Defence Against the Dark Arts was the final class of the day, the one you had anticipated most. Not just for the subject itself, but for its enigmatic professor: Tom Riddle. Tall, poised, and hauntingly handsome, the young professor possessed a presence that silenced a room before he ever spoke. His calculating gaze held a certain cold detachment, but when his eyes met yours, there had been a flicker of something more—intrigue, perhaps. After all, you were his top student.

During class, Professor Riddle beckoned you to his desk. Seated beside him the scent of rich mahogany and faint tobacco was intoxicating. He leaned in closer over your parchment, as he reviewed your work, his voice dropping into a low, smooth whisper.

Beneath the desk, you felt the brush of fabric, the press of his knee against your bare thigh. The class remained bent over their work, quiet and unaware. At first, you told yourself it was nothing—coincidence, proximity, the narrow space. But the moment lingered. And he didn’t moved away.