summary:: reader's father invites professor Riddle over. He doesn't know his Well behaved daughter is dating her professor.
warnings:: professor x student, age gap, filthy af smut lmao, 18+
The classroom breathed in shadows. Dust motes wandered lazily through the golden afternoon light, as if time itself hesitated to pass through these walls — reluctant to disturb the stillness that had settled over desks ink-stained and solemn.
Y/N sat motionless, eyes fixed on the half-filled parchment before her, though their mind drifted far from words and wandwork. There was a weight in the air — not from the lesson, but from him. From the way he moved between rows like a thought that wouldn’t let go, silent and precise, all darkness and deliberation.
Tom Riddle did not speak often, but when he did, the room listened as though the walls themselves leaned closer.
“Time,” he said at last, his voice smooth and quiet, like the first drop of ink on clean parchment. “Essays. Leave them here.”
The scrape of chairs followed — the familiar shuffling of escape. A soft murmur of relief. But not for Y/N.
As she rose to leave, hand brushing the cool wood of the desk, his voice reached her again. Lower this time. Private.
“Miss Y/L/N,” he said, his tone carved from curiosity and something harder. “Remain.”
The door sighed shut behind the last departing student. Silence, again — but a different kind now. Closer. More intimate.
Y/N turned, slowly, like someone called back by name in a dream.
He stood with the elegance of a blade resting on its edge, one hand resting lightly on the desk, the other folded beneath it — posture relaxed, yet coiled.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
She didn’t answer immediately. The word avoiding was too deliberate. Too sharp.
She leaned back against the door after closing it behind her, her fingers still resting on the brass handle, as if measuring the weight of the silence before her.
“I’ve been breathing,” she said at last. “That’s not the same.”
Tom’s gaze flickered to her face, then back to the shadows between them. He didn’t move. He never did when he held the advantage.
“And yet,” he said quietly, “you look like someone who’s been holding her breath for days.”
She crossed the room slowly, not in surrender, not in defiance, but in something more dangerous: knowing. The kind of knowing that only exists between two people who’ve spent nights unraveling each other in silence and in heat, and who’ve learned to fear what follows the morning.
“You want something,” she said, stopping just beyond reach. “You always do.”
Tom didn’t deny it. Instead, with the slow, precise motion of someone revealing a move long prepared, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a single envelope.
The parchment was heavy, elegant. Ministry seal. Her father’s signature in unmistakable, impatient strokes.
He held it out to her as if it were nothing more than a passing curiosity.
She took it without a word, fingers brushing his — brief contact, deliberate tension. Her eyes scanned the contents, each line tightening something inside her chest.
Dinner. A formal invitation. Her father, all formality and veiled curiosity, inviting Tom Riddle to their home like he was just another promising young man and not the living embodiment of all the unspoken things she could never admit out loud.
“‘I would be honoured to receive you this Thursday at seven. I believe we have much to discuss,’” she read aloud, voice flat.
Riddle watched her — not smug, not triumphant. Just quiet. As if waiting for her to catch up to something he already knew.
She turned the letter in her hands, once, twice, then looked up. “Why?”
A single word, precise, level. But beneath it, a hundred unspoken questions.
Tom tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”
“Why did he invite you?” she asked, sharper now. “My father doesn’t do polite gestures.”
“No,” Tom agreed. “But Horace Slughorn does.”
The name landed between them like a dropped stone.
Her fingers tightened on the parchment. “Slughorn.”
“Who else?” Tom’s voice was smooth, unhurried. “He collects people. And when he can’t keep them, he introduces them to others who might.”
The realization clicked into place like a lock turning, and Tom saw it—saw the moment she understood.
She didn’t speak for a long moment, only watched him — carefully, quietly. Then a corner of her mouth curved upward. Not a full smile. Just the beginning of one.
“You are,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re doing that thing with your thumb again.”
He looked down without meaning to — his thumb pressed just slightly against the side of his index finger, a motion so small it was almost nothing. But not to her.
She grinned, all wicked amusement now. “You want to impress him.”
“I want access,” he corrected.
“Which means,” she said, tilting her head, “you want to impress him.”
He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.
She touched his collar, adjusting it like she had every right to. “Don’t talk too much. He hates people who sound like they’re proving something.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “I am proving something.”
“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “That’s why you have to act like you’re not.”
A pause. Her voice softened, but only a little: “And don’t smile unless you mean it. He’ll know.”
