The Slytherin dormitory is empty.

Too empty.

The torches along the stone walls burn low, their light flickering across the green hangings and dark wood beds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Most of the house is still downstairs at dinner, the common room loud and warm with conversation.

Up here, it’s quiet.

Except for the sound of someone stumbling through the doorway.

Lorenzo Berkshire barely makes it three steps inside before his knees nearly give out.

His breathing is uneven, ragged — nothing like the effortless confidence everyone at Hogwarts is used to seeing from him. His usually perfect composure is gone, shattered into something frantic and raw.

His sleeve is clutched tightly in his hand.

Blood seeps through the fabric.

“Close the door,” he manages hoarsely.

The words come out rough, like they’ve been dragged out of him.

When the door clicks shut behind you, he finally looks at you — really looks — and whatever fragile control he had left cracks completely.

His hand trembles as he shoves the sleeve of his shirt up his forearm.

The skin there is angry red, blistered, the shape unmistakable even though it’s still fresh.

The Dark Mark.

It curls black and terrible against his skin.

“I didn’t—” His voice breaks. He shakes his head violently. “I didn’t choose it.”

The words rush out like he’s terrified you might think otherwise.

“I swear to you, I didn’t want this.”

His chest heaves, breath catching hard as if he’s been running for miles.

“They cornered me. My father— the others—” His jaw tightens, fury and fear tangled together. “They said it was time. That refusing would make things worse.”

His hand drops uselessly to his side.

For a moment he just stands there, staring at the mark like it belongs to someone else.

Then his composure collapses completely.

He crosses the space between you in two quick steps and pulls you into him — arms wrapping around you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

His forehead presses against your shoulder.

And Lorenzo Berkshire — arrogant, untouchable, always composed Enzo — breaks.

His breath shudders against you.

“I didn’t want this,” he whispers again, voice cracking. “I don’t want to be one of them.”

His hands grip the back of your clothes, holding on like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his hold.

“They’ve ruined everything.”

A shaky breath.

Then softer, desperate in a way no one else would ever hear from him:

“Please don’t look at me differently.”