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Tom Riddle is the most attentive student she’s had so far, and considering she’s been teaching for the tail-end of a decade, Harry feels as if that’s worthy of some sort of recognition.
And she’s given it; remembering details that she was prone to immediately forgetting, her tendency to mix up names notorious enough to be referred to as ‘her form of hazing’.
He’s a two year transfer, joined her more prestigious university midway through his degree after garnering all the credits he needed at one outside the city, far out enough to offer full-ride scholarships to anyone with a pulse- or so she’s heard. With his exceptional grades he’d been accepted on full-ride again, a considerable achievement considering how frugal the university board was, too busy hoarding all the money to afford their spouse’s lifestyles, to pay off their degree and dough seeking mistresses.
Harry had thought her per-class pay out was insane at first, a perspective that hadn’t lasted long. Not when the university's admins were all drunks, who saw any woman, employee or not, much like one does a vase, with the sole purpose to stand there and look pretty, without the capability of overhearing their chortling tales of folly- of which, they had many.
Riddle had quickly become one of the few students she looked forward to hearing from. His answers were always insightful, his essays always eloquent, edging on verbose in the best way. Out of all the students in her fourth-year criminal justice classes, he consistently sets the curve for all of her exams, often leaving his peers in the dust.
He’d upset Malfoy’s son massively, something she remembers with fondness. As Harry walks into the empty classroom- far too small, private to be the lecture hall she often used- she can feel the faint ringing of her former classmate’s voice in her head, complaining about upstarts ruining his Lucius’ future, this and that.
If only Malfoy knew just how much of an upstart Tom Riddle really was.
It’d been entirely accidental- it’s not as if she knew that her valedictorian was doing things that qualified him more as a valedicktorian! Harry cringes at that, more than she had when she’d woken up, remembered eager fingers and many, many zeroes, and his sweet, performative moans. Fuck, she thinks. Fuck.
It’s an early start today, so she’s had less time than usual to lie in her bed, contemplating such things like midlife crises, her student being a camstar- a good one, at that- and how she hadn’t put off getting off for another day.
That she’d instead taken a closer look at his profile, allowed a swell of familiarity at the distinctive shape of his lips, the elegant length of his neck, and clicked and clicked. She’d thought about the pretty curve of his cock while brushing her teeth, and it’d taken her last alarm going off for her to realize she’d been standing there abusing her gums for a good five minutes.
Setting her bag down with a thump, she allows herself to fall, squatting down against the classroom’s familiar desk, forehead bumping against its edge. Her heels are shaky beneath her, of a professional length but still abominably thin. Her arches just weren’t quite right to wear them no matter how many years went by, the instability perpetual.
Her frustration at it all- sexy student and stupid stilettos- warms her, anger manifesting as flashes of tension around her body, fingers scratching at the edge of the desk, pulling a few of her stray hairs into their grip. She winces, hastily disentangling her curls, before going right back to pulverizing her nails into wood.
“Fuck,” Harry groans, shaking her head as if the motion could change reality, disavow it of the notion that she’d finger fucked herself to sight of her student thrusting into a fleshlight. Worse still was what came after. She’d been so taken aback, hit with the perpetual awakening of mind one is doomed to experience after some good goddamn lusting, her guilt and desire melded into one horrible emotion she wouldn’t be surprised to know was the inspiration for some devious sub-circle of Hell. It led to Harry typing her pin into the dodgy, malware ridden camsite and donating enough pounds to cover at least two months of London rent- maybe even a nice trip to the Bahamas. Both, if Riddle budgeted well enough.
That she hadn’t even had to make an account on-live to do so, because as soon as she’d connected the dots, Harry had signed up without hesitation, only just tipsy enough to wave it all off in her mind. She’d even added the site to her anti-malware’s ‘allowed list’, and Harry is not going to spiral about that too-
A voice clears somewhere above her, and she startles, freezing into place. “Professor Potter?” He asks. Always early to class, always chatting her up in that charming, courteous way that had likely eased the path for him with other professors. Other professors who had never seen him come, other professors who weren’t currently crouched down looking very much like an imbecile.