He looked down at her, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you trying to help me or sabotage me?”
She leaned in, lips just near his ear.
“Who says I can’t do both?”
Tom let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer, then said, “And what’s he like? Your father.”
She let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re asking me now?”
He said nothing — just waited.
She stepped back, arms loosely crossed, as if needing distance from her own answer.
“What do you think?” she said. “He’s exactly what you’d expect from a blood supremacist Slytherin who clawed his way up the Ministry like it was his birthright.”
“Charming,” Tom murmured.
“Oh, he is,” she said, sarcasm curling at the edge of her voice. “In that cold, immaculate, politically untouchable sort of way. He speaks in veiled threats and thinks compassion is a weakness you beat out of children by age twelve.”
Tom tilted his head slightly. “So you’re saying we’ll get along.”
She met his gaze. “I’m saying he’ll recognize you. Even if he doesn’t know what you are, he’ll know that you are.”
He smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her — softened, despite herself.
“You would,” she muttered, stepping closer. “You always do.”
Tom didn’t move away. His smile faded into something quieter, something less practiced.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. She reached up — a small, almost absent motion — and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered just long enough to mean something.
Then she leaned in and kissed him — not hungry, not dramatic. Just warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that wasn’t asking for anything, only marking the space between them as theirs.
When she pulled back, she said, “Don’t be charming tonight. Be dangerous.”
He looked at her, the ghost of a smirk returning. “Darling, I never stopped.”
The dining room was exactly what Tom had expected. Dark wood. Crystal decanters. A silence so carefully maintained, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.
Her father sat at the head of the table, back straight as a blade. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single expression wasted. He looked at Tom as one might examine an antique wand—valuable, but potentially volatile.
Y/N sat to the side, in quiet observation, glass untouched. She wore nothing expressive, and yet she seemed to burn brighter than the candles.
“Tom,” her father began, voice low and steady, “Slughorn speaks of you often. I must admit, I was curious.”
Tom inclined his head with just the right degree of humility. “That’s generous of him. Professor Slughorn has always had an eye for talent.”
Her father gave the barest nod, the kind that said: And I’ll decide for myself if he was right.
They spoke of inconsequential things first — the rise and fall of this or that department, a new magical regulation Tom pretended to be concerned with. But every word was a test. Every smile a blade.
“You seem quite... forward-thinking for one so young,” her father said, sipping his wine.
“I don’t see much use in looking backward,” Tom replied. “History only teaches what happens when people lack vision.”
Her father smiled — faint, almost approving. “Indeed.”
Y/N said nothing. But she watched Tom closely, like someone watching a storm from behind glass.
At one point, Tom caught her eye. Just for a second.
She raised her brow, subtle, amused.
You're enjoying this, it said.
Her father set down his glass with the precision of someone who disliked unnecessary movement.
“And how is she in your class, Mr. Riddle?” he asked, voice casual in the way a dagger might be considered a decorative accessory. “I assume she participates.”
Tom didn’t even glance at her. “She’s exceptional,” he said, smooth and immediate. “Sharp. Focused. Rarely distracted by the trivial.”
Y/N gave him a sideways look, one brow lifted just slightly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’m not,” he said. “But your father might be.”
Her father didn’t react — not outwardly. He turned his gaze to her instead. “I expect excellence, you know that.”
Y/N leaned forward just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet you never ask me how I’m doing. Just whether I’m performing.”
The room stilled. A pause, long and deliberate.
Tom spoke then, softly: “She’s not just performing, sir. She’s outpacing most of the class.”
Another silence — deeper now. Not awkward. Just heavy.
Her father nodded, but it wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment. “Good.”
Y/N picked up her wine, sipped it slowly, and said, “You don’t have to worry. He trains us well.”
Riddle’s mouth twitched — a flicker of amusement. Her father didn’t catch it. Or chose not to.
The conversation had drifted back to policy — some dull bureaucratic reshuffling that neither of them had any real interest in.
Y/N didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Instead, her hand moved — slow, deliberate — beneath the linen of the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of Tom’s trousers. Just resting, at first. Casual. Almost dismissible.
Tom stiffened the slightest degree — a flicker, nothing more. His jaw tightened as he turned his wineglass slowly between his fingers, saying something polite about international Floo network regulations.
Her hand moved upward. Barely an inch.
He glanced at her, just once, from the corner of his eye — a look that said, Now? Really?
