The classroom air shifted the moment the door creaked open. Late—but unapologetic. That’s how Tom Riddle entered any room. Standing tall in his black robes with that effortless menace he wore like a second skin, coffee in one hand, your Stanley mug—yes, your mug—in the other. He didn’t even blink as every head turned toward the door.

And there you were beside him.

His woman. Mrs. Riddle, as half the castle called you now—even the professors, who flinched when Tom so much as narrowed his eyes. You were the cinnamon-roll contrast to his darkness—soft, sweet, flushed cheeks, and curvy in a way that made even portraits do double takes. But right now? You were an adorable mess. Hair half-tamed, the ribbon bow in your hair barely hanging on, lips pouty, voice hushed and distracted.

You (murmuring, oblivious): "Baby, have you seen my gloss—" You stop.

The class is dead silent. Lockhart’s frozen mid-smile, caught somewhere between awe and terror. Every student is watching you, eyes wide.

Tom doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t even glance at them. He just smirks—subtle, chilling.

---

Tom Riddle (voice low, velvet-smooth): "Keep staring and I’ll hex your eyes out."

He says it like it’s a casual promise. Not angry. Just… matter of fact.

You, still flustered, instinctively tug your black turtleneck higher—trying to hide the marks he left last night. Tom notices. His jaw flexes, smug. Possessive. Eyes darker than ever.

He sets your Stanley mug down gently on the desk in front of you before taking his seat, one arm casually draped over the back of your chair.

Tom (without looking away from the front of the class): "Sit down, Mrs. Riddle." (Said with that chilling softness that somehow sounds like both a threat and a vow.)

And just like that, the room breathes again—carefully. No one dares comment. No one dares look too long. Because everyone knows... you're not just his. You're his obsession. And nothing in this castle is more dangerous than a Riddle in love.