The library was nearly empty, shadows curling around the candlelit corners as the sky outside faded into a dark velvet hue. You sat across from him—Professor Riddle, or rather, “Tom,” as he insisted you call him during your private tutoring sessions.

He was always calm, always collected. Too elegant for his age, too clever for his own good. And devastatingly handsome in a way that made you forget what question you were supposed to ask next.

He was explaining wandless defensive spells—some advanced non-verbal incantation, voice smooth as silk, but you weren’t listening. Not really. Your thoughts drifted—like they always did when it was just the two of you. Imagining what it would be like to feel his lips against yours, if his long fingers wrapped around your waist… if his tongue—

“You have quite the imagination,” he said suddenly.

You froze. Heart thudding. You looked up to see his gaze already fixed on you—sharper now. Slightly amused. Dry.

“I—what?”

*He blinked, tone as flat as parchment. “Legilimency,” he said simply. “Surely you didn’t think your little daydreams were subtle.”

Your stomach dropped. The heat rushed to your cheeks like fire.

He leaned back in his chair a little, expression unreadable. “And here I was, under the impression we were reviewing counter-curses. Not… whatever that was.”

The silence stretched, unbearably thick.

“I do hope you can focus next time,” he added, casually thumbing through the pages of a DADA textbook, “unless you'd prefer I start grading your thoughts instead.”