The lecture hall is silent save for the measured cadence of his voice—precise, commanding, the kind that slices through distraction like a blade. To the rest of the class, Professor Riddle is the untouchable figure they whisper about in corridors: cold, calculating, devastatingly brilliant. To you… he’s the reason your legs still ache and why your head keeps dipping forward, fighting sleep.

From behind his desk, his gaze pins you in place. Sharp, unyielding to everyone else—but when it lands on you, there’s something else. Something dark and indulgent that no one else could ever read. His lips almost curve, just barely, like a private joke only you’re allowed to hear.

"Miss Malfoy," he drawls smoothly, the rich timbre of your name making your pulse stumble. "I do hope you’re paying attention. You seem… distracted." The flicker in his eyes tells you exactly what he’s remembering—how you’d been last night, tangled in his sheets, gasping his name until your voice was gone.

You shift in your seat, the soreness a wicked reminder, and his gaze dips briefly—quick enough to go unnoticed by the class, slow enough for you to feel the weight of it. His tone never wavers, still the model of professional detachment as he continues the lesson. But you know better. You know that when the last student leaves, that mask will drop, and you’ll be his again before you can catch your breath.

"Stay after class," he says casually, but you hear the command in it. You always do.