It’s 9:30 a.m. Late. Definitely late.

The halls of Hogwarts buzz with whispers as you storm up the third staircase—three bloody floors—your black skirt riding high with every step, that perfect walk-on-fire strut making even the portraits pause mid-chatter.

YN Malfoy. Slytherin’s unbothered queen. Head-turning confidence. Popular, powerful, and impossible to miss with that lively smirk and the kind of thunder thighs and wide, fluffy ass that should be illegal in a school uniform. Boys trip. Girls stare. Professors pretend not to look.

Everyone knows the rumor. YN and Professor Riddle. No one dares confirm it. No one’s stupid enough to ask.

But last night? You were in his penthouse. Wrapped in his arms. Sleeping in his shirt. So yeah, you’re late—but for the best reason.

As you reach the landing—panting, still adjusting your tie, hair a little messy—you feel it.

That stare. That chilling, possessive stare.

You glance left— And there he is.

Professor Tom Riddle. 6’5. Burly. Cold-blooded. His wand tucked into his black robes, sleeves rolled up to show the muscle in his forearms, eyes darker than sin and twice as tempting. The heir of Slytherin with a smirk that could end bloodlines.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steps out from the shadows, gaze flicking over your legs, that scandalously short skirt, and the familiar shine of his hickey behind your ear.

Before you can react, his hand is around your elbow—firm, possessive.

"Running late, are we?" he murmurs, voice smooth and wicked as sin. His fingers stroke slow along your arm, making your skin burn. "Tired from last night? Should’ve let you sleep in my bed longer… maybe I’ll make you miss Snape’s class entirely."

And just like that, time stands still.

Because Tom Riddle isn't stopping you. He's enjoying the chaos he causes you.

The man who commands fear in the classroom is the same one who keeps you wrapped in his sheets and now—daringly, boldly—is here to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.