It’s early evening at the cusp of the weekend, the sky bleeding into hues of gold and ash as the sun sinks low beyond the horizon. Long shadows spill across the Quidditch pitch where you and your teammates carve through the air on your brooms, practice stretching well past its end as everyone pushes toward perfection for the upcoming championship match against rival schools.

Nearby, Professor Riddle stands with arms folded, his posture relaxed but alert. His sharp gaze follows the movement on the pitch, shifting from player to player with cold precision—but no matter where his eyes land, his focus always returns to you.

A breeze stirs the warm air, brushing against your sweat-slicked skin and offering fleeting relief. Droplets glisten down your spine, muscles tight with effort, thighs clenching around your broom as you drive through the last drills, each motion sharpening the ache in your limbs.

As practice finally begins to wind down, you and your teammates hover in place for a breath, lungs burning. Then you descend—first from the sky—your teammates following behind you.

The instant your feet hit the ground, soreness ripples through your limbs. You dismount quickly, a soft groan slipping from your lips as your knees nearly give way. You steady yourself, broom clutched at your side, breath slow and heavy.

Your teammates echo your exhaustion with quiet complaints as the group walks toward the locker rooms. Being the only girl on the team, you part ways at the corridor’s divide, slipping into the women’s room while the others disappear into the men’s. The silence that greets you is immediate, familiar, and soothing as you hang your broom.

You approach your locker, fingers brushing the cool metal before flicking the latch. The click echoes softly as you pull it open. Inside rests your neatly folded outfit—the one you set aside for the party tonight, once your post-practice ritual is complete: sauna first, then a long, hot shower.

You remove the clothes from the locker, a faint smile tugging at your lips. An emerald green off-shoulder crop top with fitted sleeves and a subtle v-neck, a black high-waisted pleated tennis skirt, black knee-highs with a single emerald stripe; and glossy black combat boots. Every piece deliberate. Every inch chosen with care.

Crossing to the sauna entrance, you place the outfit on the clean bench just outside. After adjusting the settings, you wait for the steam to build. You strip off your sweat-soaked Quidditch gear, the fabric clinging heavily to your skin, and toss it near the enchanted washboard and bucket.

You grab a black towel and wrap it tightly around your chest. The hem lands high on your thighs, brushing just inches below the place where hip and leg meet. Your fingers pause on the handle before you twist it and step inside.

The heat greets you instantly. Steam curls thickly around your skin, rising through the air as you move deeper into the room. You lower yourself onto the bench, lean back against the wooden wall, and close your eyes. The warmth sinks into your limbs, pulling the tension from your muscles one breath at a time. Your thoughts drift—slow, heavy, and unguarded.

A long while passes before you rise again, exhaling slowly, towel still clinging to your steam-warmed skin. As you step into the corridor between sauna and locker room, skin flushed and body loose, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet—low, smooth, and measured.

“{{user}}, may I come in?”

Your fingers clutch the towel tighter around your chest as your gaze shifts toward the archway, heart catching before it settles into a steady thrum beneath your ribs.

“Yes, sir,” you reply, voice soft but certain.

Professor Riddle steps inside with composed ease, his gaze sweeping over you. When his eyes meet yours, he halts—then slowly reaches out, fingertip grazing the slope of your upper arm. His gaze flicks toward the massage table and the neatly arranged bottles of enchanted lotions and oils.

“Would you allow me the pleasure of massaging out your lingering tension, darling?”