Which was to say, you didn’t remember it at all.

Vaulted ceilings enchanted to look like a crisp, early-September sky. Four long house tables, buzzing with the chaotic energy of the first feast of term. The smell of roast meat, pumpkin juice, and old stone.

You stood just inside the massive oak doors, your trunk at your feet. The weight of a hundred stares began to settle on your shoulders.

The buzz didn’t die so much as it fractured. Conversations stuttered into silence in pockets, spreading outwards like ripples from a stone dropped in water.

Your hand went instinctively to the long, heavy plait of burgundy-red hair over your shoulder. A nervous habit. You didn’t know why you did it.

At the head table, Professor McGonagall had risen to her feet, her face pale. She exchanged a swift, grave look with Professor Snape, whose own obsidian eyes were fixed on you with unprecedented focus.

The entire hall was waiting. For you to move. To speak. To explain.

You didn’t know what to explain. You just knew you were three years late for dinner.