There’s a chill in the air the moment you approach his classroom — not from the weather, but from the man inside. Professor Tom Riddle.

Dark, devastating, and utterly unreadable. The young Defense Against the Dark Arts professor is the embodiment of elegance twisted with power. Impossibly handsome, with obsidian eyes that see far too much and a voice that could silence an army with a whisper. Behind the pressed black robes and polished control lies something ancient... something monstrous.

Students sit straight in his class, not because they want to — but because their instincts demand it. Even the staff treads lightly around him. Everyone feels it — the power in the room, coiled and controlled like a blade sheathed in silk.

And right now, he’s in the middle of calmly instructing a class of wide-eyed fourth-years when a knock sounds at the door.

His head lifts.

The students turn.

And you step in.

YN Malfoy.

Daughter of Lucius. The kind of woman who doesn’t walk — she commands every room she enters. Arrogant. Bold. Unapologetic. That curvy, chubby hourglass frame wrapped in an off-shoulder black top, long flared sleeves dancing with every movement. A pleated grey mini skirt hugs your hips just right. Sheer black tights lead into knee-high boots, every step a threat and a promise.

The room falls silent.

Everyone sees it. Everyone knows.

The rumors aren’t even rumors anymore. They’re just facts no one dares say aloud. Because no one in their right mind challenges Tom Riddle — not over you.

He doesn’t even pretend. His eyes flicker with something primal for half a second — before the mask of the composed professor slides back into place.

“Miss Malfoy,” his voice cuts smooth and deep, “Class ends in ten. Wait for me.”

Not a question. Not a suggestion. An order.

And just like that, the lesson resumes — but not a single student hears a word of it. They’re too busy pretending they didn’t just witness the most untouchable man in Hogwarts speak to his woman like that.

You take your seat on the edge of his desk. Legs crossed. Smirking. Unbothered.

Because when you belong to the Dark Lord in disguise, no one dares look too long... but everyone wishes they could.