She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t even smile.
He inhaled through his nose, a breath so soft it wouldn’t register to anyone else — except maybe her father, who had spent a lifetime reading the smallest changes in men’s composure.
But Tom didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop talking. He just gave her a look — one raised brow, mouth set in that tight, don’t test me line.
And still, she moved higher.
He placed his hand — calmly, purposefully — over hers, halting her progress. Squeezed once. A warning. A promise.
She finally looked at him then, eyes bright with something between mischief and triumph.
Dinner ended not with dessert, but with dismissal. Her father folded his napkin with military precision, then stood.
“Riddle,” he said, voice crisp, “join me for a cigarette.”
Then, to Y/N, sharp and final: “Bed. Now.”
She opened her mouth — not to protest, but to say something, anything — but Tom caught her gaze, gave the barest shake of his head. Not here.
She lingered a second too long, then rose. Her footsteps were quiet as she left, but her presence clung to the room like perfume.
The terrace was cold and dark, lit only by two hovering orbs of enchanted light. Her father took out a silver case, offered it silently. Tom accepted, wordless.
The first inhale came with silence. The second with smoke. The third, finally, with words.
Her father spoke without looking at him. “You have plans.”
Tom exhaled slowly. “Of course.”
“I don’t bother with the small kind.”
That earned him a small grunt of approval. Or recognition. Hard to say.
“What field?” the man asked, flicking ash into the dark. “Ministry? Academia? Power like yours doesn’t stay long in classrooms.”
Tom’s gaze lingered on the horizon. “Classrooms are useful. People don’t watch you closely when they think you’re just a teacher.”
“And when they start watching?”
Tom smiled faintly. “Then I’ll already be somewhere else.”
“You don’t want a post. You want position.”
Tom turned to him now, face calm. “I want reach. I want leverage. I want freedom.”
“Freedom?” the man repeated. “Strange word, coming from someone who follows so many rules so precisely.”
Tom met his eyes. “Rules are tools. You don’t smash a door if you can unlock it.”
A long silence followed. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with understanding.
The old man tapped the end of his cigarette against the iron railing, eyes never leaving the night.
“And legacy?” he asked. “Do you care for that sort of thing?”
Tom didn’t answer immediately. He watched the glow at the end of his cigarette dim, then reignite.
“Legacy is inevitable,” he said. “If you're worth remembering.”
“But some prefer to shape what they leave behind.”
Tom glanced at him. “You mean heirs.”
The man didn’t deny it. “You’ve built the mind. Built the name. Eventually, you’ll need the line.”
“So,” her father said, eyes on the darkness beyond the terrace rail, “is there a girl already?”
Tom didn’t look at him. “Pardon?”
“You’re young,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sharp. Ambitious. Someone in your position—well. People will want to attach themselves.”
“I imagine they will,” Tom said calmly.
“And have you let anyone?”
A long pause followed — not of hesitation, but of deliberation. Then:
Her father studied him, a sliver of smoke curling between his fingers. “Strange. A man with your... charisma.”
Tom allowed himself a smile. “Charm and attachment are rarely the same thing.”
“Eventually. If it’s useful.”
She climbed the stairs slower than usual. Not because she was tired — far from it. Her pulse was annoyingly loud in her ears, and her skin prickled with a kind of static that refused to settle.
That thought had been repeating itself like a spell ever since her father had mentioned the guest room. Just one word — guest — but said with such clipped finality, as though it meant nothing.
Because the guest room was next to hers. Just a few quiet steps away, separated by nothing but old plaster walls and a hallway that creaked in two places.
She opened her door and closed it behind her gently, then leaned back against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
Her room was the same as always — books half-stacked on the desk, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill, bed not quite made. But it felt different. Like it was holding its breath, too.
She moved with too much purpose, adjusting nothing and everything — smoothing the coverlet, brushing invisible dust from her vanity, catching her own reflection and looking away too fast.
She sat on the edge of the bed, then stood. Sat again.
Of course he would. Tom didn’t leave things half-finished. Especially not her.
She crossed the room in measured steps, fingers grazing over the wardrobe’s handles before pulling it open.
The cool air inside touched her skin as she reached for the nightgown she hadn’t worn in months — silk, pale, almost translucent where the light hit it just right. It was too delicate for sleep, and too deliberate for coincidence. But tonight wasn’t about sleep. Not really.
She held it up for a moment, watching how it swayed slightly in her hands. Then slipped it on.
