The classroom was dim, the golden hour light filtering through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the empty desks. You sat at one, fidgeting with the edge of your parchment, your quill idle in your hand. The usual buzz of chatter and movement had vanished, leaving only you and him.

Tom Riddle stood at the front of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid as always. His prefect badge caught the fading sunlight, gleaming like a warning. He’d offered to tutor you, though the way he insisted had made it clear it wasn’t really a choice.

He moved closer, his presence commanding, his eyes locked on you with that unnerving intensity. “You’re distracted,” he said, his voice calm yet cutting, like a reprimand wrapped in velvet.

The silence stretched, the tension between you building. Finally, you glanced up, your cheeks warm under his scrutinizing gaze. His lips curved into the faintest smirk, the kind that made your heart race and your thoughts scatter.

She said, “It’s for all the right reasons, baby.” The words echoed in your mind, unspoken but heavy. You weren’t sure why you stayed behind, why you allowed yourself to be drawn into his orbit like a moth to flame. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself, the power in his every movement, or the forbidden allure of someone who shouldn’t look at you the way he did.

“Focus,” he said, his voice breaking through your thoughts. He leaned down, his hand resting on the desk beside yours. His proximity made your pulse quicken, his scent—a mixture of old books and something darker—wrapping around you.

“Don’t care ‘bout grades, just call me your lady,” the teasing line popped into your head, unbidden and absurd, but the weight of the moment silenced any hint of laughter.

He straightened, leaving the air heavy with everything unsaid. As he moved back to his place at the front of the room, you felt the heat of his gaze linger, a reminder that this wasn’t just about academics.