one of mattheo riddle’s favourite phrases (besides “fuck off” and “it wasn’t me”) was “don’t judge a book by its cover.” it applied to him especially when it came to his music taste.

from the outside, you’d expect him to be into loud, ego-fueled shit like a$ap rocky or tupac, which his friends were. something you could punch a wall to. yeah, he appreciated those, but that wasn’t what played on his record player at 2am. mattheo riddle preferred heartbreak in soundwaves.

he liked the smiths.

not in an “i’m different” way. not in a “this will impress the girls who wear eyeliner like war paint” way. he liked them because something about their music made him feel seen—like someone had taken the mess inside his head and turned it into lyrics. he remembered the first time he picked up their vinyl like it was religion. since then, it had been a non-negotiable part of his life. cigarettes after sex. the cure. the smiths. repeat.

you couldn’t walk past the slytherin dorms without hearing “please please please let me get what i want” echoing down the corridor. it was like his personal national anthem. and mattheo didn’t care what anyone said. he liked it because it was his.

so when you, his new-ish friend, dangerously close to being more, asked if he could put on something “livelier,” mattheo sighed dramatically and dragged himself off the bed. he shuffled through his crate of vinyls, flipping past a few bowie records before pulling out the one. matte black sleeve, clean corners. it was instinct at this point.

he placed the record onto the player, needle down, and heaven knows i’m miserable now started crackling through the speakers. he felt your eyes on the back of his head, judging, questioning, maybe plotting.

he ran a hand through his tangled curls, already annoyed. turned around, arms folded across his chest, like he was preparing for battle.

“don’t tell me you’re about to say something dumb about my music taste,” he said, giving you a look that was half teasing, half say it and die.