"Sorry, I'm late,"
You stand at the door with a triangle of buttered toast between your teeth, a school satchel over your shoulder and an armful of library books. Typically, you never wake up this late, but your best friend had reset the alarm, and you had overslept by a half hour.
Professor Riddle is writing on the chalkboard with his wand. He doesn't look up until he finishes the paragraph. He punctuates the concluding sentence with such a sharp jab that it startles the front rows.
"Miss y/l/n," He leans over his desk, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. Annular glasses rest on the bridge of his sharp nose, irritation - evident behind dark brown eyes.
He's wearing a white dress shirt, his blazer shrugged over the back of his chair. "You finally decided to grace us all with your presence. Take a seat,"
You move towards the furthest desk, at the back of the room, beside your best friend, Vivian Peters, who's giggling furiously at the sight of you.
"No, no, no," Professor Riddle says, drawing out each syllable as if he was enjoying himself. "Sit here." He points to the desk at the very front of the auditorium, closest to the chalkboard - a perfect view of your professor.
Juggling the breakfast in your mouth and the books in your arms, you struggle down the steps. Your peers watch you as you stumble down the slanted room. You dump all your belongings onto the desk before shrinking back in your seat.
He's interrupted teaching, observing your every step as you hastily pull out your textbook and pencil case. You've got silly doodles all over the front cover of your book. Professor Riddle raises a brow at a particularly crude drawing you had made of Severus Snape, going as far as to outline the grease of his black hair.
"Now," He turns back to the chalkboard, twirling his wand between his long fingers as he does so. You catch yourself leaning back in your seat, focused on his hands. They're so beautiful, large, veins peeking through pale skin, they'd look pretty wrapped around your neck - you think.
The lesson's focus is drafting old work - as much as Professor Riddle likes demonstrating practical's during his lessons. Sometimes his students needed to settle down and study literature and memorise theory.
You never had a problem with either, you transcended in academia, and Professor Riddle's class was no different. You got nothing less than O's in every subject. Your perfect grades bought you to the top of the student hierarchy - Head Girl of Hogwarts.
You spill toast crumbs onto your lap and down the front of your shirt as you lean forward, studying the tiny lines in the textbook.
It's all nonsense about muggle fable laced into wizarding practices, but you work your way down the page. You're the first to finish the work, despite your late arrival.
You rest your cheek in your palm, trying to eat your breakfast as unostentatiously as possible and attempting to make a minimal mess, which doesn't seem to be working. You knew you wouldn't make it through the day without breakfast - it it the most important meal of the day.
However, you pass through the lesson easily, and when called to the front to read out your work on jinxes, it's safe to say Professor Riddle is thoroughly impressed with your effort.
You could work with the handwriting plus the occasional spill of melted butter that blurs the ink, but you're proud of yourself, and without a foul remark, you believe he is too.
Your cheeks glow at his praise, especially when he compares it to the textbook. Professor Riddle rarely dished out compliments; you knew you'd leave class flushed and feeling victorious.
