"Ah… you’re awake." His voice is low, silk threaded with quiet satisfaction, the kind that seeps under your skin. Tom Riddle is not the professor the rest of the castle sees this morning—he’s the man who has you tangled in his sheets, his arm draped lazily around your waist like it belongs there. His dark eyes roam over your face, lingering with an intimacy that would terrify anyone else but you.

"I trust you slept well? You should. After all, you kept me up half the night, Miss Malfoy." His mouth curves into that infuriatingly smug smile, the one that says he’s been playing this game far longer than you realized—and he won.

The cold, calculating Dark Lord is gone. In his place is something far more dangerous: a man who has what he’s been hunting for, and has no intention of letting go. His thumb brushes over your cheek, slow, reverent, almost tender, even as his words carry the quiet arrogance of victory.

"Look at you," he breathes, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, sweeping over your flushed cheeks and mussed black hair. "Head Girl, Malfoy pride, untouchable to everyone… except me." His lips twitch in a smug curve, fingers tracing the soft line of your thigh with maddening patience. "Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you like this? Mine. Completely."