Clearing her throat in response, grabbing an imaginary pen, forming a fist around it, she stands quickly, shoving it into one of the open side pockets of her messenger bag. “Pen fell out,” She explains, not looking up, hands brushing down the length of her pencil skirt, brushing away similarly imaginary dirt.
If only she could so easily rid her mind of its filth, she thinks, half-mournfully and half-appreciatively as she slowly raises her gaze up his body, pretending to be slightly disoriented from her former position.
“Riddle!” She exclaims, as if it’s a surprise to either of them that he’s arrived- a glance at her watch- twelve minutes before class is supposed to start, a good ten minutes before any of his peers.
“Professor Potter.” He repeats, with a certain air to his voice, as if amused. Tom Riddle often sounded like that when speaking, as if he was clued into a joke no one else knew. She’d first thought it wouldn’t make him very popular around his peers, that alienable smugness, but she’d learned very quickly that this student of hers had many voices, many faces.
All of them annoyingly attractive, she thought, somewhat bitterly.
“Can I help you?” She set herself to the task of opening her bag, sliding her personal laptop and other class essentials out of it. Her voice is strong, unshaken, and part of her is surprised by that. The other part that’s been bullshitting before she even knew the meaning of the word, just rolls her eyes.
“Thank you for the offer, Professor,” He leans in a bit, eyes made startlingly clear by the classroom’s fluorescent lights, “I’m just loitering, however,” His tone lightens up, a smile playing at his lips. “Don’t mind me.”
She gives him a cursory brow raise, but that’s it. Dutiful in her role of easy-going professor, making no comment of his unusual proximity, his unusually good mood, she simply steps away, connecting her laptop to the projector.
She has some slides today, some cases to present, but her doing so- notorious as she was for simply talking on and on without aid- was enough to attract Riddle’s attention again, him wandering over after having set his bag down, claiming his usual seat right in the middle, right in front.
“You’re using the projector?” He asks, and she tries not to let the faint incredulity offend her.
Distracted by the unfamiliar start up of her new laptop- an impulse purchase, after she’d taken a good look at her padded bank account, a good look at her sparse, landlord beige apartment, and decided that proving her therapist wrong, from the one time she’d tried therapy out at Hermione’s insistence, meant less of a genuine lifestyle change and more of ‘buying shit as a way to counter her so called scarcity mindset’- she simply hums in lieu of a response.
He quiets, as if recognizing that as the placeholder it is. The thought startles her- most of her students weren’t even observant enough to notice the little extra credit she left in her syllabus, already set up with trust-fund futures and nepotistic careers- when had he gotten so familiar?
When had seeing Tom Riddle’s face, lingering before and after his classes, popping in during her office hours, become expected?
More to distract herself than offer any coherent conversation, she says, “Typically I wait till we’re closer to the end of the semester, but we’ve managed an unusually fast pace. You might have noticed,” This is slightly sardonic, they both know he has, “The lack of a formal description for the final exam.” He nods, she glances back down at her laptop, typing her passcode in with one hand, rummaging around her bag for the HDMI cable with another.
“I never officially announce it because I never officially decide it, not until the end. Keep this to yourself, but the cases you’ll all be assigned today, how you treat those, will factor into my decision.”
It’s a test of the levity they apply- a mimic of how in the real world, every detail that comes to them matters, every missing person, every eye witness report. Harry knows that the majority of her students go on to law school, but for the fraction that don’t, that keep their feet on the ground, she does her best to instill a sense of respect, for each moment, each breath.
Those who give it their all, truly put their mind to solving, to scouring over the cases she’s created, they’ll pass and that’ll be it. Everyone else- depending on the number who fail- will either sit down with her, a one on one verbal exam carefully curated to target their weaknesses, or will be given the hardest paper test of their life, cruel with every topic they cover.
