The Great Gatsby
summary: He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man. characters: mattheo riddle. shy! reader. mentions of slytherin boys. warnings: none! just matty going feral. word count: 2.8k
The first time Mattheo Riddle really noticed you-truly noticed you-was when you collided with him outside the library. One second, he was rounding the corner, lost in thought, and the next, someone crashed into his chest, sending papers and books flying across the stone corridor.
You dropped to your knees instantly, murmuring a flurry of apologies as you scrambled to gather your things. He knelt too, fingers brushing against the corner of a worn paperback just before yours did. His eyes flicked over the title-Jane Eyre-the cover cracked and creased from being read more than once. A Muggle book. Not the first he’d seen around lately. And not the last he’d see in your hands.
But what caught his attention more than the title was the way you wrote.
Some of your pages had slipped loose in the fall-notes scribbled in blue ink, dense with thoughts and margins full of underlines and comments. He picked one up out of instinct, pausing as his eyes caught on the handwriting: soft, looping letters that curled at the ends, like you had too much emotion to keep inside the lines. It was delicate but purposeful. You wrote like someone who felt everything. He didn’t realize he was staring until your hand reached out and tugged the paper gently from his fingers.
“S-sorry,” you stammered, cheeks flushed. “That’s mine.”
Your voice was quieter than he expected. Soft, but not meek-like you were always thinking about something bigger than the room you were in. He nodded, but didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you as you stuffed your notes back into a leather-bound folder, arms full of books with titles he recognized only vaguely-Wuthering Heights, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Bell Jar.
Muggle literature. You read it like it meant something. Like it was sacred. No one really talked about Muggle writers at Hogwarts, not unless they were trying to be funny. But you didn’t strike him as the type who cared about what people thought. The way you clutched your books close to your chest, like armor, made that clear.
Then you were gone. Just like that.
You darted away so quickly he didn’t even catch your name, but the image stuck. The too-big sweater. The stack of paperbacks. The way you walked like you were always halfway between this world and another.
-
That night at dinner, he couldn’t get you out of his head. So, when he slid into his usual seat, he turned to Theo and Enzo.
“Do either of you know a Ravenclaw girl? About this tall-” he gestured with his hand, “-always carrying books, kind of quiet?”
Enzo scoffed. “That could be any Ravenclaw, mate.”
Mattheo frowned, thinking. “She, uh… she writes in this particular way. Loops at the end of her words. And she was wearing a cream sweater.”
Theo snapped his fingers. “Oh, you mean her—”
Mattheo’s stomach did something weird. “Her?”
“Yeah, Y/N,” Theo said, nodding toward the Ravenclaw table. “She’s in our classes. Always has a book with her-usually some Muggle thing.”
Mattheo followed Theo’s gaze, and there you were, sitting at the edge of your house’s table, nose tucked deep into a book.
Then, over the next few days, he found himself noticing you everywhere.
In class, he watched how you wrote with a precise hand, the loops at the end of your letters delicate, intentional. He had never paid attention to how people wrote before, but there was something mesmerizing about the way you did.
In the courtyard, he noticed the way you walked-always with books pressed to your chest, a little too lost in thought, always on the verge of bumping into someone.
And in the library-Gods, the library-you were in your element. Tucked away in a quiet corner, curled up in your usual oversized sweater, eyes glued to the pages of yet another Muggle book.
It was your quietness that fascinated him the most. It wasn’t timid-it was purposeful, like a storm contained just beneath the surface. And Mattheo, against all odds, found himself wanting to get caught in it.
-
Mattheo leaned against the edge of the Slytherin table, arms folded, jaw tense. His eyes weren’t on his food, or his housemates, or the usual chaos of the Great Hall. They were on you.
You sat near the end of the Ravenclaw table, half-lit by the enchanted ceiling’s pale morning sky. You were curled slightly toward a thick, well-worn book, completely absorbed, as though the world around you barely existed. Your fork rested untouched beside your plate, forgotten in favor of whatever world you’d escaped into. The soft knit of your uniform sweater hung delicately off one shoulder, and strands of hair fell across your cheek, unnoticed as you turned another page.
You hadn’t even noticed him watching you. You never did.
But Mattheo noticed everything.
The way your thumb smoothed down the page before you turned it. The way you tugged at your sleeve when you were thinking. The small furrow between your brows when the world inside your book grew tense. And he remembered the way your papers had spilled across the corridor floor just days ago-crisp parchment, your ink dark and deliberate, curling loops at the ends of your letters like lace. Muggle literature, from the titles he'd glimpsed. Shakespeare. Woolf. Something about that had lodged itself deep in his mind.
You fascinated him-and that wasn’t something Mattheo Riddle was used to.
“I’m going to talk to her,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute.
The words left him before he’d really meant to speak.
