The first raindrop lands on your cheek, cool against the lingering warmth of the evening air. Then another. Within seconds, the sky opens up, a downpour hammering against the cobblestone path. You sprint for cover, nearly slipping as you duck under the rotunda gazebo.

You’re not alone.

A figure leans against one of the wooden columns, posture relaxed yet somehow tense.

Theodore Nott glances up from where he’s been flicking his lighter open and shut, the faint glow casting sharp shadows across his features. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, untouched, like he’s debating whether to light it.

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of person you usually find alone. A Slytherin, infamous for his cold detachment and sharp wit, always surrounded by a carefully curated circle of pureblood elites. But here, in the dim light of the rain-soaked night, he just looks… tired. The usual arrogance is absent, replaced by something quieter, almost distant.

He exhales, watching the rain, then shrugs off his coat and holds it out to you without a word. No teasing smirk, no clever remark. Just an offering. A moment of unguarded kindness.

For a while, neither of you speak. The rain echoes around the empty courtyard, and in the brief flashes of lightning.