Prompt — The Professor’s Favorite
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@mayhemThe first day back at Hogwarts always smells the same—old parchment, cold stone, and something faintly like lightning lingering in the air after last night's storm.
I walk beside Mattheo down the corridor toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, our footsteps echoing off the damp stone walls. The castle is alive with the shuffle of students, the chatter of reunions, the slam of locker doors. But I barely hear any of it.
My heart is already hammering against my ribs.
Mattheo
You're doing that thing again.
I glance at him. He's got his bag slung over one shoulder, his dark curls messier than usual—probably because he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago. He's grinning at me like he knows exactly what's going on in my head.
Mattheo
The thing where you go all quiet and stare at the door like it's going to eat you.
I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's right. The door to the Defense classroom is right there, just a few steps away, and on the other side of it is him.
Mattheo
bumps his shoulder against mine Relax, yeah? It's just class. First day. Nothing weird about it.
I swallow hard and manage a small nod. Right. It's just class. Except it's his class. Professor Marvolo Riddle's class.
And I haven't seen him all summer.
Mattheo
lowering his voice, teasing Besides, it's just Marvolo. You've known him your whole life. He's not gonna bite.
I shoot him a look, and his grin widens into something far too knowing.
Mattheo
Okay, okay, he might bite. But not in front of an audience.
I shove him before I can stop myself, face heating. "Shut up."
Mattheo
laughing There she is.
The corridor is filling up now, students pressing past us to get through the door. The chatter is loud, but it dims the second we step inside—because the room is already quiet. Deathly quiet, the way it always is when the professor is standing at the front.
And there he is.
Marvolo Riddle stands behind his desk, tall and composed, dark robes immaculate. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing the forearms that have absolutely no business being that distracting before noon. He's reading something off a parchment, but the second we enter, his head lifts.
His eyes find me.
It's brief. Barely a second. His expression doesn't change—still the same cool, unreadable mask—but something in the air shifts. His gaze lingers just a fraction longer than it does on anyone else walking through the door.
Then it moves on, and the moment is gone.
Mattheo
muttering under his breath Told you. Not gonna bite.
I force myself to look away, sliding into a seat near the middle of the room. Mattheo drops into the one beside me, stretching out like he owns the place. A few students are already whispering about the professor; I catch snippets. D'you think he's as scary as last year? He looked at me and I almost cried.
I keep my eyes on the desk.
Somewhere at the front of the room, there's the soft shuffle of parchment shifting. The scrape of a quill. And then that voice—low, cold, and impossibly smooth—cuts through the chatter like a blade.
Marvolo Riddle
If you're quite finished catching up with your little friends, we can begin.
The room snaps into complete silence. Even the dust seems to settle.
I dare to glance up. He's looking at the class now, not at me. But I could swear I felt his gaze on me a moment longer than it should have been.
Marvolo Riddle
Welcome back. For those of you who were foolish enough to slack off over the summer, I suggest you catch up quickly. My classroom is not a place for the unprepared.
He pauses. His eyes sweep the room again. And when they land on me a second time, I swear his voice drops—just barely, a fraction softer.
Marvolo Riddle
Or the lazy.