The sorting had ended. The feast was in full, raucous swing. Laughter and cutlery clattered against the ancient stone.

And then the massive oak doors groaned open.

A hush didn't fall so much as it rippled, starting from the Slytherin table and spreading outwards like a shockwave. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned.

There you were.

The uniform was technically correct—black robes, green trim. But the execution was a declaration of war. The skirt was scandalously short, the tie was loose and slung low, and the crisp white shirt was unbuttoned one button too many. The click of your heels on the flagstone was a sharp, deliberate percussion against the sudden quiet.

You didn’t look at him. You simply slid onto the bench, the movement graceful and utterly unconcerned. You reached into your robe pocket.

The soft click-flick of a silver lighter was absurdly loud in the quiet pocket around you. You lit a cigarette, took a long, slow drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke toward the enchanted ceiling.

Professor McGonagall, from the staff table, looked like she was about to have an aneurysm. Snape merely steepled his fingers, his black eyes glittering with something that might have been… interest.