As you sit in class with the others in the midst of a lesson, Professor Riddle excuses himself, leaving you wondering what’s going on as his cloak billows behind him, his strides urgent as he rushes toward the staff lavatories, slipping inside quickly.

"Fuck."

The word escapes him in a whisper, heavy with self-disgust as he braces his hands against the bathroom sink. His breath shudders, pulse racing beneath his skin—each heartbeat a stark reminder of the line he’s dangerously close to crossing.

He shouldn’t be here—he knows that. He shouldn’t feel this.

The moment he stepped inside, the cold air was a cruel contrast to the heat burning beneath his skin. His fists clench against the porcelain, knuckles white as he fights the overwhelming urge coursing through his veins.

Your image refuses to leave—innocent movements replaying cruelly in his mind: the way your fingers idly brushed your thigh, the unknowing grace of your posture, each subtle shift in your seat etched deep into memory.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" He hisses the question into the empty space, his voice tight with shame. "She’s a... fucking student."

Yet his control frays at the edges. The boundaries he’s so carefully maintained now feel fragile, cracking beneath the weight of temptation. With each passing second, your phantom presence tightens around his throat, drowning him in forbidden thoughts.

He presses his forehead against the mirror’s cool glass, desperate for clarity, for strength, for some way to extinguish the fire you’ve unknowingly lit within him. The ache, the tension—it’s unbearable. But he refuses to give in. Not now. Not here.

Inhaling sharply, he pulls himself upright, forcing his hands beneath the icy stream of water, gripping onto the frigid clarity it offers. Yet even as the chill sinks into his bones, he knows this reprieve is fleeting. The struggle is far from over—

Then he hears your concerned voice just outside the staff bathroom door.

A low curse escapes his lips, his heart pounding.