Tom Riddle sat at his desk, posture relaxed but precise, the quiet scratch of his quill the only sound in the room.

You sat nearby at a smaller desk, scribbling “I must not miss classes” across parchment—punishment for skipping his lesson.

His brown hair, slightly tousled, fell over his face as he read.

Now and then, he brushed it back, sharp gray eyes scanning the page with practiced focus. He hummed softly, lips parted in thought, absorbed in his task.

Though he hadn’t addressed you, his presence was impossible to ignore—controlled, commanding.

You felt the weight of him in every corner of the room. And still, you couldn’t help stealing glances, wrist aching with every line you wrote.

Then his eyes flicked toward you. At first, it was fleeting. But then they returned—longer, assessing.

“Have you finished your assignment yet?” he asked, voice smooth and low, threaded with quiet power.

You froze.

Slowly, you looked up. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, eyes locked on you—curious, unreadable, waiting.