Then the doors swung open.

At the head of the group, a tall, striking girl with silvery-blonde hair and a proud chin — Fleur Delacour — seemed to absorb all the attention. But behind her, slightly to the left, another figure moved with less flourish.

Y/N walked with the others, just another blue-clad stranger in a foreign hall.

At the Slytherin table, a figure sat perfectly still. Draco Malfoy's grey eyes moved slowly over the procession, not with the overt hunger of some of his housemates, but with a quiet, measuring sort of interest. He scanned each face in turn — dismissive, unimpressed — until his gaze landed on you.

He blinked.

His fork, halfway to his mouth, froze.