“Influencing your decision in regards to whether we’ll all have a final exam, or who will?” He inquires, sharp enough to already know the answer, sly enough to want to confirm it.
Looking up from her laptop as it loads up, unlocked, she has a fond look on her face, about to chide him for prodding, when her brain clicks into place, dread rushing through her veins. She yanks out the HDMI cable, but her quick thinking doesn’t save her, not when Riddle is angled just so that she has no doubts he can see the entirety of her screen, even if just in his peripheral.
A screen with last night’s window still booted up, that she manages to close, fingers whip-quick and shaking, but not quick enough.
She can tell by how he freezes, back suddenly straightening from the comfortable slouch, fingers no longer spayed where he’d been leaning, transferring some of his weight to her desk instead of standing straight.
She’d barely registered what had been on her window- but with whatever luck she had, probably the last dregs of it- it had just been the generic homepage of the camsite. Scandalous, but not personal.
Harry breaths out a shaky laugh, mind whirring as she thinks of what to say, something to lighten the mood, “Of all the students for this to happen with,” She says, eyes intent on her generic wallpaper, refusing to make eye contact, “It’s the only one I can’t bribe with extra credit.”
Riddle unfreezes, her words breaking him out of his stupor. He slips off her desk, putting space between them, but he huffs, a harsh unsettled thing, but one that inadvertently soothes her. Even if stilted, he went along with her. It lets her know he’s not about to go marching off to the dean’s office, demanding her head for impropriety.
He’s saved from responding as Malfoy’s son prowls in, shirt starched and slacks ironed, looking the very image of his father’s son, if not for the sunglasses and the perpetual hangover he’s sporting. Both are as familiar as the snobby leather case he’d been bringing with him since the first day he walked into one of Harry’s classes.
Eternally oblivious, he doesn’t note the tense air, instead greeting her politely- the kiss ass- and sending a half-scowl, half-smile at Riddle. Lucius is cowed by his intellect, but makes no effort to disguise his disdain for anyone that doesn’t have a bloodline traceable to the times of William the Conqueror.
Who doesn’t have authority over him, at least. His father had treated Harry very similarly during their time at university; until of course, he’d gotten his then-girlfriend, now-wife pregnant with Lucius, fell out with his own father, and had to resort to living like ‘the plebeians.’
Everything that was long forgotten, considering that the funds Lucius used to buy his Savile Row wardrobe hadn’t been made anytime this century.
Riddle- she would say scurried over, but even in shock he moved with a refined sense of self she felt vaguely envious of- goes over to his seat, ignoring Lucius as usual, but unusually, pulls out his phone. His head is bowed, and she has the sense he won’t be interacting with her just as much as they’ve both grown used to for quite a while.
Well, Harry thinks, damning her past self for turning down a separate work laptop from the university, that could have gone a lot worse.
His fingers don’t shake as he swipes up, hastily inputting his password into his phone, but as it unlocks, Tom has to pause, collect himself.
It can’t be, he thinks, but the odds aren’t on his side. His brain has always been a cage, once something crawls in, there’s not a chance it comes out. Useful, but occasionally, it allowed unsavory moments to linger in his mind, locked in. He isn’t sure which is which now, if the lurid pink banner of the site he’d used to afford everything his scholarships didn’t cover, and the handle at the top right of his professor’s screen meant anything.
He’d never allow evidence of his association with camming to be found on his phone, there’s no app to tap into, no bookmark on his browser. Quickly tapping on his VPN- any protection is better than none- he swipes back, opening a private window. It’s easy enough to type in the site, and, ensuring he’s using his mobile data and not the university’s public wifi, he logs in with his credentials, ignoring the faint shiver of disdain at the sight of loverssssboy.
He’d attempted a few anagrams, had used one for a while, but most expected a gimmick when they clicked on an account with the name lord_voldemort, not the pale off-white background of cheap housing, and pale fingers wrapped simply around cock.
