted to hear her talk again.

"Georgia," she replied, twirling a lock of her hair absently. “It’s a southern state in the states. We’re known for our peaches.”

"Peaches?" Mattheo’s lips curled into a slight smile. He couldn’t help it. Her voice was too mesmerizing, and he wanted to hear it again. “I’ve never heard anyone talk like you before."

Her laugh was soft, a melodic sound that only made him more captivated. “That’s 'cause most folks up here don’t know much 'bout the South. But trust me, there’s nothing quite like it.”

"Peaches," he muttered under his breath, the word feeling warm and comforting. “I think that suits you. I’ll call you... Peaches."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Peaches, huh? Alright, if that’s what you wanna call me.”

He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. It felt right, the way her name sounded in his mouth, and something inside of him clicked. He was already drawn to her, to her voice, to the way she made even the simplest words seem enchanting.

-

Throughout the tour, Mattheo couldn’t help but ask her more questions—anything to keep her talking. Her voice was like an addiction he couldn’t shake. They passed the Great Hall, the dungeons, and the greenhouses, but all he could focus on was her voice.

“So... do you always say things like 'reckon'?” Mattheo asked, his voice casual, though there was a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes.

She blinked, surprised by the question. “Well, reckon is pretty common where I’m from. It’s like a way of saying 'I think' or ‘I suppose.’”

"Reckon,” Mattheo repeated to himself, savoring the sound. “I like that.” He paused for a moment, looking around the hall as if searching for his next question. His eyes caught on a few banners hanging in the corridor. “What about... ‘y’all’? Do you say that a lot?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “Of course. It’s the plural form of ‘you,’” she explained, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We use it when we’re talking to a group of people, like ‘How are y’all doing?’”

“Y’all,” Mattheo repeated, tasting the word like it was something sweet on his tongue. “It’s... it’s charming.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused by his fixation on her accent. “You sure like how I pronounce things.”

“I do,” Mattheo confessed. “It’s... it’s different. But in a way that makes me want to hear it more.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I reckon I can keep talking, if you like.” The soft blush that spread across her cheeks made Mattheo’s heart flutter. She didn’t seem bothered by his words, but rather intrigued, a little amused.

-

That night, in the dim green light of the Slytherin common room, Mattheo collapsed onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. Theo was already half-asleep with a book on his chest, Blaise was flipping through a Quidditch magazine, and Draco was polishing his wand.

“She’s got the voice of a goddess,” Mattheo said, staring at the ceiling.

“Already?” Blaise drawled. “You fall in love every Thursday.”

“No, no, listen,” Mattheo sat up, animated now. “She talks like… like butter melting on toast. Like bourbon on the rocks.”

Draco snorted. “You sound insane.”

Theo peeked open one eye. “Didn’t you say she was from America?”

“The South,” Mattheo said dreamily. “She said,‘Well, you’re in luck. I reckon I can keep talking, if you like.” Do you understand what that did to me?”

“Turned your brain into soup, apparently,” Blaise muttered.

Mattheo ignored him. “I swear, she could be reading potion ingredients and I’d still be hanging onto every damn word.”

“She cute?” Theo asked.

Mattheo glared. “Don’t even look at her.”

Draco laughed. “Oh, he’s whipped. Already got dibs.”

Mattheo slumped back into the couch, a dazed grin on his face. “I’m gonna make her say my name. Just once. Mattheo. Like Mat-thay-oh, in that voice…”

Blaise threw a cushion at him.

“She’s from Georgia,” he announced.

Theo looked up. “Is that a real place?”

Blaise nodded. “I think it’s in America.”

“No,” Mattheo said, pointing a finger in the air like he was making a grand proclamation. “It’s the Peach State.”

Draco looked bewildered. “What the hell does that mean?”

Mattheo leaned forward, eyes wide and intense. “It means it’s hot, sticky, there are bugs that sing at night, and-get this-everyone’s got porches and eats fruit off trees like they live in some kind of fairy tale.”

“She told you all that?” Blaise asked.

He nodded. “With that voice. That accent. I swear, I’d listen to her read me my own death sentence and thank her for it.”

