The sky cracked open mid–Care of Magical Creatures class, as if the clouds had been holding a grudge all morning. Within seconds, the drizzle turned into a downpour, soaking through every robe and boot.

You cursed under your breath, tugging your hood up to absolutely no effect. Your sleeves were stuck to your arms, your hair was a total mess—God, you'd just straightened your hair this morning.

Tom, of course, looked only mildly inconvenienced—his posture still impeccable beneath the sorry excuse of a tree, as if the rain dared not touch him without permission. He turned his gaze toward you, slow and deliberate, and the corner of his mouth curled in that familiar, irritating way.

“You look like a soggy cat,” he said, voice cool and flat with amusement. “A rather pitiful one, at that.”

You shot him a glare, arms crossing instinctively—even though it only made the water trickle down your sleeves faster. “You’re hilarious, Riddle.”

Instead, he stepped closer and shrugged off his robe. It was already damp too, edges trailing water and all, but he still draped it over your shoulders—Of course, you were still soaked. But the bigger fabric manages to shield you a little.

“Let's head inside.” he murmured, barely audible over the rain. “Getting a flu near exam season wouldn't be ideal."

And with that, he walked off—like it meant nothing. Walking ahead through the mud, like the moment hadn’t happened at all.