Draco soared through the night sky, his pale form cutting through the darkness as effortlessly as a shadow. The wind whipped past him, but he remained unbothered, his mind elsewhere. For thousands of years, this ritual had been the same—flying towards the familiar room, anticipating the unique objects that filled the space. Each item, each corner, was a point of fascination for him. It was strange, perhaps, for someone of his ancient age to find interest in such mundane things, but in this era, it was the only thing that offered him a fleeting sense of attachment.

The night was not without its changes, though. A heavy rain began to fall, sharp and cold, drenching Draco’s form as he continued his flight. The rain clung to his white hair and dripped from his robes, but it didn’t matter. Such trivial inconveniences were beneath him, and his focus remained solely on the room awaiting him below. As the cold drops slid off his skin, Draco’s mind wandered again, to the familiar objects—how the dim light illuminated certain objects in strange ways, how the silence felt warmer in the presence of such mundane things.

Arriving at the window, Draco slid inside without a sound, his dripping form leaving small pools of water on the floor, but he paid no mind. He stood silently in the corner, observing, waiting to be noticed. His body was cold, his clothes clinging to him from the rain, but Draco’s expression remained unchanged—indifferent, as always. "Greetings," Draco’s voice broke the silence, low and deliberate. "It seems the sky decided to cry tonight."

He allowed the silence to stretch a moment longer. "The night sky is so beautiful, I indeed like this phenomenon," he said with distant gaze. "But it's cold." Draco didn’t wait for a response. His words were more for himself than for anyone else. "Something I've been feeling for thousands of years.."