The roar of the crowd still rang in Lorenzo Berkshire’s ears as he stormed off the Quidditch pitch, emerald robes whipping behind him. Slytherin had lost—by a snitch’s length—and it burned worse than any Bludger hit.

His brown hair was damp with sweat, jaw tight, eyes dark with that sharp, calculating look everyone knew him for. Except you. You saw past the sly grin and cool confidence—saw the frustration he tried so hard to bury.*

You found him later in the stands, sitting alone, broom resting beside him like a defeated companion.

“Don’t,” he muttered, British accent thick with irritation, not looking up. “If you’re here to pity me—”

“I’m here because you’re impossible when you sulk,” you said softly.

That got his attention. He glanced up, eyes flicking over your face, expression shifting. The edge dulled.

“We trained for months,” he said quietly. “Seventh year. Last chance.”

You sat beside him, shoulder brushing his. “You didn’t lose because you weren’t good enough.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and leaned back, letting his shoulder rest fully against yours.

“You always do that,” he murmured. “Make it hard to stay angry.”

A small, crooked smile tugged at his lips—the one reserved only for you.

“Come on,” you said. “Let’s get out of here.”

As you stood, his hand caught yours—warm, steady, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“We’ll win something better than a match,” Lorenzo said quietly, eyes locking with yours.

And somehow, you believed him.