Theo threw a pillow at him again. “Get a grip.”

“Too late,” Mattheo said, already leaning back into the cushions. “She’s mine. I’ve already named her.”

“You named her?” Draco asked.

“Peaches.”

There was a moment of silence.

“God, you’re pathetic,” Theo muttered.

You hummed as you worked, adding brown sugar and just the right sprinkle of nutmeg. The house-elves were fascinated, whispering as they watched you mash and mix and top it all with gooey marshmallows.

You didn’t even notice Mattheo leaning in the doorway-hair mussed, tie loose, smirk half-formed.

“What in Merlin’s name is that smell?” he drawled.

You turned, spoon still in hand. “That,” you said proudly, “is home.”

Mattheo blinked. “You… live in a bakery?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “No, london boy. Sweet potato casserole. It’s a southern thing. Sweet, cozy, makes you feel like someone loves you.”

He tilted his head, pretending to study it like a crime scene. “It looks like dessert. But you’re calling it… vegetables?”

You gasped dramatically. “You take that back right now, Mattheo Riddle.”

“Why? Am I wrong?”

“Completely,” you said, setting the spoon down and placing your hands on your hips. “Now sit. You’re gonna try some, and then we’ll see if you’ve still got something smart to say.”

He smirked, clearly amused, but did as told. You scooped him a small serving, setting it down with an exaggerated flourish.

He stared at it. Then at you. “You’re sure this isn’t cursed?”

“Only with love,” you said sweetly.

Mattheo took a cautious bite. Then another. Then… he went completely still.

You watched, a little grin tugging at your lips. “Well?”

He blinked slowly, as if processing. “It’s… sweet.”

“Obviously.”

“And-” he paused again, looking almost affronted by how much he liked it, “-really good.”

You tried not to beam, but your whole face lit up anyway. “Told ya.”

He set his fork down, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t understand how you can make vegetables taste like a hug.”

You laughed, the sound warm and real. “It’s not the vegetables, Mattheo. It’s the heart you put in ’em.”

He tilted his head, studying you-the soft southern drawl, the flour on your cheek, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about home.

“You miss it,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “Every day a little. But this helps.”

Mattheo hesitated for a moment, then said, “Then maybe… next time you get homesick, you let me help.”

Your smile softened. “You? In a kitchen?”

He smirked faintly. “I can stir things.”

“You’d probably burn the marshmallows.”

“Only if you’re not watching.”

You laughed again, handing him another bite. And as the two of you sat there in the glow of the kitchen fire -the smell of cinnamon and sugar filling the air -you realized that Hogwarts might never be your grandma’s kitchen…

…but it could still feel like home.

Mattheo Riddle was slouched across the emerald velvet settee like a cat in a sunbeam, ankles crossed on the table, quill tapping against his chin. He looked vaguely irritated, as he often did when something dared to interrupt his carefully curated aloofness.

“Bloody bored,” he muttered, tossing the quill down.

“You’ve said that four times in the last ten minutes,” Theo drawled from his seat by the fire, twirling his wand between two fingers with a grin.

“Because it’s still true,” Mattheo snapped, sitting up. “There’s nothing to do. This place is dead.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have blown up that tapestry,” Blaise offered with a smirk. “You might have been allowed out tonight.”

Mattheo scoffed. “It was one minor explosion.”

“One minor explosion that nearly took out a first-year,” Draco said, flipping a page of his book without looking up.

“I’d do it again,” Mattheo muttered.

Then came a sound.

Not an explosion or yelling, not even the normal buzz of Hogwarts life-but something strange. Sweet, twangy, and distinctly out of place. It drifted in from the corridor beyond the stone entrance, muffled but clear. A bright, melodic voice singing “Workin’ 9 to 5…”

The Slytherins froze.

“What the hell is that?” Enzo asked, head cocked like a confused Kneazle.

Mattheo stood up slowly, brow furrowed. “It’s… music.”

“Not wizarding music,” Draco said suspiciously.

Mattheo was already heading for the door, drawn by curiosity he’d never admit to. “No. It’s her music.”

