A 'Knee Socks' series one-shot
(mattheo riddle x female!reader)
Inspired by the song 'Knee Socks' by Arctic Monkeys:
"And you were sittin' in the corner with the coats all piled high
And I thought you might be mine
In a small world, on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night
In the right place and time"
Warnings: Fem!reader, cheating!reader, heavy romantic tension so thick you could cut it with a wand, mutual pining/almost-kiss energy, slow-burn chemistry, reader is a cheater, NO SMUT (yet?), cliffhanger that could leave you begging, yall know the deal.
Description: A rainy January night, an abandoned pub in Hogsmeade, and a storm you never meant to run into. After a brutal fight with your boyfriend, you duck into the nearest unlocked place to escape the cold—only for Mattheo Riddle to barge in dripping wet and furious, with a cut lip, a stolen Mauraders map, and a secret reason he followed you. Tension, banter, and one storm-soaked confession that never needs saying.
Author's Note: Hello girls, I'M BACK! I started this on an exceptionally rainy Tuesday night while listening to Knee Socks and finished it JUST NOW. I intended for this to be a one-shot, but let me know if you want a part two! I plan to make more one-shots with this theme but with different characters, so lmk if you have any character reqs! BTW, this is not proofread, so ignore any grammatical errors.
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The zeros had just lined up on the twenty-four-hour clock when the storm broke.
Rain—icy, needle-like, January rain—came down in violent sheets, so thick it blurred the lanterns on the street. Even under your cloak, even with a shielding charm fizzling at your fingertips, you were drenched within seconds. The wind snatched every spell from your tongue. You barely made it up the slick steps of the old abandoned pub before the downpour swallowed the last sound of your footsteps.
It was still ruined the last time anyone had bothered to look at it—but you’d fixed the broken windows and shattered shelves with a bored flick of Repairo the week before, during another one of your ventures past curfew. Now, in the low glow of the lanterns you’d coaxed to life, the place felt… almost warm.
The room was small, smelling faintly of dust and old wood polish, and for all the golden light—that deceptive warm glow—it was freezing. You were shivering hard enough that the ancient chair beneath you creaked. Cloak bundled to your chin. Hair dripping. Knee socks squelching in your boots.
Then again, not much about tonight had gone according to plan.
You hadn’t meant to be wandering Hogsmeade after curfew. Hadn’t meant to slam your books shut and flee the castle after the argument. Hadn’t meant to nearly hex your boyfriend in the courtyard after dinner when he accused you—in front of half of the school—of “getting too cozy” with Mattheo Riddle during those late-night study sessions Snape forced you into after assigning you two as partners for a research project on the boring origins of potion-making.
You’d told yourself he was just jealous.
You’d told yourself you weren’t in the wrong to have let your knees brush the way they had—once, twice, over and over again like the smallest betrayal. Arms were next, then hands. Lips were last.
You’d told yourself that almost-kiss wasn’t real—that it was okay you studied with him almost daily when the sun was set and hardly anyone was in the library, let alone the secluded corners hidden between hardly-visited shelves that Mattheo had pinned you against that one time—because it was one time.
You knew a good girlfriend would’ve put an end to that taboo.
But, even when you stared at the stars up at the Astronomy tower late at night—pondering life, your rights and wrongs—you were still thinking about it.
About him.
Mattheo Riddle—infuriating, sharp-tongued, always-smirking Mattheo—who studied Ancient Runes with you like he had something to prove, who watched you like he had no right to, who said your name like it amused him.
Of course your boyfriend didn’t like it.
Of course you are here now, dripping rainwater onto an ancient pub floor and freezing your ass off.
But cold was better than the castle.
Better than the courtyard.
Better than your boyfriend shouting accusations loud enough to draw stares.
Better than your own temper nearly erupting in front of everyone.
You rubbed your hands together, breath fogging the air. You could’ve sworn Mattheo had taught you the Drought Charm sometime last week in the library—he’d always bested you in Charms—but apparently your memory was as soaked as your clothes because you wouldn’t quite remember the incantation.
So here you were: shivering hard enough to rattle your teeth when the door burst open.
A gust of wind slammed through the pub. Rain sprayed the floor. The lanterns flickered violently—and in the doorway, breathing hard, dripping wet, hair plastered to his forehead, robes clinging to his shoulders—
You shot upright from the ancient-looking mahogany chair you had been sitting in.
You gawked. “What—what are you doing here?”
His eyes scanned the room once before locking onto you in the corner, his expression shifting from irritated to something sharper.
“Small world,” he muttered, voice rough from the cold.
You blinked at him.
“Seriously?”
He stepped forward, boots squelching, water dripping in an even rhythm off his cloak. “What? Not happy to see me?”
“You’re dripping everywhere.”
“Funny,” he said, peeling wet gloves off his hands. “So are you.”
You wrapped your cloak tighter, teeth chattering. “It’s pouring outside, Mattheo. Why would you even be out?”
His jaw flexed, eyes averted. “Needed air.”
He didn’t say I was looking for you.
He didn’t say I knew exactly where you were.
He didn’t say the Marauder’s Map he stole—well, borrowed—from the Room of Requirement was tucked into the inside pocket of his robes, warm from his frantic grip.
You raised a brow. “Air. In a fucking typhoon.”
“Look who’s talking,” he shot back.
You lifted your chin. “I had a reason.”
He didn’t expand.
You didn’t push.
