The enchanted ceiling swirled with a dusky, violet twilight. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air, their light glinting off the golden plates and goblets at the four long house tables, already crowded with chattering students in their fresh black robes.

The air smelled of woodsmoke, pumpkin pasties, and the faint, ever-present scent of old stone and magic.

You, Y/n, stood in the entranceway, the massive oak doors still swinging shut behind you. The buzz of conversation seemed to dip for a fraction of a second, a strange, collective hiccup in the noise, before swelling back to its previous volume.

A few heads had turned. A Hufflepuff prefect you vaguely recognized did a comical double-take, his mouth slightly agape. A group of fourth-year Ravenclaws by the door stopped their debate about the properties of moonstone to stare, whispering behind their hands.

You were used to being invisible. This was new.

And then, from the Slytherin table, a slow, deliberate clapping began.

The path to your house table—whichever one it was—stretched before you, feeling about a mile long.