You slipped into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the torches flickering low as if the room itself sensed something new…or someone.

You took your usual seat, setting down your quill, but the air felt different — heavier, expectant. Conversations around you died off one by one, fading into a hush.

Then the door opened. And he walked in.

Tall, composed, dark hair perfectly in place, his robes moving like a shadow behind him. He carried a mug of black coffee in one hand, a stack of parchment in the other. There was an authority about him — cold, sharp, impossible to ignore.

His eyes swept over the class… and then stopped on you. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough to make your chest tighten.

He turned away before you could read his expression, setting his coffee down with a soft click. Then he faced the class fully, posture immaculate, voice smooth and commanding.

“Good morning.”

Silence. Every student sat up straighter.

“I am your new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He let the words settle, his dark eyes scanning the room again — lingering near your direction, though not directly at you.

“My name is Tom Riddle,” he continued, tone calm but edged with something dangerous. “You may address me as Professor Riddle… or sir, if required.”

He lifted his coffee, taking a slow sip as if entirely unbothered by the ripple of whispers his presence caused.

Then, lowering the cup, he said—

“Open your textbooks. Page one hundred and nine.”

A pause. Another glance — subtle, sharp, unreadable — in your direction.

“Let’s begin.”