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crvptidgf · 10 months

Text

Just Like Him

Mattheo Riddle x Reader (angst)

➸ summary: you and mattheo get into an argument, and in the heat of the moment you compare him to tom

➸ warnings/notes: none i think? lmk if i missed something though!

➸ requested: yes!!

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YOU DIDN’T KNOW what was up with him recently. Sure everybody around you was acting up, especially with the stress of exams and such coming up. Yet something seemed way off with Mattheo specifically.

He ignored your texts and calls, brushed past you in the hallways, avoided eye contact in class.

You get the point.

You had tried getting him alone on several occasions, but each time he’d ignore you or pretend he couldn’t hear you.

At some point, you began to worry. Was something going on? Did you do something to upset him? You had no idea, but you were determined to find out.

As the end of class neared, you got more and more antsy. Your potions were basically bubbling and brewing over the sides, and your hair was haphazardly strewn across your forehead. Not caring enough to take care of it, you wiped it away with the back of your hand absentmindedly.

Glancing at the clock at the end of the room, you noticed that the time ticked closer and closer to half three, which signified the end of classes for the day.

After waiting a painful 3 minutes, you quickly cleared everything off your table as your teacher dismissed you.

Grabbing your bag from under the table you threw it on your shoulder and made your way towards Mattheo. He was silently putting some books in his bag, not looking at his potions partner as they bid him goodbye and to have a nice weekend. You noticed he stayed quiet throughout this interaction, and your brows furrowed.

Sure Mattheo wasn’t always a people person, but he was practically best friends with every class partner he had, it was odd to see him ignore them.

In a weird, sinister way, you were kind of glad for this piece of information. Now you knew it wasn’t just you that he was ignoring.

Watching him rise from his seat, you inched closer to him, hoping to stop him from escaping your questions again. His eyes lifted from the ground to look at what was blocking his path.

He all but rolled his eyes as he mumbled a swift ‘nope’ and began to walk off.

You grabbed the back of his jacket, huffing at the amount of weight that you had to pull back towards you.

“Mattheo, come on,” you groaned. You were desperate to know what was up with him, and this silent treatment thing had to stop.

Hearing him give a dejected sigh you felt hope rise in your chest.

He turned to face you, swiping a hand at his face. Now that you had a good look at him, you realized how tired he looked. The usual bags under his eyes were now more pronounced, his eyes half-lidded as he looked down at you. Normally you’d revel in how cute he looked when he was tired - but this was just concerning.

“What’s up?” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?” you replied incredulously. He ignored you for almost a week and had the nerve to ask ‘what’s up’.

“What’s up is that you’ve been pushing me away and practically giving everyone the silent treatment.”

He scoffed, looking off to the side.

“This isn’t really about you.”

Now this made your blood boil. His pissy attitude was misguided, with you being on the receiving end of it. It was starting to really get on your nerves.

“Well forgive me for assuming! You haven’t talked to me in a week - I have no idea what’s going on with you.”

You tried to sympathise, you really did. However the whole ‘i don’t care’ demeanor he was giving you was really starting to tick you off.

“Can you just talk to me like a normal person? Please.” you begged.

He nodded his head towards the door, walking out to a more secluded area of the corridor. You both knew the classroom was empty, but teachers and students liked to lounge and eat lunch there sometimes, so he decided it best to leave the room.

You followed him out, staying a few steps behind him. If bringing you on a pointless adventure was what it took for him to uncover his secrets, then so be it.

He turned to face you once again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Bullshit,” you responded almost immediately. You knew he’d come up with some stupid excuse as opposed to just talking about his feelings.

“Well what do you want me to say? I have things to do, I can’t just always hang around you.”

“Hanging around? Is that what we’ve been doing?” you said. Sure, you two weren’t completely official, but you liked to think that you were at least friends - friends who told each other things.

His eyes filled with regret upon hearing your disappointed tone. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You looked down at the ground, holding back a scoff. You understood he was angry, but you hated when he put his walls up like this. I mean you cared about him, and you wanted to help in whatever way you could. However you didn’t get to share this thought with him as you caught a glimpse of a book on the inside of his jacket pocket.

It was a brown, leather-bound, ancient looking book. With gold letters engraved into the thick cover, you could barely make out a few words.

What you saw made you sick to your stomach.

“Dark Magic?” you whispered, almost too scared to mouth the words out loud.

Lifting your eyes to meet his, you watched as his previously droopy lids widened at your words.

You took a few steps back, feeling uncomfortable about this newfound knowledge.

He tried to step towards you and you slammed your back into the wall in an attempt to be as far away from him as possible.

