𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒 - Mattheo Riddle ˖°

Diary of a Simp

⋆˚˙✧˖° ⋆˙✧

September 3rd

Another year. Another train ride, same old faces, same predictable classes. The Great Hall still smells faintly of ancient magic and pumpkin juice, and the endless chatter is already grating on my nerves. I much prefer the quiet hum of the library, or the dusty corners of the Restricted Section, where true knowledge resides, not in the prattle of Slytherin common rooms. I’ve already got a small list of… targets for various experiments this year, mostly for Potions. Might need to ‘borrow’ a few ingredients. Nothing new, really. Just another year of enduring these imbeciles. At least the weather’s tolerable.

October 19th

I’ve spent an absurd amount of time in the library lately. Not just for my usual ‘research,’ but… there’s her. Y/n. The quiet girl who practically lives in the Defence Against the Dark Arts section, hidden behind towering stacks of books. I’ve seen her around, of course, everyone has, head always buried in a parchment, a quill tucked behind her ear – usually leaving an ink smudge. She’s meticulously neat, yet always seems to have a stray strand of hair escaping her braid. I swear, she must be half-librarian, half-owl. Today, she was frantically searching for a book, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked so utterly lost in her own world, a tiny, focused storm in a teacup. It was… surprisingly compelling. I found myself watching her for longer than I intended.

November 12th

She dropped her entire bag of quills and ink bottles today, right in the middle of a bustling corridor. Naturally, no one stopped, most just sidestepping the impending mess. I was half-tempted to hex the lot of them for their callousness. Instead, I just… watched. She got down on her knees, face flushed, gathering her things. Her movements were so precise, almost apologetic for creating such a minor disturbance. A particularly boisterous Hufflepuff knocked a bottle of violet ink and it spilled, a dark bloom spreading across the stone. He just laughed. I found myself stepping forward, my wand already in hand. Before I consciously decided to, a silent Reparo had her bag and the floor clean. She looked up, startled, those quiet, observant eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. She just mouthed "Thank you" before scurrying off. I felt… something. Annoyance at the Hufflepuff, certainly. But also… a strange satisfaction in that fleeting look.

December 5th

Hogsmeade weekend was a bust. Too many people, too much forced cheer. I ended up back in the library, predictably. And, predictably, she was there too. She was sketching in a small, worn notebook, a detailed drawing of some obscure plant. I lingered, pretending to browse, but really just trying to catch a glimpse. Her concentration was absolute. It fascinates me, how completely she can immerse herself in something. I overheard her talking to herself, murmuring about a particular root structure. It wasn’t crazy, just… passionate. She was so engrossed, she barely noticed when I accidentally (or not so accidentally) brushed her arm as I reached for a book above her head. She flinched, startled, and then apologized, which struck me as utterly ridiculous. Why was she apologizing? She’s a strange one. And I find myself thinking about her far too often. It’s disrupting my usual, perfectly ordered indifference.

February 14th

Valentine’s Day. What a load of utter tripe. Pink envelopes, syrupy cards, sickeningly sweet decrees of affection. It’s enough to make a person want to burn down the entire post office. And yet… I found myself in the Owlery, unwillingly, watching the flurry of red and pink. I saw her too, up there, sending a letter – no doubt to her family, or perhaps a particularly beloved textbook author. She caught my eye again, a quick, almost shy smile. A genuine smile. It wasn't the sort of forced politeness I usually encounter. It was soft, almost hesitant, but entirely hers. And it felt like a jolt. I immediately looked away, feigning sudden interest in a particularly grumpy owl. What is happening to me? My usual cynicism feels… dull when faced with that simple, quiet warmth. It's disarming. I find myself wanting to protect that smile, to be the cause of it.

April 1st

I almost hexed some cretin for trying to prank her today. It was a harmless little Boggart in a box, meant to scare her into dropping her books. But the way she froze, her eyes wide with a quiet fear, made something snap in me. The Boggart shifted into a towering pile of blank parchments, and she just visibly deflated, as if that was her greatest fear – a lack of knowledge, an empty mind. The pranksters thought it was hilarious. I didn't. I don't know what stopped me from cursing them into next week, but I settled for a harsh glare that sent them scattering. She looked at me again, her expression unreadable. I just grunted, probably sounding like a cave troll, and walked away. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. About her quiet fear, about her silent relief, and about the surge of protectiveness that had me on the verge of murder. Merely observing her is no longer enough. I want to know what makes her tick, what worries her, what she dreams of.

May 20th

Exams loom. The library is a battlefield of stressed students. She’s still there, as ever, a beacon of diligent study. We ended up being paired for a Transfiguration project – a stroke of luck, or perhaps… fate. She’s brilliant, truly. Her insights into complex spellcasting are surprisingly profound, hidden beneath that quiet exterior. And her notes… they’re like works of art, organised and precise. I found myself actually enjoying the collaboration, something I never imagined saying. We worked late tonight, after hours, and the silence of the empty library was… comfortable. I saw her shiver slightly, and without thinking, I conjured a warming charm around her. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me, her eyes soft with gratitude. And then, she actually touched my arm, a fleeting, tender touch. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. In that moment, surrounded by the scent of old books and quiet magic, I knew. I am completely, utterly, irrevocably in love with Y/n. The thought doesn't frighten me anymore. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, like something that was always meant to be. And I think… I think she might just feel something too.

I have to tell her. I have to.

Mattheo Riddle.

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This was like crazy rushed but I might make Diary of a Simp a series obviously making it more intriguing and more like Mattheo but eh 🤷‍♀️