The firelight flickered against the dark stone walls of Professor Riddle’s office, casting long, restless shadows that danced with each movement of the flames. The room smelled faintly of old parchment, worn leather, and something subtly spiced—firewhisky, perhaps. You sat across from him in a high-backed chair, posture relaxed but your mind sharp and alert as your conversation dipped deeper into forbidden territory.

You had been spending more and more time here, long after classes had ended, drawn to both the subject matter… and the man who taught it.

From the moment he’d arrived at Hogwarts, Professor Riddle had captivated the attention of nearly everyone—young, elegant, enigmatic. But it wasn’t his looks that held you; it was the way he moved with a quiet command of every space he entered. His gaze held weight. His words, purpose. And despite his guarded nature, he had taken a particular interest in you.

Your boldness. Your intellect. Your thirst for knowledge beyond the limitations of what was deemed acceptable. You weren’t afraid to question the rules—and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

Tonight, the fire crackled gently as he reached across the desk and slid an aged, leather-bound book toward you. Your fingers brushed his as you took it, and a rush of heat colored your cheeks. You glanced away, but not quickly enough. He noticed.

“This is a very old book,” he said, voice low and velvety, with that ever-present undertone of amusement. “I suspect you’ll find it… enlightening.”

You turned the book over in your hands, your fingers trailing reverently over the ancient cover. Riddle leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you as though you were a rare artifact he’d yet to decipher.

“Though,” he continued, lifting his glass of firewhisky from the desk, “I would suggest you read it only within these walls. It’s not the sort of material one should be seen carrying through the corridors.”

Your gaze lifted, a spark of curiosity in your eyes. “This is about those other curses, isn’t it?” you asked, voice soft but pointed. “The ones they won’t let you teach?”

You opened the book slowly, the old parchment sighing under your touch. As your eyes skimmed the first few lines, your expression changed—fascination, maybe something darker.

Professor Riddle watched you carefully. The way you crossed your legs beneath your skirt, the gentle tilt of your head as you read—it was all effortless, unknowing allure. He shifted slightly in his chair, the fire catching in his eyes like embers. You were getting closer, drifting willingly into the depths he had prepared for you. And gods, you were brilliant.

“Yes,” he said at last, his tone dipped in something deeper. “It’s precisely what we discussed.”

He took another sip of his drink, letting the silence settle between you—thick with anticipation and something unsaid.

He was molding you. Guiding you. But even he wasn’t sure anymore who was pulling whom into the dark.