Quickly, scowling at the site’s lag, he navigates to his donation history, eyes scouring. He’s expecting it, his mind hasn’t been wrong before, but seeing the exact same letters in the exact same order still tenses his back, fingers tightening around his phone. With a mind too aware of how expensive it had been, he carefully releases his grip, fingers loosening. Closing out of the window, swiping out of the app, and turning off his phone, he looks up at his professor, watching as she fiddles with her laptop, demeanor seemingly calm and collected.
It’s a stark contrast from the frustrated woman he had walked in on, kneeling and muttering; it’s even starker from choosing_one, who had typed in the chat, demanding him to come, before dropping enough pounds to pay for all the physical textbooks he could dream of until he graduated.
They make eye contact, and it’s with a shameful anger slowly morphing into curiosity that he notes how her pupils- not blow out, exactly but- bloom, before her jaw grinds, muscle ticking as she looks away.
A slow little smile bites at his lips, but he doesn’t let it show. Curious, he thinks, in the same detached manner he had when he’d discovered porn, when he’d discovered boyishly sweet looks transforming into sharp and seductive allure and allowed himself to consider a non-traditional summer job, positively sick of retail.
Curious.
Like all things that have ever intrigued him, he looks into Professor Potter. Even before he’d realized she’d joined one of his streams, even before she’d joined another. It was his default to investigate those who held power over him, and university was ripe with dubious authority figures.
His easily bribe-able RA aside, Potter had seemed bland at first, another faceless academic. Her career wasn’t renowned, she wasn’t old enough for that, but she had carved out an admittedly impressive niche in her field.
Tom had wondered why she’d been so focused, obsessed even, with the interpersonal aspect of justice. Her first class after he’d transferred had been rather impassioned. Her stare bored through. She’d been greatly off putting, all scouring eyes and wild gestures.
Her attempt to pull him aside, offer materials from her other classes he’d have missed, being a transfer, had been met with quiet disdain. He’d barely bothered to hide it behind his eyes, but she hadn’t reacted aside from a slight tilt of her head.
She smiled, and it wasn’t meant for him, he felt. She didn’t avert her eyes, but she looked him up and down, offering a similarly quiet dressing down.
“You’ll do well here,” She spoke, softly like it was an afterthought, turning away from him. Her voice was bland, a sudden and stark contrast. For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of the papers she’d offered being shuffled together, carefully placed back into a folder, into her bag.
“Why is that?” Tom had asked, almost impulsive, watching as she straightened. She turned back, but it wasn’t to answer. Her face was impassive. It reminded him of her faculty photo on her department’s website, the polite expression but defiant tilt of her head, the raise of her chin.
"I'll see you next class, Mr. Riddle.”
She did, she would.
Now, in his final semester, he’d grown to know her better. Intelligent, comfortable with herself, prone to little bouts of conspiracy. Tom knew she’d make a great reference, she was naturally charming. Not in the conventional, non-offputting way, but very few could deny her, not when she didn’t let them. Perhaps, if they stayed in contact after his graduation, she’d make a decent co-author one day.
Now, as his heart pounded in his ears, unusually nervous as he set up his tripod with practiced motions, another possibility came to mind.
One he didn’t quite mind.
She was a creep. A pervert of the highest denomination, the pope of fucking stalkerdom; of breaking boundaries and becoming a ‘teacher wants student’ cliche on legs.
But she still signed in, eyes glazing as she typed in her drunkenly created username. She’d had to change her password after that first night, her idiocy having decided swiping her hands across her keys, uncaring of the input, was the wise choice, instead of taking a moment. There had been no moments to spare in her mind then. Only money. Lots of money.
Harry is a hypocrite. A horrible hypocrite. She’s just dropped another fifty pounds and Riddle has just pulled off his fleshlight again, leaving himself flushed, cockhead weeping. It’s been delightfully tortuous, watching him edge at her behest.
Looking him in the eye next class was future Harry’s dilemma.
