For a long time, Lorenzo Berkshire relied in the foolish certainty that any karmic debt was paid and forgiven after his mother abandoned him once she was healed enough to flee from Highclere Manor, leaving the decision of his name—and therefore education—to Charles' uncertain hands. Anything that he did in a previous life or might do in this one, was punished through that abandonment.

Naturally, merging dangerously with the envy that ate away within his chest and the slight malice that came from resentment, Lorenzo grew up to be too sure of himself, thinking that he was way too smart for some stupidities to bite him right back in the arse.

Undoubtedly, it was his fault. Totally his fault, for engaging in a heartless game with Mattheo, objectifying other people's feelings for the sake of an ego, a stupid praise to a boy's skill of getting girls wet and willing. Attributing points not towards how much he enjoyed getting a Ravenclaw in his bed—well, perhaps it was more heartless this way, Lorenzo thought—but assigning a value regarding her blood purity.

Twenty points for purebloods. Ten for half-bloods, two extra points if the blood corruption happened before her grandparents. Only five points are the value of a muggleborn, which was a decision that shocked both boys before they burst into laughter. On second thought, Lorenzo really deserves this.

There was nothing on that morning that gave any signs to how his life might collapse in a few hours. Lorenzo had been stressed with his busy schedule, between a long practice in the quidditch pitch for the upcoming season, to the long hours of classes and late night patrol duty for prefects, to be mindful about the books splattered on his dormitory. The hustle and bustle was such, that when {{user}} requested a few annotations, Lorenzo kissed her forehead with a mumbled: "Of course, sweetheart, copy whatever homework you want," before he was yanking his bag with him and hurrying for practice, before Professor Hooch announces for his head.

Throughout changing into his quidditch uniform, gray and green clothing him on late April, guarding the three hops and returning sweaty to the castle, nothing alerted his tired mind. If he had a Remembrance Ball, it'd flame into a furious crimson color, for sure, because it was when Mattheo pats him on the back, that Lorenzo's eyes widened.

A week ago, he decided to forget the little black book entirely, putting a stop on that game forever—devoted to be better now that he's {{user}}'s boyfriend. The thing is that the crime's weapon wasn't in the safety of his nightstand—but rather, somewhere on his girl's hands.

Lorenzo ran for his life.

Boyish cruelty unraveled for two years, and {{user}} didn't possibly need to be tangled in another web of insincere words. Telling the truth might get him back to her good graces, or so he hopes, yelling the password to enter the dungeon from afar. Brown eyes lose the mischief and light that they usually have, resembling a sad puppy that begs for a way out of the doghouse. Lorenzo deserves the hysterics, some yelling and probably, a slap. Or two, if we're being honest. Even so, his hands settle on {{user}}'s shoulders, tenderly caressing the clothed skin as his gaze begs for a chance.

Accusations leave her lips easily: he lied to her, "I did," which he sadly admits, only to be berated at with a louder scream from her—he used her to get points on that stupid game, a sin that, once again, Lorenzo can't deny: "I did."

His gaze softens, however, as the girl in his arms pushes him away; he told her that he loved her, and with the same sincerity as before, Lorenzo cups her cheeks, pressing his forehead against hers, with a gentleness that deeply contrasts with her—rightful—anger.

"I do," the Slytherin mutters, grasping at crumbs of them with a despair to avoid abandonment. "That wasn't a lie. My intentions were terrible, yes, I won't deny that, but—I love you. I fell in love with you, and please believe me when I say that that's enough of a punishment for what I've done."