Archive of Our Own ^beta

Coming back to Hogwarts after a long summer of fun with his friends was always bittersweet. Lorenzo loved the castle—loved the way its magic still managed to surprise him, even though he’d grown up in a pureblood household surrounded by it all his life. He loved rooming with his friends, seeing them every day, laughing until curfew and sneaking out when they felt like it. He loved the independence, the freedom of living outside his parents’ reach. He loved Hogsmeade trips, the pranks, the nights that blurred together with mischief.

But the welcome feast always came with a reminder: tomorrow morning meant the return of classes, essays, and exams. The monotony of academic life loomed ahead. Lorenzo wasn’t looking forward to that.

For now, though, he lounged at the Slytherin table, waiting for the food to appear while watching the Sorting Ceremony. His eyes skipped over the first years’ faces, and he chuckled as a wave of nostalgia hit him. Some looked terrified, some confident, some wide-eyed with awe at the enchanted ceiling and floating candles. One by one, they were called to the stool. Cheers erupted with each new addition, and Lorenzo even offered a warm smile and polite claps for a shy little girl sorted into his house.

When the last eleven-year-old scurried off the stage, Lorenzo expected the feast to materialize. Instead, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and glanced at her scroll again.

“(Y/N) (L/N).”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Great Hall as an older student—one who had been sitting temporarily at the Hufflepuff table—rose and walked toward the front.

“Is she a transfer? From another school?” Draco whispered.

“Who gives a shit,” Mattheo muttered, eyes following you, “The new girl’s fit.”

“Forget the feast,” Theo drawled, “I’d rather have her for dinner.”

“Agreed,” Blaise chimed in smoothly, “She’s beautiful.”

Lorenzo frowned at that. Blaise rarely announced his interest so quickly, especially not in front of the rest of them. His gaze drifted back to you. Yes, you were beautiful. He wouldn’t deny that. But so was Daphne, or Astoria, or—Merlin help him—even Granger on her best day. So what was all the fuss about?

Onstage, you perched on the stool with a pink blush coloring your cheeks. The Sorting Hat slipped onto your head and murmured things only you could hear. For a moment, the hall was hushed, tense with curiosity. Then, with a booming voice, the Hat declared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted louder than it had all night. You slipped off the stool, thanking Professor McGonagall, and began your walk toward them. Students scrambled to make room, even Mattheo shoving at Lorenzo to budge over so you might sit beside him. From the other tables, Ravenclaws craned their necks, Hufflepuffs gawked, and Gryffindors all but drooled as you passed.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the table, before they lit up at the sight of Pansy.

“Hello, Pansy.” You greeted warmly.

“(Y/N)! Welcome to Slytherin. Come, sit!” Pansy beamed, sliding over. You quickly sat across from Lorenzo, and he noticed immediately how the group’s posture shifted—everyone unconsciously leaning toward you, as though you were a magnet.

“This is (Y/N),” Pansy announced proudly, “We met on the train. She’s a transfer from Beauxbatons.”

You smiled, inclining your head politely, “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is all mine, darling,” Mattheo jumped in smoothly, flashing his most practiced grin, “Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You chuckled and shook his hand, “A pleasure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, crossing his arms as Mattheo practically melted into his seat trying to impress you. Blaise was already leaning forward with that lazy grin of his, and even Draco — who usually acted like he was above such displays — was listening a little too intently.

He tried not to roll his eyes when Blaise leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice smoother than usual, “So, Beauxbatons, hm? Explains the accent. How do you find Hogwarts so far?”

“It’s… bigger,” You laughed softly, and the sound of it made half the boys at the table sit up straighter, “Different, but beautiful.”

Merlin. They were hanging on your every word like you’d just recited Shakespeare. Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the table, his irritation bubbling.

Merlin’s beard.

Theo had inched closer now, his grin lazy but his eyes sharp, like he’d just spotted his next favorite pastime. Mattheo, of course, was already trying too hard, throwing you a wink every other sentence. Even Draco—bloody Draco—was smiling politely at you, as if he hadn’t just sneered at the first years minutes before.

It was ridiculous.

It wasn’t like he didn’t notice you were… well, gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could see that. But the way the others reacted was downright embarrassing. Every time you tilted your head or smiled politely, it was as though you’d cast a collective Confundus over half the table.

Lorenzo stabbed a roasted potato with his fork, muttering under his breath, “She’s not a bloody unicorn.”

Unfortunately, Theo heard him, “You blind, Berkshire? Look at her—”

“I am looking,” Lorenzo cut in, voice sharp but quiet, “She’s pretty, sure. But so are half the witches in this school. You lot are acting like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

"Nah, mate. She's in a class all her own, no one else here can even measure up."

And that was when you noticed him.

Across the table, just beyond Pansy’s shoulder, his eyes met yours. Unlike the others, they weren’t hazy with infatuation or glassy with awe. They were sharp, steady, cutting right through you like he was trying to figure you out.

Your lips stilled mid-smile.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the rest of the hall blurred into static. The noise of Mattheo’s laughter, Theo’s chatter, the scrape of cutlery—all of it faded.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, almost involuntary. For just a moment, it felt like the two of you shared a secret that no one else at the table knew.

