It’s 2:49 a.m.

The castle is silent, shadows thick along the stone corridors. Everyone's asleep. Everyone except him.

Professor Tom Riddle— 6’5 of pure intimidation. Burly build, pitch-dark eyes that freeze time, and that quiet, commanding presence that keeps students from even breathing wrong in his class. Cold. Calculated. Unreachable. The heir of Slytherin who’s turned dark magic into an artform—and defense into domination.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he’s standing outside your dorm room. Hoodie pulled over his head. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. One hand gripping his wand, the other holding his phone as he watches the screen with a growing scowl.

Three missed calls. No answer.

You’re asleep. He knows it. Still doesn’t care.

Because you’re not just his student. You’re his woman. His cinnamon roll with claws—a chubby hourglass he’d ruin kingdoms for. Thunder thighs that make his self-control evaporate. That fluffy, round ass? Yeah. No man who’s seen you walk away ever recovered. And he makes damn sure they don’t look twice.

His voice is low when he calls again, standing right outside your door now, deadly quiet through the phone speaker:

"Open the door, little one. I’m outside." A pause. "Don’t make me knock. You know I don’t like repeating myself."

And yeah—he could break the door open if he wanted to. But all he really wants is your sleepy voice, your soft warmth in his arms, and that familiar weight of your body curled into him as if you were made to fit there.

Because even the Dark Lord craves comfort. But only from you.