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pandorablues · 2 months ago

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Oh wow wtf, this is soo good

Charlotte's Web

summary: You have been my friend, replied Charlotte. That in itself is a tremendous thing. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! ravenclaw! reader. mentions of slytherin boys. warnings: mentions of a previous hookup word count: 2.8k

Mattheo Riddle was not a reader.

At least, not until you.

Now, he found himself lingering in the library far more than he ever had before-haunting its aisles like a restless ghost, drawn again and again to the one place he used to avoid. He wasn’t sure when the shift had happened. It had started with The Great Gatsby, sure. But somewhere between flipping its final page and catching your startled smile in the courtyard, something else had taken root.

A curiosity. A pull. A want.

And then came the question-the one he hadn’t even meant to ask until it was already tumbling from his lips.

“What else should I read?”

You had blinked at him, wide-eyed, as though he’d asked you to recite ancient runes backward in Latin. For a second, he thought you might just bolt again.

“You… want a recommendation?” you said slowly, like you weren’t entirely convinced you’d heard him right.

Mattheo smirked, amused by your hesitation. “Yeah. Or do you just hoard all the good books for yourself?”

Your frown was faint, more confusion than offense, but you narrowed your eyes like you were trying to figure out if he was serious. And then, without a word, you turned, pulled a book from the stack beside you, and shoved it into his hands.

To Kill a Mockingbird.

He blinked at the cover, lips twitching. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t flinch. You just shrugged, your voice calm, almost daring. “You liked Gatsby. I think you’ll like this.”

And with that, you walked away-leaving him standing there in the middle of the library, staring down at a Muggle book about morality, racism, and childhood.

He almost laughed.

But then… he read it.

—

Three days later, he dropped the book onto the table in front of you with a solid thunk, startling you mid-sentence of your book. A triumphant gleam danced in his eyes as he slid into the seat across from you.

“Atticus Finch is a legend,” he declared, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

Your head lifted slowly, brows raised. “You finished it?”

Mattheo shrugged, playing it cool. “Didn’t have much else to do.”

A lie, of course. He had essays to write, spells to practice, Slytherin meetings to attend. But none of them held his attention the way those pages had.

The way you did.

You eyed him carefully, like you were still trying to decide if he was being serious. Then your gaze dipped to the book and back up again. “And?”

He grinned. “Scout’s hilarious. But that town? Merlin. I wanted to hex every adult in it.”

That made you laugh-soft and surprised, like it had slipped out before you could stop it. You tilted your head, that familiar spark lighting behind your eyes. “Oh, really? And why is that?”

He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Because they were all so deep in their own delusions, they couldn’t see what was right in front of them. Acting like justice was some unreachable dream instead of just… doing the right thing.”

You gave a slow, thoughtful nod, your smile fading into something more sincere. “That’s the point, Mattheo.”

He lifted a brow. “That people are blind idiots?”

You grinned. “Exactly.”

And for a moment-just a moment-there was a stillness between you. Not the awkward kind, but something warmer. Something unspoken. It hung in the air like the scent of old pages and ink, delicate and full of possibility.

He watched you, really watched you, and realized something else entirely.

When you weren’t shrinking from his gaze, when you weren’t buried behind the fortress of your books and quiet deflections-you were brilliant. Witty. Sharp in the way a blade is sharp when you least expect it. Your observations were quick, your insights subtle. You laughed at things no one else noticed.

And Mattheo… he wanted to know what else made you laugh.

—

So, the next day, he found you again.

And the day after that.

Each time, he returned a book. Each time, he asked for another. At first, you’d looked at him like he was playing some elaborate joke. But the more he showed up-sometimes with dog-eared pages and underlined quotes—the more your suspicion began to soften.

You started recommending books with less hesitation.

You started talking more.

Not just about the stories, but about everything-your thoughts, your frustrations, the things that made you ache and dream and wonder. And when you laughed, really laughed, it cracked something open inside him he didn’t even know was locked.

You were a storm disguised as silence.

And Mattheo-who never used to care for pages or plotlines or protagonists-found himself craving your words like spells. Like oxygen.

He wasn’t reading to impress you anymore.

He was reading because through those stories, he was finally getting to know you.

And he liked what he found.

Mattheo had claimed he had never been inside a Ravenclaw dorm before.