“Oh God. Matt…” you said, even quieter than last time.

How could this happen right under your nose? How could you not notice him carrying this terrible book around with him? Had you failed to see it before, lying on his desk in his room, stuffed into his schoolbag every morning?

The thought made your head dizzy.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Mattheo pleads.

Your voice quivered as you replied, “I think it’s exactly what it looks like.”

He shoved the book deeper into his coat as he gave you a pleading look. All of these secrets, and now that you catch him red-handed, he wants to act innocent? Now that he has to explain himself to save his ass he will, but when you were calling and texting he had no problem airing you.

You felt manipulated and lied to. How long had this been going on? Did he lie all those times that he claimed he didn’t care about all the things his family preached?

“You’re just like-“ you started.

“Y/N, don’t.”

“You’re just like him!” you yelled, pushing your weight off the wall to lunge at him, shoving his shoulder back.

You were seething, your teeth ground against each other, and the back of your eyelids felt hot. How could he be so stupid as to lead this lifestyle?

“Why would you carry around a book full of Dark Magic if-“

He pushed you back into the wall, clasping his hand over your mouth. “Keep it down!” he said.

While he looked around to make sure no one heard, he dropped his hand down. His eyes shifted from side to side, checking every crevice of the castle to see if anyone had lingered around.

The thought of him trying so hard to hide this side of him made your throat close up. If you weren’t so angry you’d be crying by now.

“All this talk about hating the Riddle name and now you’re falling right into the family legacy,” you said, your voice feeling weak.

The look in his eyes was venomous. If looks could kill you would be a pile of disintegrated dust.

“Is that what you think of me?” he spat, angry at your accusation.

“What am I supposed to think!”

He shook his head, walking backwards from you. A part of you felt guilty, like you were being a bad friend for not supporting him through the obviously difficult time he was having, but another part of you - a much bigger part - knew that him owning that book was wrong. What possible explanation could there be for having such a thing in your belongings?

“You don’t know me, Y/N. You don’t know shit about my family; so don’t pretend like you do,” he said in a jumble.

His hands were shaking as he clenched them at his side, nostrils flaring in unison with his breath. He knew he couldn’t trust anyone, and the fact that he believed you could be different was what upset him most.

Yet nothing could compare to you accusing him of following in Tom’s footsteps, no matter how convincing the evidence was.

He had hoped you’d have more faith in him.

Turning his back on you, he made his way down the hall.

You wanted to call for him, to grab his hand and bring him back - but you knew better. You had to let him go, to let him make his own decisions no matter how bad. While his choices were in poor taste, you didn’t have the heart to report it to the Yearheads, or to even tell a single soul about what you encountered.

One thing that’d always be your kryptonite was the love you had for him. So, as you walked back to your dorm room, you decided to keep the information to yourself no matter how harrowing it might be to hold it all in.

You had to do it. For him.

- - -

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siriusblack-the-third · 1 year

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Hey I absolutely adore your Indian James headcanons can you do some for Harry too please <33

Okay this got too long so it's only Harry's first year at Hogwarts. At some point I might do the rest of his years but yeah. Here you go, i hope you like it :)

The first time Harry noticed his skin was darker than the people on Privet Drive was when he was four. The first time he noticed people sneered at him for it was when he was five and a half. He didn't understand it; why did they think the colour of his skin meant that he was inferior to them? He heard the words chee-chee and brownie thrown around like Dudley threw his food, and quietly pulled his shirt tighter around himself.

When Harry is eight, Dudley and his gang throw him in a ditch and throw dirt and soil on him till he's coughing and tears are running down his face. "You blend right into the mud," Piers laughs at him. The next day, the boy turns up to school with black skin. Harry sits in the corner and turns his face away, a secret grin playing on his lips.

He comes to Hogwarts, and there are so many colours. He is approached by Parvati on the second night, and she asks him if he's excited for Ganpati Chaturthi. He stares at her, and then says, "I'm sorry, but I don't know what that is." She gets offended, but they haltingly talk it out, awkward and stilted like most eleven year olds. When she realises that he's been kept from his heritage and his magic, she flies off the rails with anger. "That's it," she says, "we're friends now. No arguments."

Harry loves talking to Parvati. She's the one that tells him his father was from India. She's the one that tells him the names of his grandparents, that tells him of the importance of heritage in the magical world. They talk about religion and food and all sorts of things, and within two weeks Harry is asking her to teach him Marathi. It's hard at first; the grammar structure is more like French than English, the alphabet sequence is weird and complicated and has too many letters, but he keeps practising his svar and vyanjana and kana and matra. He will do this, he tells himself. (He doesn't tell Ron. He wants this for himself, he thinks. His family, his heritage. He wants to learn before he shares, and so he doesn't tell Ron. For now. He will, when he knows enough.)

