You were the last to leave his classroom—again. The others had filed out, footsteps echoing down the corridor. But you had lingered, gathering quills a little slower than usual, pretending not to notice how Professor Riddle’s gaze lingered longer than appropriate.

And then you saw it.

A letter.

Folded once. No name. Just waiting—deliberate and still—on your desk.

His handwriting was unmistakable. Precise. Controlled. But the words?

They were anything but.

“You are far too clever not to have noticed.”

You froze. Your heartbeat quickened.

“The way your eyes scan the room like you’re searching for something. The way your fingers twitch when you’re thinking, when you’re angry, when you’re trying not to speak. I’ve seen it all. Observed. Learned.

You carry yourself like someone who wants to be underestimated. But I see you. And I wonder if you see me, too.

I shouldn’t write this. I’ve told myself that many times. But watching you pretend—pretend not to feel the pull, pretend you aren’t aware of how often our eyes meet—has become exhausting.”

You looked up, but he was gone.

“You make chaos look obedient. You walk into every room like it should answer to you. And perhaps… perhaps it should.

Do you know what it does to a man, to want something he shouldn’t even consider wanting?“

The parchment trembled in your hands.

“You have infiltrated places in my mind no one has ever reached. This should alarm me. Instead, it fascinates me.

There are rules I live by. Lines I do not cross.

But for you… I would burn the parchment they’re written on.“

The ink isn’t even dry. And now you have a choice.

Ignore it. Pretend you never saw it. Or answer the question he never dared to ask:

Will you cross that line with him?