But in fact, he had only ever stepped into the tower once-during a hazy, alcohol-fueled night that had ended with him sneaking up the spiral staircase for a quick hookup with someone from a previous party. He’d barely remembered the details of that night, only that the dorm had smelled like freshly brewed tea and ink, and that the dim glow of candles flickered against the towering shelves filled with what seemed like endless books. It had all felt so… soft, so detached from the sharpness and precision of his own house.

But now, as he stepped over the threshold into your dorm, it was different. This time, there was no rushing, no need to keep his guard up. This time, it was just him and you. And as his eyes adjusted to the soft lighting and the comforting scent of parchment and ink, he realized it was exactly how he should have imagined it.

Books. Everywhere.

They were stacked in every corner, lining the walls in neat rows of shelves that reached up toward the vaulted ceiling. Some books were pristine, their covers unmarred by time, while others were worn, the edges of the pages dog-eared and the spines cracked from being read over and over again. You had even left a few books open, as if you were reading multiple at once-a habit Mattheo instantly recognized as uniquely you. He smirked at the sight. Of course you were.

His gaze followed you as you flitted about, completely at ease in your space. It was clear you had found your sanctuary here, among the pages of all these stories, in a place where the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

You turned to him, your eyes shining with excitement, and gestured toward the shelves. “Alright, now you get to see all of them.”

Before he could say anything, you were already moving, pulling a book from its place with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged. You flipped through the pages, your fingers tracing the edges with such a quiet reverence that Mattheo found himself watching you more intently than the books you were pulling from the shelves.

“This one,” you said, holding up a novel with a deep blue cover. “I read it when I was eleven, and it made me want to read everything.”

He chuckled softly, a teasing glint in his eye. "Let me guess-you read it in one night, didn’t you?"

You shot him a look, but there was no annoyance in it. “Of course I did.”

He laughed, and his chest tightened at the sight of you smiling at the small, shared moment. There was something so undeniably you about it-the way you gave yourself completely to your passions, the way you lit up when you talked about what you loved.

Without missing a beat, you reached for another book, your fingers grazing its spine with a tenderness that made Mattheo’s heart beat just a little faster. “This one,” you said, your voice softer now, “I found in a second-hand shop in Diagon Alley. It had someone else’s notes in the margins, and it made me feel like I was having a conversation with a stranger.”

The way you said it-like the book had touched something deep inside you-left him quiet, his eyes lingering on your face as you drifted from shelf to shelf, pulling out one novel after another and sharing the stories behind each. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t even move much, letting the sound of your voice fill the space between them, the low murmur of your words wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

This was you, he thought, watching you in your element. Not the girl who ran away every time he tried to talk to her, but the one who was open, honest, and alive with something far more vibrant than he’d ever given you credit for. And just like that, he realized something-he wasn’t just fascinated by you anymore. He was in awe of you.

You finished a story about a book he hadn’t even heard of, and Mattheo found himself standing there, completely still, caught in the quiet magic of the moment.

He wanted to kiss you. Wanted to pull you close and feel the warmth of your smile pressed against his lips.

But instead, he cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus on the present. “Alright,” he said, the smirk returning to his lips, but it was softer now. “What’s the favorite?”

You hesitated for half a second before walking toward a shelf higher up. With a smooth, practiced motion, you slid a well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice from its place, holding it in front of you like a treasure. The spine was creased, the cover faded in places, and there was a distinct line of wear along the corners.

Mattheo arched a brow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Really?”

You glared at him, but there was affection in it. “It’s perfect,” you said, hugging the book to your chest like a secret you couldn’t wait to share. “It’s about wit and misunderstandings and expectations-and realizing you were completely wrong about someone.”

His smirk softened, the playful teasing giving way to something more thoughtful. “Huh. Never would’ve guessed.”

He made a mental note right then and there-he’d be reading that next.

But before he could say anything more, you were already pulling another book off the shelf. You handed it to him with an almost secretive smile.

“This one’s for you,” you said, her voice gentle but firm.

Mattheo glanced down at the cover, raising an eyebrow at the title. Charlotte’s Web. His frown deepened. “This looks like a children’s book.”

You simply smiled, a knowing look in your eyes. “Just read it.”

Something in the way you said it made Mattheo pause. There was no humor, no teasing in your voice. You genuinely believed he needed to read it-and suddenly, he found himself wanting to, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

So, without a word, he tucked the book under his arm.

And in that moment, he knew something was changing between them. This wasn’t just about impressing you anymore, or about reading books to bridge the gap between who he was and who you were. No, now he wanted to know what made you tick. What made you laugh, what made you think, what made you open up the way you had in this room full of stories.

