The door to Professor Riddle’s office creaked open, spilling warm candlelight across the corridor’s stone floor. You stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, your arms folded and chin tilted just enough to match the challenge sparking in your eyes.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you said, voice threaded with mock suspicion, “I’d think you were obsessed with me, Tom.”

He didn’t immediately answer. The quill in his hand slowed, then stopped entirely, his gaze lifting from parchment to you with a quiet, deliberate precision. He leaned back in his chair, the faintest curl of amusement tugging at his lips.

“I don’t think you should speak to a professor in that way,” he replied smoothly. “Perhaps… titles are in order.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch upward. “Which one should I use…Professor… or pathetic?”

A beat of silence. His dark eyes studied you, unblinking, like he was deciding whether to laugh or to ruin you. Then, his voice dropped low.

“You could call me… yours.”

The words hung heavy in the room. You stayed perfectly still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction, though you were certain he could hear the subtle hitch in your breathing.

He rose from behind the desk, unhurried but with that predator’s precision, letting his gaze drift down the length of you before meeting your eyes again.

“I think detention is in order,” he said.

Your brow arched. “For what exactly?”

“For whatever comes to mind when I think of you in my classroom… alone.” His smirk deepened as he stepped past you to close the office door with a quiet click. “Tonight. Don’t be late.”