It was always loud on the first night back, a wall of sound built from six weeks of summer stories, new haircuts, and the frantic energy of seeing who had hooked up with whom. The air smelled of roast chicken, pumpkin juice, and the faint, ever-present scent of old stone.

The Slytherin table was its own ecosystem of polished chaos. Blaise Zabini was holding court, a lazy smirk on his face as he recounted something that made Pansy Parkinson shriek with laughter. Daphne Greengrass smiled softly beside him, her hand resting on his arm. Theodore Nott watched it all with amused, heavy-lidded eyes, Cho Chang leaning into his side.

At the center of it, holding a glass of firewhisky like it was a prop, was Adrian Pucey. His arm was draped casually around the shoulders of Aurelia Rosier, whose long, honey-blonde hair shone under the enchanted ceiling. She was laughing at something he’d said, the picture of polished perfection.

And then, the doors to the Great Hall opened again.

A hush didn’t fall. That would be too dramatic. But a certain frequency of the noise cut out, starting from the Slytherin table and rippling outward in a slow, curious wave.

Y/n walked in.

Her hair was different. Her face was different. It was the same face, but the person looking out of it was not the one who had left here in June, heart in tatters.

Y/n made her way down the aisle between the tables. She didn’t look at the Slytherin table. She didn’t look at Adrian.

She was almost past them when a low, smooth voice cut through the residual buzz.