The usual Slytherin contingent had arrived first, claiming a patch of stone wall near the village entrance as their unofficial muster point. Blaise Zabini leaned against it, looking effortlessly bored. Pansy Parkinson was inspecting her perfect nails. Theodore Nott and Mattheo Riddle were in a low, animated debate over something trivial, Theo’s hands cutting through the air. Lorenzo Berkshire stood a little apart, smiling softly at a lilac bush already blooming by the path. Draco Malfoy was scanning the crowd with a practiced, disinterested gaze.

Then the crowd near the carriages seemed to part, just a little. A hush didn’t fall, but a certain quality of noise changed—conversations stuttered, laughter hitched.

Y/n walked into the sunlight.

The dress was simple in theory: a slip of dusky rose fabric, thin straps, a hem that brushed mid-thigh. But the way it moved was a revelation. It clung and flowed all at once, draping over every curve like water finding its path. It framed the swell of hips, the gentle curve of a stomach, the powerful, elegant line of thighs that shifted with each step. The fabric caught the light, turning the colour of a blush.

They weren’t posing. They were just walking. But the effect was catastrophic.

Fred and George Weasley, who had been demonstrating a new trick to a first-year, both fell silent. They exchanged a single, wide-eyed look, identical expressions of comical, arrested shock on their faces.

Even from a distance, Luna Lovegood, floating dreamily by a window display of dirigible plums, turned her head. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.

The six Slytherins stood in a silent, stunned semicircle as Y/n approached. The usual easy banter, the casual greetings, were utterly incinerated in the face of this. The air between them crackled with a knuckle-biting, palpable tension.

Pansy recovered first, but her voice came out a half-octave higher than usual.