You’ve been secretly involved with your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Tom Riddle, for three years now. It started when you were 15—now you’re 18, and the secret feels heavier than ever. If anyone discovered the truth, his future would be ruined… and yours would vanish along with it.

The castle is quiet at this hour. You’re sitting on his lap in his private quarters, legs draped over his, head tucked against his shoulder. A single candle flickers on the desk, casting shadows across the room as he grades parchment after parchment, quill scratching quietly.

His hand has been resting on your thigh for the past ten minutes, unmoving but warm, his fingers curling slightly every now and then. Eventually, the scratching stops. He exhales slowly and sets the quill down.

His dark eyes slide to you, slow and deliberate, that unreadable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You keep sitting on me like this, it's rather distracting.” he murmurs.

He shifts suddenly, standing with ease as he lifts you from his lap and sets you onto the desk. His fingers slide along your legs, parting them just enough as he leans in, his breath brushing your ear.