And that, he realized, was far more important than any book could ever be.

Usually, Mattheo Riddle did not read books for fun.

He rarely read anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. He skimmed his required textbooks with barely any interest, memorizing just enough to scrape through his exams. Books were a means to an end-nothing more. They weren’t a part of his world, not in the way they were a part of yours. They didn’t offer him any kind of escape, or warmth, or comfort. That was, until you came along. Until you gave him a glimpse into your world and, without realizing it, let him in.

Now, as he sat in the Slytherin common room, Charlotte’s Web rested in his lap, its pages fragile beneath his fingers. The warm, flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across the words, giving the book an almost magical glow. He had every intention of reading it in peace, the silence of the room settling around him like a soft blanket.

He was determined to get through a few chapters before bed-just enough so he could return it to you tomorrow and maybe-just maybe-casually bring it up in conversation. Not that he wanted an excuse to talk to you. That would be absurd.

But before he could get lost in the pages, the familiar voices of Theo and Enzo broke the stillness.

“You’re actually doing it,” Theo said, his voice dripping with mock disbelief as he dropped into the armchair across from Mattheo. His arms were crossed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re reading a children’s book.”

Enzo, sprawling lazily beside him, chuckled lowly. “No, no, he’s reading a children’s book for a girl.”

Mattheo groaned, sinking deeper into the couch as if trying to escape the inevitable teasing. “Would you two shut up?”

Theo snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Come on, mate. This is you we’re talking about. Mattheo Riddle. The same guy who doesn’t even bring a quill to class, and now you’re voluntarily reading?” His voice was incredulous, as if the idea was utterly preposterous.

“It’s not voluntary,” Mattheo muttered, flipping to the next page with more force than necessary. His fingers were too tense, the paper creasing under his touch. “It’s just a book.”

Enzo raised an eyebrow, nudging Theo with a knowing grin. “Sure it is. We all know it’s love.”

Mattheo couldn’t help the scowl that twisted across his face as he grabbed a pillow from the couch and hurled it toward them. Enzo dodged it easily, his laughter ringing through the room.

“I’m not in love,” Mattheo muttered, though the words felt hollow even as they left his mouth. He couldn’t shake the heat rising to his face.

Theo smirked, unfazed. “Sure, you’re not. And I’m the bloody Minister of Magic.”

Mattheo ignored them, letting their laughter drift into the background as he focused on the book in his lap. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t read before, of course-he just never wanted to. But reading this book, now, with the dim light flickering against the pages, it felt… different. Like something more was at stake than simply turning pages.

As he tried to sink back into the narrative, a small detail caught his eye. It wasn’t the words on the page that made him pause-it was the ink that marked them. A section of text had been lightly highlighted, the ink barely visible against the thin, yellowed paper. And then, in the margins, were two simple words in your neat, slanted handwriting:

For Mattheo.

His heart stuttered in his chest, a sudden tightness gripping his throat. His fingers, almost by instinct, tightened around the book, pulling it closer to his face. Slowly, carefully, he reread the passage you had marked:

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”

"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing.”

The words felt heavier than they should have, resonating in a way Mattheo didn’t entirely understand. His stomach flipped, unease and something else-something warm-stirring within him.

You had left this for him.

You had thought of him, enough to mark this passage for him, to make sure he saw it.

And suddenly, it hit him with the force of a bludger: You weren’t scared of him anymore.

You weren’t running anymore. You weren’t turning away when he got too close. Somewhere between library conversations and book recommendations, somewhere in the quiet moments they had shared, you had let him in.

And Merlin help him, he had no idea what to do with that.

He read the passage again. And again. His thumb gently brushed the ink on the page as if he could somehow make sense of it, of you.

Theo and Enzo were still laughing, still throwing jabs at him, but Mattheo wasn’t listening anymore. Their voices faded into a dull hum, the only sound in the room now the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat. His thoughts were consumed with the weight of the words in front of him, the careful precision of your handwriting, the feeling that was slowly unfolding in his chest like something too beautiful, too delicate to touch.

He closed the book, the weight of it in his hands suddenly heavy with meaning. He brushed his thumb over the ink once more, feeling the curve of your letters under his skin.

For the first time in his life, Mattheo Riddle wanted to be someone worthy of the way you saw him.

And as he sat there, heart pounding, the room spinning just slightly around him, he realized something else:

Maybe, just maybe, he already was.

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