Tom enjoys the attention, on some level. It’s a perversion of power dynamics, the inadvertent leverage he holds over what should be an authority figure. He looks at her, as he presents his final case, how he’d handle it, how it could be solved.
Her eyes are distant, avoidant, only slightly, and it could be attributed to exhaustion, to a late night grading papers, but Tom knows what kept her up, and it wasn’t something so inane as whatever rubbish his peers had submitted.
It’d been him. They’d been in the one-on-one chat room he’d never deigned to use before, and she’d been ruthless- like she always is- demanding him to abandon climax, time and time again.
Domineering, in and out of the classroom. It was interesting to learn that her control issues ran so deep; had been frustrating, when his play-acting moans had turned real, and all he wanted to do was keeping fucking into the the pocket pussy his subscribers had paid for.
He’s getting tired of the distance, though. The distinct unreality of it all- especially since the semester is coming to an end, his chance to turn this into something more than just a professor’s dirty little secret slipping through his fingers.
If she’s surprised to see him linger after class, she doesn’t show it. Tom hadn’t done so in a while, not since she’d turned on her laptop and his camsite was there, in all its hot pink glory. There’s a part of him, one that’s never let anyone have control of him- not truly, not for long- that is desperate to turn this all on its head. To have her, to give her what she’s been begging for. To fuck her over her ugly, blocky wooden desk.
He smiles, a seductive thing. It’s the one he only ever uses on his streams, or before he fucks someone. Tom’s not sure which one she recognizes, but Potter goes a little stiff, resuming packing up her belongings where before she had paused.
“Will anyone have to take a final exam?” He asks, leaning forward a bit. Not enough to intrude on her personal space, but to poke at it.
She hums, taking a moment to slide her laptop into her messenger bag, before looking up, face amiable but blank.
“That’s privileged information, Mr. Riddle.” Her tone is serious, too serious, and she seems to realize this, blank face offering a little grin, “Wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m playing favorites, now would we?”
She hands him the perfect opening. Really, it’s remarkable the amount of incidents this woman seems to stumble into, all vulnerable, neck practically bared and ready to bleed.
He lets his own bag drop to the desk, hands planting onto the wood as he hovers. He pauses, letting his actions hang, gain heft. She stiffens even more, her eyes sweeping across the room. Tom can see the moment she realizes they are well and truly alone- curiously, she doesn’t stiffen further. Instead, her jaw relaxes, fingers ceasing their slight tapping against the grain of her desk.
“You are, though.” Tom says lightly, voice a little airy, tone a little dangerous.
Her eyes harden, the bit of amusement that had leaked into them evaporating. She has really beautiful eyes, he notices vaguely, the way one considers a pretty flower in a field full of snakes.
“I am?” She asks, and while it’s phrased like a question, she says it more like a statement. Some cold hard truth neither of them can deny. Maybe, just maybe, they’re on a closer wavelength than Tom previously assumed.
“Well, I’d hope so.” He says, coming a little closer, already eyeing their bags and thinking how to best get them off the desk, “I’d be wounded if I wasn’t the only student you want to fuck. I’ve always been an exception, and I’d hate to become a statistic after all this time.”
Her pupils blow. Black against a thin green ring, persistent against the bright lighting.
“That’s quite an accusation Mr. Riddle.” She says, almost hostile, but she grabs both of their bags, gently placing both of them on the floor. She must have seen his considering gaze. Her actions are so stark from her cool words.
He wonders, distantly, if the confidence to tell him to thumb his slit like a good boy comes from the anonymity of camming, rather than from within herself.
Tom nudges to the side of the desk anyways, swinging himself up and over until he’s sitting on it, directly in front of her. He smiles, and it’s with all of his teeth.
“Who ever said anything about accusations? Really," He lilts, tone perfectly condescending, “It’s more of an invitation, Harry.”
Her hand shoots out, grabbing his jaw with surprising force. Her simple manicure, a classic red in short stiletto, curve, indenting into his skin.
