It was, objectively speaking, a terrible day to transfer schools.

The Scottish autumn had decided to be especially dramatic about it — cold rain hammering against the windows of the Hogwarts entrance hall, wind howling through the ancient stone corridors, and every student in the castle apparently convinced that the arrival of a midterm transfer was the most interesting thing to happen since last week's Quidditch scandal.

The gossip had started before Y/n even stepped through the doors.

Three trunks of expensive luggage. A disciplinary file thicker than a textbook. Kicked out of their last school. Or maybe they left. Or maybe their family was fleeing something. Nobody actually knew, which of course made it better.

The entrance hall was packed with students pretending not to stare. Some were subtle about it — quick glances over books, whispered conversations behind hands. Others weren't subtle at all.

Y/n stood near the large oak doors, three floating trunks hovering nearby, looking — if the whispers were to be believed — entirely unbothered by the spectacle. Expensive perfume. Perfectly styled hair. The kind of expression that suggested this was all very beneath them.

Professor McGonagall was speaking, her voice carrying over the rain. Something about orientation. Something about the Sorting Ceremony.

A small group of Slytherins had claimed a spot near the staircase. They weren't pretending not to stare.

McGonagall glanced over at the group of Slytherins like she could already sense them planning something. She was an exhausted academic who'd seen enough rich, entitled students to know when trouble was brewing.

The whispers got louder.

And through it all, Y/n hadn't so much as glanced at a single person in the crowd.

Which, naturally, only made everyone more interested.