It started small. A brush of his fingers against your sleeve, a quiet correction of a misplaced quill, a lingering glance that lasted a second too long.

At first, it was easy to dismiss—Professor Riddle was nothing if not meticulous. Nothing if not precise. But then came the other moments.

The way his hand would silently fix the tilt of your collar, straightening it with slow precision before withdrawing as if nothing had happened. The way he'd tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch fleeting, impersonal—yet far too deliberate to be meaningless.

He was known to be strict. Cold. Charming in that untouchable way, the kind of man who carried himself with an air of quiet authority, who demanded excellence and had no patience for less.

And yet, with you—

There were whispers. The way his gaze lingered. The way he passed by students without so much as a glance, but with you, his attention sharpened. The way his hands, always so careful, always so restrained, found reasons to fix, to correct—to touch.

And yet, he never acknowledged it. Never explained, never indulged. If he noticed the way you watched him, searching for an answer in the sharp angles of his expression, he never let it show.

Then, today—

A gentle tug at your tie. Cool fingertips grazing against your throat, lingering for the briefest moment before pulling the knot into place.

A pause. Barely a breath’s distance away. Close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of him, close enough for the air between you to grow impossibly still.

"You should take better care of yourself."