The fabric slid over her shoulders like a whisper. She shivered — not from the cold, but from the knowing. The weight of intention.
She let her hair down next, the pins clinking softly into her palm one by one. The mirror caught her eyes, then her mouth — a tilt of something there, amusement or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.
She dabbed a little perfume on her wrists. Not her usual one — something sharper, older. The kind that lingered.
Then she turned down the lamp. Not out — never out — but low enough that the shadows could settle, stretch. Wrap the room in something softer.
She sat again, this time near the window, one leg folded under her, the other bare foot grazing the floor.
She waited the way a flame does — steady, quiet, and entirely ready to burn.
The hallway creaked once. Then silence again — too perfect to be natural.
She didn’t move. Not yet.
Then: the softest brush of knuckles against wood. No knock. Just a touch.
Her door opened a fraction, slowly, deliberately — not waiting for permission.
Tom stepped inside like the shadows were holding the door for him.
His jacket was gone. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing the lines of his forearms — precise, composed, and somehow more intimate than anything else about him. His eyes swept over her, pausing at the curve of her knee, the drape of the silk.
He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him.
“I thought you’d take longer,” she said, voice low, barely carrying.
“I didn’t want to,” he replied.
He moved closer, not hurried, but with certainty. His presence filled the room long before he reached her.
“I see you got ready for bed,” he said, glancing down at the nightgown, a smile ghosting over his mouth.
“Didn’t plan to sleep.” Her gaze didn’t leave his. “Did you?”
He stopped just before her — close enough for the air to shift, for the quiet to catch fire between them.
“No,” he said. “I came to ruin that plan.”
She stood slowly, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. He didn’t step back. He never did.
For a moment, they just looked at each other. No words. Just breath and space and the heavy, aching pull between them.
Then her hand came up — fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, barely touching. She wasn’t pulling him closer.
He leaned in. Not hungrily, not urgently — but with that terrifying precision of his, as if he'd calculated the exact degree of heat in the air between them.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t brutal either. It was measured — the way one tests the strength of a lock before breaking it. His lips pressed to hers, slow, sure, and utterly in control. But there was tension beneath it — like something barely held back.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
He deepened the kiss then — just a little. Enough to taste the edge of what he wanted. Enough to tell her he could take more. Would. When he chose to.
When they broke apart, his mouth lingered close, breath warm against her cheek.
“I’ve had to pretend all night,” he murmured, voice low and sharp. “Don’t make me pretend in here.”
"You don't have to." She pushed herself up onto tip toes, giving him a light kiss. She needed him.
He was hungry, lust overwhelming him. He kissed her back,intense. His hand found her hip, keeping her close. He pushed her back slowly against the bed, both of them falling into a heap. She watched him kick his loafers off and strip off his shirt before he climbed above her.
Tom slid her gown down, his eyes flicking over her. As he pulled it up he let out a small exhale astounded by her body.
His mouth lowered, a trail of small kisses forming along her breasts. His jaw rubbed against her nipple, causing her to let out a small gasp.
"You gonna let daddy down there know your professor is fucking you?" He murmured against her skin.
"You already did." He smiled in a wicked way.
then he dipped his head lower, kissing lightly over her chest and stomach, down to her hip.
She pushed his head down between her thighs, opening her legs up to him. He wanted to make her beg.
He let his tongue reach out, slowly gliding through her folds and she pushed her hips up, desperate for more. He worked slowly, wanting to taste her, like the first time. He found her clit, pressing himself against it momentarily as she gasped.
"You okay sweetheart,I heard you gasp" Came a noise from outside.
Fuck,fuck, fuck. She though.
"Answer him,doll" his voice vibrated.
"Everything's fine,thanks dad" She muttered. Then an answer came the last time. "Okay,good night."
She settled back into his touch as his hand found her hip, pushing her back against the bed. His other hand came up to her pussy, his middle finger slowly pushed into her entrance. She let out a small moan."Don't say anything about what just happened with my dad"
His finger found a rhythm, as he added another, filling her up. Tom lowered his mouth back to her clit. A small suck of it lifted her hips up from the bed. "Do I look like I want to talk about your damn father?"
His fingers curled into her, as he sucked on her clit again. His tongue came back to lick against her folds. He enjoyed her whines.
As he sucked against her clit for the final time, her orgasm washed over her.
She sank back into the bed. He kissed her lightly.