He flicked his wand, muttering nothing, and the Drought Charm rippled over him—clothes drying, curls fluffing back into unruly shape; steam rising briefly around his shoulders. He exhaled at the warmth returning to his skin. Ah. So the Charm was incantationless. You internally cursed yourself for your slow-mindedness.
Then he turned toward you.
“No,” you said immediately, a stubborn tone lacing your voice.
He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”
Warmth washed over you, drying your hair, your cloak, and your socks, leaving you flushed and irritated.
You shoved his shoulder. “I told you not to.”
“And I ignored you,” he said simply. “Because you looked like a miserable, frostbitten squirrel.”
Your mouth fell open. “A squirrel?”
He grinned, the kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed, his chocolate eyes sparkling in the lantern light. “There she is.”
You rolled your eyes, but your body had finally stopped shaking, and the fog had cleared from your mind.
Unfortunately, that just meant you could now fully register how close he’d gotten.
Your eyes—unfortunately and instinctively—flicked down to his mouth, and you noticed the small cut on his lip. Scarlet. Swollen. Fresh.
He caught your stare.
“What?” he asked, wiping at it with the back of his hand.
“Did you—did someone hit you?”
He hesitated. Just enough for you to see the truth flicker across his expression.
Then:
“Your boyfriend has a terrible right hook.”
You froze, raising a brow before your face contorted, registering the situation. “You fought?”
“He tried,” Mattheo corrected. “I mostly laughed.”
“He said something I didn’t appreciate.”
“What did he say?” you asked as that same, terrible feeling from the earlier fight settled uncomfortably back into your stomach like something rotten.
Mattheo’s eyes flicked away before returning to yours, darker now, less guarded.
“That you and I have been getting too close.”
Your breath snagged. Great. This again.
“He didn’t like the tutoring. Or the studying. Or the—”
His gaze dropped for a second, toward your legs, “—knee-to-knee situation.”
“How could he have seen us?” you rambled, “He doesn’t understand! That was—”
“Accidental?” He looked entirely unconvinced. “Sure.”
You sputtered. “We were studying.”
“Mhm,” he hummed, a smirk curling at his sensuous lips; you could tell by the look on his face and the distance in his eyes that he was replaying that almost-kiss in his head. “Very academically.”
You gaped at him. He smirked wider.
“The fact you’re blushing,” he added, stepping closer, “isn’t helping your argument.”
“I’m cold.” You lied quickly, cocking your head.
“You’re warm now.” He gestured to your still frame that was very much not trembling.
You rolled your eyes, groaning, “Then it’s a residual cold.”
You glared at him, but he only took another step forward, leaning a hand on the table beside your hip; water finally evaporated from his sleeves.
“You ran out of the castle fast.” The look on his face was almost caring.
You swallowed. “I needed space.”
“That’s what I thought,” he murmured, turning his head away.
“You don’t know what I was thinking.” You answer quickly, defensively.
“Don’t I?” he turned back, eyes flicking to your lips for a millisecond.
You hated the way he said it—quiet, certain, warm. Hated how the sound of his voice spread so much warmth through your body that it completely dissolved that miserable feeling from earlier. How it shifted all thoughts from your boyfriend to him: his name, his smirk, the way his eyes kept flicking to your lips like those times in the library.
His face was close now. Closer than you’d let it be in the library, where other people may glimpse the act.
Close enough that you could see the tiny droplets of leftover rain caught in his lashes.
Close enough that your breath hitched without permission. But you weren’t in the library now, were you?
“You shouldn’t have come after me,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his arm.
“I didn’t,” he said lightly. “I just… happened to show up in the exact abandoned pub you ducked into during an unholy storm.”
You gave him a flat look.
His mouth twitched.
“Small world,” he repeated.
You tried not to smile back but, regrettably, failed.
Your brain was too fogged from the argument, the cold, and his proximity to question how, exactly, he knew your very location.
His eyes surrendered from your eyes to your lips, flickering with something that could only be described as longing.
“Mattheo…” You whispered.
He inhaled sharply when you said his name—so subtly you almost missed it.
“What?” he asked, voice suddenly rougher.
“This is—complicated.” You mutter, thoughts circling back to your boyfriend.
“Doesn’t feel complicated.” He replied, his voice almost taunting.
“It is.” You affirmed, though you were trying to convince yourself of the matter.
“Then tell me why I’m here,” he challenged quietly.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. You could find the words, the excuse: ‘But… My boyfriend!’ They were easy to say. Reasonable. Logical.
But you couldn’t find a reason to say them. With Mattheo in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his quickened breaths on your skin—his head tilted and lips curled in a smirk as he admired you and your silence in a way that made you think this was fate—you didn’t want to say them.
Somewhere outside, thunder rolled across the sky, rattling the windows.
Inside, Mattheo’s eyes never left yours.
He reached up—slow, hesitant—and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. His knuckles grazed your skin lightly, almost reverently.
He froze, waiting to see if you’d pull back.
The smallest, barest smile ghosted across his mouth—barely there, soft, relieved.
“Yeah,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Thought so.”
Not rushed. Not claiming. Not messy or possessive or desperate.
Warm lips on chilled skin.
Softness wrapped in tension.
A slow exhale against your mouth, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.
Your hands found his shirt, pulling him closer without thinking. His fingers slid into your hair, the kiss deepening, shifting, intensifying until the lanterns blurred behind your eyelids.
He lifted you before you even realized, guiding you onto the table with the gentlest press of his hands at your waist—asking without asking, giving you every chance to stop him, to pull away, to say no.
And the table creaked beneath you—
And the storm outside burned itself out against the windows while something entirely different caught fire between you.
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