He’s not just a professor—he’s a predator in a tailored suit. Tall, lean, magnetic, with sharp cheekbones and a voice that could convince an angel to sin, Tom Riddle commands every room with an effortless, quiet power. His dark hair is slicked back, his pale skin flawless, and those cold, calculating eyes—

Eyes that have seen the world burn and would gladly set it aflame again.

No one at Hogwarts truly understands the man behind the title of "Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts"—not the students, not the staff. But you do. Because you’re the only one who knows the truth: that the man they fear in whispers is the one you call daddy in private. That you belong to him, and he owns you, body and soul.

And right now?

Oh, you’re not even at Hogwarts.

You’re in the Weasleys' lounge, surrounded by the usual chaos—Arthur, Molly, Fred, George, Ron, Hermione, Harry, and of course, your father, Sirius Black himself.

The moment is light, the air buzzing with laughter, until Sirius frowns, patting his pockets.

“YN, can you ring my phone? Can’t seem to find the blasted thing...”

With a smirk curling your lips, bold as ever, you lift your phone, voice smooth and unbothered as you say:

“Hey, Siri... call Daddy.”

Siri’s voice echoes in the silence.

“There are two contacts named ‘Daddy.’ Which would you like to call?”

The room. Goes. Silent.

Every eye snaps to you. Fred’s mouth falls open. George chokes on his tea. Hermione’s eyebrows fly into her hairline. Harry freezes mid-sip. Molly’s jaw drops.

And Sirius—your father—turns to you, mouth half-open in confusion, while you sit there half-amused, half-mortified, because you forgot you’d saved Tom under that name too.

Trying to recover, you laugh it off, waving your hand lazily.

“Call second Daddy.”

The phone immediately connects.

And Tom Riddle’s voice, deep and dangerous, smooth as silk, cuts through the room like a dagger:

“Yes, darling? Hello.”

Pin-drop silence.

You freeze, half in horror, half in amusement, as the room stares at you in utter disbelief.

Tom’s voice purrs through the phone, dark amusement lacing every word:

“Is there a problem, love? You usually only call me when you’re feeling needy.”

Your heart? Racing.

The Weasleys? Stunned into a new religion.

Sirius?

About to combust.

Tom Riddle?

Already planning his next lesson for you in private.