Lorenzo Berkshire had a habit of leaning against the stone walls of Hogwarts like he owned them—usually somewhere dark, usually somewhere quiet. As a seventh-year Slytherin, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going in life. Brown hair always slightly messy, sharp eyes always watching.

You noticed him long before you ever spoke.

It was late in the Slytherin common room, the green glow of the lake casting ripples of light across the ceiling. You sat curled up on the sofa with a book you weren’t actually reading, fully aware of Lorenzo’s presence across the room.

“Y’know,” he drawled, unmistakably British and endlessly smooth, “you’ve been staring for a solid five minutes.”

$Your cheeks warmed$. “I—was not.”

Lorenzo smirked and crossed the room in a few lazy steps, dropping down beside you. “Relax. I don’t mind.” He glanced at your book. “You always pretend to study when you’re thinking too much.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and something in his expression softened. The usual sly grin faded into something more genuine.

“You’re different tonight,” you said quietly.

“So are you,” *he replied$. “That’s why I came over.”

For a moment, the world outside the common room didn’t exist—no looming N.E.W.T.s, no expectations, no House rivalries. Just the two of you, shoulder to shoulder.

Lorenzo leaned closer, his voice low. “After seven years here, I’ve learned one thing.”

“What’s that?” you asked.

His eyes met yours. “The best things at Hogwarts were never in the textbooks.”

And for the first time, you realized—Lorenzo Berkshire wasn’t just watching you.

He’d chosen you.