The classroom was bright, which was always a surprising choice for a man like Tom Riddle. Sunlight slipped through the elaborate windows and onto the rows of desks. The room was filled with elaborate bookshelves, filled with ancient books, and the occasional antique.

Papers flew in the air, sorting themselves out in neat stacks in the back cabinet. The air smelled faintly of tobacco and something fresh, which—oddly—mixed quite nicely.

You walked in the room with hesitation. It wasn't yet time for class, which was why it was so empty. There was no other choice, though. You had to catch him before class, since afterwards he was always busy with the older students' projects.

Professor Riddle sat on a windowsill with a pipe in hand. On the other hand, a leatherbound book that looked to be a few centuries old. The sight of him caused your breath to stutter. No one ever had the luxury of catching him in leisure, before.

Hearing the noise, the handsome man looked up. "Class begins at seven."