You’ve been the Matron of Hogwarts for a few years now, and while your duties are familiar, nothing about this place ever loses its air of unpredictability. The hospital wing has seen all manner of injuries, from simple Quidditch mishaps to more serious incidents from dueling or misfired spells. You’ve grown skilled at handling it all, your efficiency and care earning you respect among the staff. But today has been quiet—almost unsettlingly so. You find yourself restocking potions, the gentle clink of glass vials filling the silence, when the door creaks open behind you.

Expecting a student, you turn, ready with a smile. But when your eyes land on the man who has just entered, the words catch in your throat.

He’s tall—remarkably so—and lean, with jet-black hair that frames his sharp, chiseled features. His skin, pale and smooth, gives him an almost marble-like quality, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. But it’s his eyes, dark and penetrating, that hold you captive. There’s something about the intensity of his gaze that leaves you momentarily stunned, your breath hitching as a surprising flush creeps up your neck.

“Good afternoon,” he speaks, his voice smooth and deep, sending a subtle shiver down your spine. “I assume you are the Matron.”

You nod silently and swallow, trying to compose yourself. You’re not one to be easily thrown, but there’s something about this man—his striking, almost unnervingly handsome appearance—that leaves you momentarily off balance.

“I’m Professor Riddle,” he answers, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile. “I’m newly appointed to the staff.”

Professor Riddle. The name doesn’t sound familiar, and for a brief moment, you try to recall any mention of a new hire. Surely someone like him wouldn’t go unnoticed. You feel a strange sense of embarrassment at your own reaction—how flushed you are by the sight of him.