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summary: You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, love, love you.
characters: mattheo riddle. shy! ravenclaw! reader. mentions of slytherin boys.
warnings: none!
word count: 3.3k
Mattheo didnât usually do things like this-spend time in Hogsmeade with a girl, strolling through the bookshops and pretending it was something casual. But here he was, the winter air crisp around them, the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade alive with chatter and the clink of mugs in the nearby pubs.
He was with you.
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon. You had been talking about the latest magical novel youâd devoured, your eyes lighting up with that excitement he found so fascinating. You werenât flashy, or loud, but every word you spoke held weight. It was in the way you described the latest book youâd read, your fingers running along the spines of books as though you were choosing your next adventure, pulling him along with you as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Mattheo felt something stir within him, a strange mix of warmth and admiration.
It wasnât just the way you spoke, but the way you looked at the world. The way you treated each book as if it were its own world to lose yourself in, to be found in. He watched you with a quiet intensity, each step you took in the bookstore something that felt monumental. The way your eyes sparkled when you picked up a book. The way your hands brushed over the spines as if they were treasures to be found.
âYouâre really into books, huh?â Mattheo finally spoke, his voice smooth, though there was a touch of awe that he couldnât quite hide.
You laughed softly, your cheeks flushing slightly. âI guess you could say that,â you replied, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. âI think books are the best escape. Theyâre not just stories-theyâre entire worlds in themselves.â
He nodded, his eyes following you as you bent down to scan the shelves. âI get it. Youâve got a way of seeing them like no one else does.â
You were moving further into the store, absorbed in your world of novels and dusty pages, and it was hard not to be caught up in your energy. You made something as simple as book browsing seem like magic.
And then, you froze.
Mattheo looked up to find you standing in front of a display, your fingers tracing the cover of a book.
There, shining in the light, was a new edition of Pride and Prejudice. It was impossibly pretty-a soft pink cover speckled with gold, delicate and shining like something from a dream. You gasped softly, your expression delighted as you ran your fingers over the smooth cover.
âIâve never seen it like this before,â you whispered, almost to yourself.
Mattheo couldnât help but smile at the way your face lit up at the sight. You seemed so young in that moment, unguarded and completely in love with the world around you. His heart tightened, an unfamiliar feeling twisting in his chest.
He cleared his throat, stepping closer. âYou should get it,â he said, his voice steady despite the sudden nervous flutter in his stomach. âYour old copy is practically falling apart, anyway.â
You glanced at him, startled by his suggestion. âOh, itâs really expensive,â you murmured, shaking your head. âI donât need another copy.â
You turned away, continuing to move down the aisle, but Mattheoâs eyes remained on the book. He knew the look on your face-the hesitation. Youâd never let yourself splurge, especially not for something that seemed frivolous in the grand scheme of things. He didnât want to push you, but the thought of you not having the thing you obviously adored...
He had to do something about it.
He watched as you continued to roam the bookstore, casually picking up books, flipping through their pages, completely absorbed in your little world. And as he watched, something clicked in his mind, a determination that hadnât been there before.
He made a mental note of the book, marking it in his mind like a mission.
No more hesitation.
This wasnât just about impressing you anymore. This wasnât about being the cool Slytherin or the guy who could get anything with a snap of his fingers. No, this was about proving something. About showing you that he wasnât just some dark, mysterious figure in the corner. He valued you. More than he could put into words.
Mattheo wasnât a guy to do things by halves, especially not when it came to something as important as you.
That pink-covered book was the first step. And if it meant spending the rest of his afternoon making sure you knew just how much he wanted to get it for you, then thatâs exactly what heâd do.
Because this? This was his gesture. The first of many.
-
Mattheo paced the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade two days later, the crisp winter wind nipping at his face, ruffling his dark hair as he moved toward the bookstore. His thoughts were consumed by the image of the pink-covered Pride and Prejudice, the vivid shade of the cover still burned into his mind. He could almost feel the weight of it in his hands again, the delicate promise it held. It wasnât just about the book anymore. It was about you. About showing you-quietly, subtly-that he cared. That he was there.
He had never been one for grand gestures, but this felt different. This felt important.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped into the shop, its high-pitched sound echoing slightly in the cozy space. The air smelled of aged paper and dust, the kind of comforting scent that came from the heart of every well-loved bookstore. Mattheo moved through the narrow aisles, his footsteps light on the wooden floor, until he reached the shelf where heâd seen the book earlier that week.
There it was, sitting perfectly, almost as if waiting for him to come back. The soft pink cover gleamed in the muted light, untouched and pristine, a beacon amidst the otherwise ordinary collection of novels. For a moment, Mattheo simply stood there, transfixed, staring at it as though it were something otherworldly. A piece of something intangible, something more.