Across from him, Enzo let out a startled choke on his pumpkin juice. Theo, who had been lazily spinning his wand between his fingers, paused mid-twirl to raise an eyebrow.
“Mate,” Theo said slowly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Why?”
Mattheo kept his arms folded, but there was something different in his eyes-something sharp and uncertain. “Because I want to.”
Enzo snorted. “You want to? Since when do you want to talk to anyone that’s not one of us?”
“She keeps avoiding me,” Mattheo muttered, gaze fixed. “And I don’t get why.”
Theo leaned back, skeptical. “Maybe because you always look like you’re one spell away from setting the room on fire?”
Mattheo’s jaw twitched. “I do not.”
“You made a second-year cry just by looking at him,” Enzo reminded, deadpan.
“That was different.”
Theo gave him a look. “So, what’s your move? Glaring at her until she falls for your brooding charm?”
Mattheo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets with practiced ease.
“Watch and learn.”
He crossed the Great Hall with purpose, boots echoing off the stone floor. His eyes never left you.
He thought-hoped-that once he was closer, once you saw that he wasn’t all sneers and shadows, maybe you’d stop running. Maybe you’d talk to him.
But the moment he approached, you stilled. It was subtle, but he caught it-the slight rise of your shoulders, the way your hand froze over the page mid-turn.
Then, as if his presence physically repelled you, you snapped your book shut, shoved it into your bag, and left the hall without so much as a glance.
Mattheo stood there, stunned.
His outstretched hand-intended for a casual greeting-hung awkwardly in the air for a beat before he lowered it, his brows pulling together.
“What the fuck?” he muttered under his breath.
From behind, laughter erupted.
Enzo clapped once, mock applause echoing off the walls. “Absolutely majestic effort, Riddle. Smooth as ever.”
Mattheo gritted his teeth. “Piss off.”
—
The next day, he saw his second opportunity.
You were already seated in Charms when he walked in, bag slung over one shoulder, curls messy from the wind. He slid into the desk beside you without hesitation, stretching his arm along the back of the shared bench, leaning slightly in your direction.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward you.
You didn’t look up.
But you did go still-again. He could see your fingers tighten around your quill, your shoulders inch higher.
Progress, he thought.
But then, without a word, you stood. Calm. Silent. Collected. You gathered your things, walked three desks down, and resumed your notes like nothing had happened.
Mattheo sat there, blinking at the now-empty space beside him. Dumbfounded.
Theo, seated just behind, leaned forward with a knowing smirk. “Didn’t I literally warn you?”
Mattheo didn’t respond. He just leaned forward, elbows on the desk, jaw clenched as he stared at the back of your head.
—
By the time Transfiguration rolled around, he was growing restless.
When Professor McGonagall paired the two of you together, Mattheo felt something spark in his chest-hope, maybe. Finally, you had to talk to him.
Except, you didn’t.
You barely acknowledged him.
Your spellwork was flawless-each movement practiced and elegant, your flicks precise, your incantations barely whispered. You flipped through your textbook with silent focus, scribbling notes in your neat, looping handwriting.
He watched the way your hand moved, remembered the pages from the corridor floor-the delicate tails at the ends of your letters, the almost lyrical way your words formed.
But still, you never looked at him.
Never spoke.
Mattheo sat there, utterly ignored, watching you move like a storm in a bottle-controlled, contained, distant.
When the class ended, you were out the door before he could stand.
Gone. Again.
He slumped back in his chair, exhaling through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.
“She really doesn’t want to talk to me,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Theo, not missing a beat, leaned over from his desk with a smirk. “Looks that way, mate.”
But Mattheo didn’t flinch.
If anything, he looked more determined.
Because now it wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just intrigue. It was something deeper, something he couldn’t name.
You could keep slipping through his fingers.
He’d just learn how to hold on tighter.
-
The library was quiet.
Not the usual, restless hush filled with the soft rustle of parchment or the scratch of quills. No whispered gossip or passing footsteps. This silence was heavier-reverent, almost sacred. The kind of silence that wrapped itself around you like velvet and made even the breath in your lungs feel like an interruption. The kind of silence that didn’t just muffle sound-it devoured it.
And then, there was you.
Curled into the corner of the farthest alcove, half-hidden behind a column of bookshelves. You were nestled into the window seat, the pale winter light spilling across your features, bathing you in a soft, otherworldly glow. Your knees were drawn to your chest, one hand cradling an open book, the other absently tugging at the fraying sleeve of your sweater. You looked like you belonged in another century. Fragile. Untouchable. Entirely unaware of the pair of eyes watching you from the shadows of the aisle.
He looked at you the way all women want to be looked at by a man.
And maybe you didn’t see it-but if you had, it would’ve stopped you in your tracks. Because there was nothing cold or calculating in his gaze. Only awe. Only wonder. As if you were something he’d been searching for without even knowing it.