“Professor," She hisses, voice just as violent, ‘’I am your Professor, and you will treat me with respect,” She stops, a momentary lapse, before a little smile pulls at her lips, a cross between acceptance and annoyance, “Whether or not I’ve seen your pretty cock.”
Success. She’s admitted it, and that’s half the game. The rest, well, with the way her hand has begun to slide down, settling comfortably against his neck, the way she’s leaned forward in her chair, lips parted, seems to be underway.
“You’ve seen, but you’ve never touched. Go ahead,” He leans into her hand, forcing her nails to dig deeper into his flesh, “Free of charge. Professor.” He adds, purposely as if an afterthought.
“Free of charge,” She muses, standing from her seat, hand sliding from his throat to his shoulders, the other quickly joining, “Free of charge is a description for something I haven’t dropped thousands of pounds on, Tom.”
She’s standing, and with him sitting, they’re about equal height. She comes closer, and closer, and Tom feels his pulse pick up a bit. Her lips are centimeters away and he can almost taste her chapstick, the generic brand she always applies before and after class.
“I’m glad that we agree.” She says, without discernible context. Tom feels a little muddled, slightly dizzy with adrenaline. He’s never going to have to worry about a good reference ever again.
“On what?” He asks, mouthing against her lips.
“That I bought you.” And then she’s kissing him, all filthy like, in a manner even academics like her, with their wild eyes and quick wit, shouldn’t be capable of. She licks deep, tracing over the soft and sensitive parts of his palate, and Tom’s response is lost, muffled by her tongue.
Her hands, they feel as if they’ve multiplied. Her nails scratch down his collarbone, tugging at the collar of his shirt. They slide down his biceps, feeling, squeezing. There’s a distance between their bodies, one he hadn’t even noticed until she fills it, stepping forward one last time, pressing against him.
She’s almost unbearably warm. She presses up against him, hands momentarily stilling as she raises her arms up, laying them on his shoulders, hands folded and resting on his back. Her breasts push up against him, and, as an attempt to regain some modicum of control, he goes to grope them, to tease.
She bites without warning- as a warning. Sharp teeth into soft lip, piercing his flesh without remorse. He stifles his surprise by using his wandering hands to pull her forward, destabilizing her, deepening their kiss.
It’s rough, and he desperately needs to breathe, but it feels good and tastes like potential.
As if she heard him, Professor Potter pulls away, licking away the string of saliva connecting them as she does so. She doesn’t even look ruffled, as if she regularly debauches her students, regularly leaves their lips swollen. He wishes he had messed up her hair, had undone her bra. Anything to make her reflect what he feels like: a little bit of a mess.
“You’re so pretty.” She murmurs, a certain wondering tone to her voice. Unexpectedly, he flushes, choosing to swallow down any attempt at a sly response. Instead he plants his hands on the desk behind him, leaning backwards in a manner he knows is enticing. He’s all spread out, her between his legs, his body presented.
But she steps back.
“Log on tonight. I’ll be waiting,” Is what she says, bending down to pick up her bag, voice light and cooly civil, as if she’s just assigned some reading, and not ordered him to lube up his cock and fuck-toy and await her command.
She straightens up, ridding him of the view of her ass, pupils still blown but brows stern.
“And don’t make this a habit.”
Tom feels his shoulders tense, muscles wound up like when he was younger and had to deal with threats in more physical, distasteful ways. She softens a bit, some emotion briefly quirking her mouth up.
“I have office hours for a reason, Mr. Riddle. Use them.” As if he’s just stayed behind to ask her for help on his assignments, she imparts her wisdom with all the grace of the average patronizing professor that graces their university’s halls, before turning on her heel, pencil skirt swaying a little.
He doesn’t even realize he’s hard until he’s out the door too, swiftly grabbing his bag and swinging it over his shoulder, eyes intent on his watch, calculating the fastest route to his next class.
If there’s one thing he’s learned, Tom thinks with a faint smirk, is that it pays to be early.