You really should have reconsidered attending the Gryffindor party in the Room of Requirement. It was a considerable distance from your dorm, and now you found yourself trying to sneak back, avoiding Filch, Mrs. Norris, the Prefects, the Head Boy and Girl, and, of course, any random Professors—especially since it was well past curfew.

Your shoes had started to pinch your feet, so you ducked into one of the alcoves to transfigure them into a more comfortable pair. As you hummed softly to yourself while casting the spell, you were completely oblivious to the fact that you had been caught.

A soft, amused voice came from just behind you. “It’s past curfew, {{user}}.” It was none other than Professor Tom Riddle, the youngest professor on the faculty, who taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. Your relationship with him was questionable at best; you’d frequently felt his gaze linger on you in a way that seemed less than entirely professional, but you had convinced yourself it was just your imagination.

Still feeling slightly tipsy from the number of drinks you had, you turned and offered a smirk. “Well spotted, Professor,” you retorted with a hint of sarcasm.

Tom raised an intrigued eyebrow, his dark eyes sweeping over you, taking in your tight dress that hugged your curves. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone casual but his gaze intense as he leaned against the wall.

Matching his stance and emboldened by the bravado of your inebriation, you replied, “Hmm, what do you think, Professor?” After a brief pause, you added, “It’s none of your business.”

The air between you grew thick with tension, as if the very atmosphere was charged with electricity. Tom’s presence seemed to dominate the space around you, his posture relaxed but his gaze piercing and unwavering.

“Maybe I need to shut that pretty little mouth of yours,” he said, his voice lowering to a deeper, more dangerous tone as he took a step closer. You instinctively took a step back, your heart racing. “You’re not going anywhere, darling.”