They found you outside the common room, tucked into a little alcove near the dungeons, legs curled beneath you on a cushion. A soft, rose-gold enchanted speaker floated beside you, playing a tune they couldn’t make sense of. You wore an oversized jumper and loose curls that bounced with every subtle nod of your head. Your wand was stuck in the bun at the top of your head, and a Muggle paperback was balanced in your lap.

You looked up when you heard them approaching, smiling lazily. “Afternoon, boys.”

Theo squinted at the speaker like it was cursed. “What is that sound?”

“That sound,” you said sweetly, placing a hand over your heart, “is Dolly Parton.”

“Sounds like a banshee in boots,” Enzo muttered.

You gasped dramatically. “Take it back. Right now.”

“Dolly who?” Blaise asked, lips twitching.

“Dolly Parton.” You paused your speaker and stood, grabbing your phone. “She’s from Tennessee. She’s practically royalty where I come from.”

Mattheo raised an eyebrow. “What kind of royalty sings about working in… what, an office?”

You grinned, eyes sparkling with pride. “The kind who owns the building, buys the company, and does it all with acrylic nails and a wig bigger than your ego, Riddle.”

Theo gave a low whistle. “I like her already.”

“She’s a national treasure,” you said, pulling up a picture of Dolly from your phone. “Big hair, big heart, big voice.”

Enzo leaned over your shoulder to peek at the picture on your book. “She’s got really big-”

Smack.

Your hand connected with the back of his head before he could finish.

“Ow! I was gonna say hair!” Enzo grumbled, rubbing his scalp.

“You were not.”

“Fine. Maybe I was not,” he admitted.

Draco let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused despite himself. “I still don’t get it. Why is she such a big deal?”

“She’s bold. She’s kind. She grew up dirt poor and built an empire. She never changed herself for anyone,” you said, your Southern drawl growing thicker as your passion rose. “She’s fierce and soft all at once. That’s why she’s a big deal.”

Mattheo stared at you as you spoke, not at your speaker, not at Dolly’s photo-but at you. The way your voice lifted with admiration, how your eyes glimmered with affection for someone they’d never even heard of. Your accent clung to every word like warm syrup, and he felt the now-familiar flutter in his chest.

-

Later that week, back in the common room, the boys were lounging around again. But this time, something had changed.

Theo was humming “Jolene” under his breath. Blaise had commandeered your speaker and was going through Dolly’s greatest hits. Even Draco tapped his foot absently when “Here You Come Again” came on.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo sat with his essay in front of him, glaring at the parchment like it had personally offended him. His quill hovered above a blank sentence as he ran a hand through his messy curls.

You passed behind him on your way to your dorm, ready to wish him a goodnight, when you heard him mutter under his breath, low and determined:

“…What would Dolly do?”

You froze mid-step, biting back a smile so wide it hurt. You turned slowly, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”

Mattheo looked up, caught in the act, eyes wide for only a moment before he straightened and smirked like it was completely normal.

“She gets shit done, right?” he said coolly, gesturing to his parchment. “Just trying to channel my inner Parton.”

You laughed, soft and surprised. “You’re serious.”

“I might be.”

You shook your head, the smile still tugging at your lips. “Dolly would tell you to get off your arse and stop whining.”

“Then I guess I better start listening to her more,” he said, his eyes holding yours just a beat too long.

From the couch, Enzo piped up, “I’m telling you, Dolly’s got something, man."

“She’s a Slytherin in rhinestones,” you teased, leaning down to ruffle Mattheo’s hair as you passed.

And from that night on, it became a bit of a thing.

Whenever someone was stuck, or lost, or spiraling about some idiotic scheme gone wrong, someone-usually Mattheo-would mutter under their breath, “What would Dolly do?”

It was ridiculous. Unexpected. Out of place in the dreary dungeons of Slytherin House.

And yet, somehow, perfect.

Because in a sea of shadows and secrets, you had brought Dolly into their world-and with her, just enough light to make even the darkest Slytherin boys shine a little brighter.

Especially one in particular.

And he would never, ever forget the sound of you saying her name like it was sacred.