He reached for it, his fingers brushing the smooth surface of the cover, and for the briefest moment, he hesitated-hesitated as though the book itself might vanish if he touched it too roughly. He picked it up with the care one might use to handle a fragile artifact, turning it over in his hands as if searching for something more than words within the pages. It was just a book. Just a book he was buying for you.
But that was the thing, wasnât it? This wasnât just a book. Not anymore. It was the first piece of something bigger, something he didnât quite have the words to describe. It was the first step in showing you that he saw you-not just as someone who had once been an interest, but as someone who meant more than he had ever let on.
He moved quickly to the counter, almost hurriedly, as if the faster he did this, the faster he could bury the uncertainty gnawing at him. He set the book down, his fingers tapping impatiently on the polished wood of the counter as he handed over the coins. No hesitation now. The plan was in motion.
-
Later that night, in the dimly lit Slytherin common room, Mattheo sat with the book open in front of him. The flames from the nearby fireplace flickered and cast warm shadows over the pages as his eyes scanned the words. He wasnât just looking for a quote. He wasnât even sure what he was looking for. But he needed it to be perfect. He needed the words to mean something-to you.
His quill hovered above the page, ink poised to make the first mark. He didnât want it to be too much. But it had to be enough. Enough to show you how much he cared, how much you had come to mean to him.
He found it.
The line jumped off the page as though it had been waiting for him:
âYou have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, love, love you.â
The words seemed to echo in his chest, a reverberation of everything heâd been too afraid to admit. He had never thought of himself as the type of person who would fall for someone-certainly not someone like you. But here, with the ink of his quill pressed against the page, he couldnât deny it.
Youâd bewitched him. All of him.
His hand was steady as he wrote in the margin, the ink flowing smoothly across the page. His heart raced as he wrote the simple words:
"For you, You have bewitched all of me"
It was straightforward. Simple. But for some reason, it felt like the most vulnerable thing he had ever done. He set the quill down, watching as the ink dried, feeling the weight of the book in his hands, the weight of the message he had just left behind. It was terrifying.
-
The next day, Mattheo walked into the library, the book tucked safely into his bag, his heart pounding with each step. You were sitting at your usual table, buried beneath a mountain of books, completely absorbed in your reading. Your hair fell softly around your face, and your eyes moved over the words with a quiet intensity that made Mattheo stop for a moment. He watched you, mesmerized by the way you existed in your own world, so beautifully in control of your surroundings.
For a split second, he forgot why he was even there. He stood at the entrance of the library, his heart hammering in his chest, suddenly feeling unsure of himself. Itâs just a book, he reminded himself. You can do this.
But today was different. This time, he wasnât just handing over a book. He was handing over a piece of himself. A piece of his thoughts. His feelings. His heart.
He swallowed thickly, trying to steady himself as he approached your table. His footsteps were light, but each one seemed to echo too loudly in the quiet space. When he reached you, he hesitated. For a moment, he just stood there, the book heavy in his hands, unsure of how to present it to you.
You didnât notice him at first, so he had a moment to gather himself. Maybe he could just slide the book onto your table, walk away, and let you discover it on your own. It seemed easy enough, right?
But then you looked up.
Your gaze softened when you saw him, a small smile tugging at your lips. It was warm. Familiar. Yet still, there was that softness, that guarded look in your eyes that made his breath catch in his throat.
âMattheo,â you said, your voice calm and steady, with just a hint of that sweetness that made everything else fade into the background. âWhatâs up?â
For a moment, Mattheo forgot how to breathe. He was standing there, book in hand, but the words heâd rehearsed in his mind a hundred times just vanished. He was paralyzed by your gaze, his palms sweating, his heart pounding in his ears.
âI-uh...â he stammered, then glanced down at the book in his hands, the one heâd spent hours thinking about. The one he had written in. The one that now seemed so impossibly heavy. He opened his mouth again, but no words came out.
You raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to speak, but he couldnât find the courage. The book felt like a burden, heavy in his grip, as though it was too much to carry at that moment.
This was stupid.
Before he even realized what he was doing, Mattheo turned away, the rush of shame rising in his chest.
âMattheo?â you called softly, but he didnât look back.
He left the library in a rush, the echoes of his footsteps ringing louder than they should have. His heart was in his throat, his mind swirling with frustration.
Iâm an idiot, he thought. I had the chance, and I just... chickened out.
-
That night, as he lay in his bed, he replayed the scene over and over in his head, the image of you still fresh in his mind. The sound of your voice. The weight of the book in his hands. And the crushing feeling of having stood in front of you, the perfect moment slipping through his fingers without saying a word.
With a frustrated sigh, he turned onto his side, determined. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, Iâll do it right.
-
The next morning, Mattheo woke with the faintest light of dawn filtering through the curtains. It was still early, far before the sun had fully risen, and the world outside was painted in soft shades of lavender and grey. He hadnât slept much, his mind restless, replaying the events of the day before. But now, as the first rays of light crept across the room, he knew what he had to do. He had made up his mind.