Slowly, he starts talking to other Indian kids at Hogwarts. Padma, a seventh year Slytherin named Aarzoo who's Muslim and always has the prettiest hijabs, Gryffindor Kalyani from fourth year and Hufflepuff Rushabh from the third. Kalyani is from Maharashtra just like the Patil twins and Harry, Rushabh is from Gujarat and Aarzoo from Punjab. Harry finds it fascinating that India has so many different cultures and religions, and demands knowledge from them. Aarzoo laughs, and tells him he should have been with the 'Claws.

Harry disagrees. He was supposed to be in Slytherin, he knows, but he is in Gryffindor, where his family had been. His family had been Indian. He wants to know everything about it. If he couldn't have his parents, he would have that which had been a major part of his father's life. And so he reads and observes and studies and asks questions— hesitating at first in case they yell at him (Aunt Petunia hated questions and he feared these people would be the same), but slowly he asks more and more. He talks for hours with Kalyani and Rushabh, and they tell him about Garba and Dhol Tasha, Ganpati Chaturthi and Diwali, Eid and Gudi Padwa. They talk about the languages of India, and Harry immediately asks Aarzoo to teach him Urdu and Hindi. She laughs, and says he should focus on Marathi first. He pouts, but nods.

The Mirror of Erised shows him his father, and he can't take his eyes off. James Potter is a tall man, bulky frame covered in muscles and warm brown skin that seems to glow with happiness. His eyes are light brown, and the bold black lines drawn under them make the green specks stand out. He's dressed in what Harry knows is called a kurta, white and gold threads woven to form images of peacocks and elephants and other intricate designs. The next day, Harry asks Padma what she lines her eyes with, and she promptly hands him a little round metal box and a tiny wooden stick. "It's called kajal." She tells him the differences in pronunciation between Hindi and Marathi, and shows him how to apply it. Harry wears it everyday. It makes his eyes look bright, brighter than they already are, and he falls in love with it. Kalyani presses a kajal covered finger behind his ear every morning. "For good luck," she tells him, a grin playing on her pretty lips. Harry flushes, and smiles back shyly.

For Christmas, Aarzoo gives him perfume. It's chandan and mogra with hints of rose, she says, "and your grandfather made it. His name was Fleamont Henry Potter, and he was an exceptionally talented potioneer." Harry wears it religiously. Padma and Parvati band together and get him books on the Potter family and their historical importance, and he almost cries. Rushabh promises to teach him how to play Garba, and Kalyani gives him a cookbook for everyday Indian foods— breakfast and lunch and a few fancy stuff. Harry hugs it to his chest and thanks her with shining eyes. (he may have a bit of a crush on her. He can't help it— she's really smart, and she's pretty.)

Throughout the year, all of them work to introduce him to Indian food. At first, he thinks it will be easy. It is not. There is no such cuisine named Indian, Parvati tells him sternly. There is Punjabi, South Indian, Mughlai, Maharashtrian, North Indian, Bihari, Bengali and so many more. "The food in India changes with every twenty kilometres of travel," Aarzoo says when he mock complains about it. "It's never the same, and that's what makes it so special." He agrees.

The end of the year arrives, and Harry is still weak from his tryst down the trapdoor. When Ron and Hermione aren't present, his friends from home (because that's what India is, isn't it? His home. The home he never got to see, but is no less a part of him.) crowd around his hospital bed and have long talks with him, filled with banter and laughter. His Marathi is so much better now than it was in September, and he blushes when Kalyani compliments him on it. Rushabh winks at him, and Harry throws a pillow at him, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks at being caught out.

On the last day of school, he hugs Aarzoo around the waist and cries into her stomach. It's the first time he calls her "Aarzoo Tai", and she smiles widely, her own eyes dripping tears. "You will write," she says sternly, "okay? This might be the end of my Hogwarts years, but you are my little brother." He cries harder and nods, refuses to let go until the very last minute.

Harry goes back to Privet Drive with a heavy heart and a proud smile. He isn't inferior to the people there, he knows. He's special. He's Indian. He's James Potter's son, and he's going to live up to it.

#harry potter #desi harry potter #indian harry potter #desi james potter #desi potters #a fuck ton of OCs #the golden trio #harry potter headcanon #harry potter and the Philosopher's Stone #kid harry potter #headcanon #this got so long holy fuck

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