Mattheo stood perfectly still, the air around him charged with something he couldn’t name. He wasn’t sure what had drawn him here-why his feet had followed your path through the castle, why his eyes had tracked your every movement since that first collision in the corridor.
You had crashed into him like a gust of wind-fast, flustered, unintentional. He could still remember the exact moment: the stack of books tumbling from your arms, the startled widening of your eyes as you met his gaze, your breath catching like you'd touched something hot. He had crouched to help, ready for a soft thank you, maybe even a nervous apology.
But you’d gathered your things in one sweeping motion and disappeared before he could so much as speak. No words. No second glance. Just the scent of parchment and something faintly floral left in your wake.
Since then, it had become a pattern.
You’d appear like clockwork-quiet, consistent, always on the edge of the room. In class, you wrote with a deliberate grace, the ends of your letters curling like ivy. In the courtyard, your fingers were always wrapped around a book, the sleeves of your sweater pulled down past your knuckles. And here, in the library, you sank into the same chair for hours, slipping between chapters like falling through time.
You had always been there.
He just hadn’t seen you.
And now that he had, he couldn’t seem to look away.
He took a careful step forward.
And that’s when your gaze lifted.
Your eyes met his-and something in you stilled. A single heartbeat passed. Then, like a thread snapping, your body went taut. Without a word, you snapped your book shut, gathered your things in practiced efficiency, and vanished between the shelves before he could take another breath.
Mattheo was left in your absence, his pulse racing for no reason he could name.
He dragged a hand through his curls, jaw clenched in frustration-until he saw it.
A book.
Left behind on the table in your rush to escape.
He moved toward it slowly, fingers brushing the cracked spine like it was something sacred. The title was embossed in gold, barely visible beneath the wear of countless readings.
The Great Gatsby. A Muggle book.
His brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages, noting the underlined sentences, the faint pencil scribbles in the margins-your handwriting. Gentle loops, soft corrections, small stars drawn next to lines that must have meant something to you. It wasn’t just a book. It was yours.
Mattheo stared down at the worn pages, his mind already spinning with a plan.
If Gatsby had thrown lavish parties just to be seen by Daisy… Then maybe Mattheo Riddle could read Muggle literature to be seen by you.
-
That night, he read.
It started as a way to return your book. But before he realized it, he wasn’t reading for you anymore-he was reading for himself.
The story dug into him. Gatsby wasn’t just hopelessly in love-he was haunted.
Possessed by a past that no longer existed, convinced that if he could just make enough noise, just shine brightly enough, he could pull the future into place. Mattheo understood that. The desperation. The hunger for control over something that would never truly belong to you.
By the time the sky outside began to soften with dawn, Mattheo had devoured every word.
And not just read it-annotated it.
Scribbled thoughts in the margins. Circled sentences. Drew lines between themes like he was cracking a code. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until Enzo’s groggy voice broke the stillness of the dormitory.
“Mate,” Enzo grumbled, squinting through the early light. “What the hell are you doing?”
Mattheo didn’t look up. He just smiled to himself.
-
The next day, he found you again.
You were in the courtyard, your figure half-bathed in sunlight, sitting on a stone bench pressed against a wall covered in ivy. A fresh book in your hands, eyes trained on the pages like you were afraid of what the real world might offer in comparison.
This time, when he approached, your eyes flickered up-and lingered.
You didn’t run.
And that hesitation, that split-second pause, felt like a victory.
He sat beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, one leg casually hooked over the other, his arm slung along the back of the bench-not quite touching you, but close enough that you felt the heat of his presence.
“So Gatsby was an idiot,” he said, tone light but calculated.
You blinked, caught off guard. “…What?”
He smirked. “Throwing parties for a girl who didn’t even show up? That’s tragic. Pathetic, even.”
You stared at him, brow furrowed, trying to make sense of his presence, of his words, of him.
Mattheo leaned back, eyes fixed on you. “I get it, though. He wanted to be noticed. Thought if he made enough noise, she’d come back to him.” A pause.
“But that’s the thing about fantasies. They only work if you stay asleep.”
You were silent for a beat, the wind brushing strands of hair across your cheek.
“She did love him,” you said softly, gaze drifting back to the page. “Not the way he wanted. But she did.”
Mattheo tilted his head, watching the way your eyes darkened. “Still chose Tom in the end.”
Your hands tightened on your book, jaw set. “You read The Great Gatsby?”
He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Got about twenty pages in and decided to annotate it. Thought maybe it’d help.”
Your lips parted slightly-surprise flickering across your features like light on water.
And then, for the first time, you smiled.
It was barely there, just a soft quirk at the corner of your mouth, but Mattheo felt it like a thunderclap. Like the first warm breeze after a long winter.
And you didn’t run.
Not this time.