The weight of the book in his hands felt almost heavier this morning, its presence both comforting and terrifying at once. He had spent hours the night before, turning it over, feeling the cool surface beneath his fingers, contemplating how to make things right between you and him. The more he thought about it, the clearer the solution became. He wasnât going to give it to you in person-not today. He needed you to find it on your own terms, to read it without the pressure of his presence looming over you.
The thought of watching you open it, seeing the surprise in your eyes, was too much to bear. No, this way would be better. He could feel certain that youâd get it, that youâd read it in peace, without the weight of his gaze. The owlery was the perfect place to send it, a little bit of distance between them.
With a final sigh of resolve, Mattheo stood, the chill of the morning air biting at his skin as he walked toward the owlery. The sun was still hidden behind the horizon, the world quiet, save for the soft rustling of the owls and the distant hum of the castle coming to life. At the owlery, he carefully fastened the book to the leg of a large tawny owl, his fingers brushing the bird's feathers as he whispered the destination: The Great Hall, right into her lap. His heart thudded once more, but there was no turning back now. He watched the owl take flight, its wings cutting through the crisp air as it soared into the early morning sky, vanishing into the pale blue above.
By the time Mattheo made his way to the Great Hall, the room was buzzing with conversation. The usual clatter of plates and voices echoed around him, but he hardly noticed. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze flicking toward the entrance, waiting for the moment you would walk in. He didnât know exactly when you would find the book, but he hoped that when you did, it would be in the quiet solitude of your own space, when you could truly take in the meaning behind it.
He tried to focus on his friends, pretending to engage in their chatter, but his attention was divided, always darting back to the doors. When they finally swung open, his breath caught. There you were, looking as effortlessly beautiful as always, your hair falling gently around your face, your usual bag slung over your shoulder. You stepped into the room with the same quiet grace that made Mattheoâs heart do an unexpected flip. He couldnât help the small, involuntary smile that tugged at his lips.
You moved through the crowd with ease, making your way to the end of the table, completely unaware of the small package waiting for you. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the book, trying not to stare too intensely as you made your way closer. He had to keep his distance, not wanting you to feel the weight of his eyes on you, not wanting to pressure you.
And then, as if it were meant to happen that way, you reached the table. Your eyes flickered immediately to the bright pink cover of the book that had dropped into your hands by a passing owl, and a small frown of curiosity crossed your face. Your fingers brushed lightly over the edges, tracing the contours of the cover as if it were a new discovery. The weight of the book felt unfamiliar in your hands-almost too light, almost too new.
You opened it slowly, carefully, the pages crisp beneath your fingertips. As your eyes scanned the first page, you stopped. The note in the front caught your eye, its presence as quiet and unassuming as a whisper. The words, written in Mattheoâs neat handwriting, were simple but profound:
For you, whenever you read this.
Your breath caught slightly, the realization setting in. Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle? The shock was almost too much to process at once. Your fingers trembled as you continued reading, your eyes darting down to the quote he had carefully highlighted:
âYou have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, love, love you.â
Your breath hitched. It was from Pride and Prejudice, a line you had always admired. But now, reading it with his ink on the page, his intent in every carefully chosen stroke, it hit you differently. Your heart beat faster, your thoughts swirling.
"For you, You have bewitched all of me"
Mattheo had always been a mystery, so distant, so intimidating with his sharp eyes and biting words. He carried himself with an air of superiority, his reputation casting a long shadow. But now, this? This was something else entirely. A soft vulnerability, a quiet confession hidden in the pages of a book you had loved for so long.
You could almost feel the weight of his presence as you sat there, the book cradled in your hands, as if he were beside you, sharing this with you in a way that only he could. His choice of quote, his decision to mark the book with his thoughts, felt like a rare gift. It was a side of Mattheo you hadnât known, a side heâd kept hidden beneath layers of bravado. And as you read, your heart softened.
There were things about him that you hadnât understood-his guarded nature, the way he always seemed to keep people at armâs length. But now, as you sat there with the book in your hands, you began to understand. Mattheo had seen you, understood you in a way that few people did, and now he was opening himself up to you in a way that was raw and real.
You smiled softly, your eyes lingering on the note again. The simplicity of it, the honesty, made your heart swell. He had given you something personal, something meaningful. He hadnât stayed to watch you open it. He hadnât hovered, hadnât demanded a reaction. It was yours, and it was up to you what you did with it.
You glanced up, scanning the room, but Mattheo wasnât there. The fact that he wasnât watching, that he had let you experience it on your own, made it feel even more intimate, more real. It was as though he trusted you to find it, to discover his feelings in your own time, without any of the pressure he had once placed on himself.
As you turned the pages, a sense of calm settled over you. You felt a quiet warmth spread through you, a warmth that was as much from the book in your hands as from the realization that Mattheo had finally let you in.
And for the first time in a long while, you thought maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop hiding behind the pages. Maybe it was time to let him in, too.
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