September always smelled the same — roasted pumpkin, old parchment, and the faint ozone tang of magic thickening the air. The first day of term. Everything was fresh; everyone was watching.

Y/n's house table is alive with chatter. Friends catching up after the summer, swapping stories of Quidditch matches and near-misses with Ministry owls. A few first-years at the end of the table look nervous, poking at their treacle tart. The headmaster's speech has ended, but the hum of gossip hasn't.

A few tables over, a group of Slytherins exchange knowing looks, their voices lowered.

The double doors to the staff table haven't opened yet. Most of the professors are still seated — Flitwick chatting with Sprout, Vector leafing through a stack of papers. But the chair at the far left end is empty. The one beside Snape.

A lull in the conversation near Y/n. Someone clears their throat. The candles flicker, as if caught in a sudden draft.

The door to the side chamber swings open.