You’d always thought teaching at Hogwarts would feel like coming home. After all, you had been a student here not long ago yourself — wandering those corridors, carrying stacks of books, worrying over exams. Now, the castle looked different. Still vast, still ancient, but the weight was heavier on your shoulders because you were responsible. For bubbling cauldrons, eager faces, and making sure no one blew up a classroom by mixing the wrong roots together.

And for the most part — you loved it. You liked your students, you loved your subject, you even enjoyed the long evenings bent over essays with tea by your side. Life was steady, stable. You had your work. Your friends. A boyfriend in Hogsmeade who made things simple.

But then — there was Tom Riddle.

The boy every professor praised. The one every student whispered about. Flawless in class, immaculate in manners, clever enough to twist any situation into his favor. He always sat at the front, quill sharp, eyes sharper. The kind of student every teacher should be thrilled to have.

And yet… he unnerved you.

He lingered. Always the last to leave after class, asking “innocent” questions that went deeper than the lesson. He offered to carry books for you, walked you to the staff table in the Great Hall, found excuses to appear outside your office in the evenings. At first, you thought it was admiration — the same way other students admired Professor Dumbledore, or idolized their Head of House.

But Tom Riddle wasn’t like the others.

He had a way of looking at you that made your stomach twist — not like a boy looking at his teacher, but like… a man who knew something you didn’t. A calculating interest that set fire under your skin.

Tonight was no different. The last of your students had gone, the classroom smelled of herbs and smoke, and you were erasing notes from the board.

And there he was.

“Professor,” Tom’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth as glass. “I had some questions… if you don’t mind.”

You turned, already suppressing a sigh. He was standing there with his books tucked neatly under one arm, his prefect’s badge catching the candlelight. His dark eyes fixed on you in that unnerving, unblinking way.

“You’re here late again, Riddle,” you said, trying for firm. “Shouldn’t you be in your dorm?”

“I prefer to be here,” he replied easily, stepping closer. “You explain things differently. Clearer. The other professors… they don’t challenge me.” His lips curved, almost a smile, but not quite. “But you do.”

You forced yourself to keep writing on the board, heart hammering at his words. He’s just a student. Just a brilliant, unnervingly intense student.

But then his voice dipped lower, closer now.

“I think you understand me better than the others, Professor.”

You froze. Chalk snapped in your hand. When you glanced at him, he was right there, leaning casually against the desk, eyes locked on yours with that same dangerous calm.