Then Pansy said your name and the moment snapped. You turned back, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Theo was spinning, but not before sneaking one last glance across the table.

Lorenzo was still watching.

Eventually, Lorenzo had come to a conclusion. The only reason everyone was falling over themselves for you was because you were new. The mysterious foreign girl from fancy Paris. That was all.

Never mind that he’d been to Paris more times than he could count and could firmly attest to the fact that Paris wasn’t shit. The city was overrated, the people were snobs, and the food? He’d had better at his grandmother’s table. If Paris was your only selling point, then Hogwarts was collectively delusional.

He assumed the fascination would wear off after a few days, once the novelty faded and everyone went back to their routines. But apparently, he’d been far too optimistic. Because if anything, the infatuation only seemed to increase.

Crowded hallways parted for you as if you were some sort of queen, while Lorenzo got shoved and elbowed like every other unfortunate soul. In Potions, students passed you the freshest ingredients without hesitation, while he was left picking through shriveled roots. In Herbology, you somehow ended up with the intact, pristine equipment, while his gloves had holes and his shears were always half-rusted.

And the worst part? You didn’t even seem to notice. You stuck close to Pansy, sharing her bench, chatting quietly, utterly oblivious to the chaos orbiting you. You didn’t gloat, didn’t preen, didn’t even bat an eye when half the room bent itself out of shape just to hand you something.

Which should have made it easier to ignore. But it didn’t.

Instead, something in him twisted tighter each time. A hot, coiling irritation whenever he saw someone pressing a perfect ingredient into your palm, or rushing to adjust your chair, or lingering too close just for the chance to brush against you.

And it was hypocritical, wasn’t it? He wasn’t exactly a stranger to pretty privilege. All it took was a charming smile from him, a tilt of his head, and half the girls in their year would fall over themselves to offer the same things. He’d accepted it plenty of times without a second thought.

So why, then, did it bother him so much to watch it happen with you?

Why did it feel different—sharper, almost personal—when it was you being handed things in the hollow of your palm?

Lorenzo didn’t have an answer. He only knew that every time it happened, something stirred in his chest, a restless frustration he couldn’t name. And he hated it.

Lorenzo wasn’t much of a Quidditch enthusiast, but he always made it a point to watch the first match of the season. His best mates were on the team, and if nothing else, it gave him a chance to shout himself hoarse at Gryffindors for an afternoon.

He didn’t bother leaving early—front row seats were a nightmare, bodies pressing against your back, threatening to knock you clean over the stands. He much preferred the upper rows where he could see everything without being jostled.

Maybe, if luck was on his side, he’d even snag a seat in the section usually reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. They never missed Draco’s first match of the year, and his auntie Cissa always insisted he sit with them if space allowed.

He had just made his way down into the common room when Pansy practically lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of him.

“Enzo! Thank Merlin you’re here!”

Before he could even respond, she was hurrying toward him, tugging someone by the wrist—someone he hadn’t realized was standing just off to the side. You.

“Do you mind just taking (Y/N) down to the pitch for me? She’s never been and I don’t want her to get trampled.”

Lorenzo blinked, only now noticing you hovering just behind her. You looked slightly embarrassed, as if you’d walked into a conversation mid-plot.

“Pansy, it’s fine, I can—” You started.

“Nonsense,” Pansy cut in, waving off your protest, “He’s going down there anyway. Just go together, what’s the big deal?”

For some reason, Lorenzo’s stomach soured at the idea. He shifted uncomfortably, hands sinking deeper into his hoodie pocket.

“Why can’t you take her yourself?” He asked flatly.

“I’ve got a meeting with Flitwick about future careers,” Pansy sighed, clearly annoyed, “Apparently this is the only time he’s free all week. And the others are already on the pitch. And—” She gave him a sharp look, “because I trust you.”

Lorenzo frowned. What did trust have to do with walking someone to the bloody Quidditch pitch?

Lorenzo’s brows knit together, but he sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, “Fine.”

“Perfect!” Pansy chirped, already steering you toward him, “Have fun, (Y/N)! Cheer enough for the both of us, please!” She gave you a quick hug and darted off before either of you could argue further.

That left the two of you standing there in the flickering green light of the common room. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, turned toward the exit, and muttered, “Come on, then.”

You shifted under his gaze, then offered a small, polite smile, “We don’t have to go together if you’d rather not. I can find my own way.”

He sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck, “It’s fine. I’m headed there anyway.”

You nodded, lips pressing into a small smile as you fell into step beside him.

The walk stretched long and quiet. The air was crisp, the chatter of distant students drifting down the stone corridors, but between the two of you, silence reigned. You tried, a few times, to break it.

“So… do you play?” You asked lightly.

“No.”

You waited a beat, hoping for elaboration. None came.

“Oh. Do you… like Quidditch, then?”

“Not really.”

You exhaled softly, giving up after that, and the walk settled into an awkward sort of quiet. Students kept glancing at you both as they passed, some slowing to offer you a smile or a wave, but Lorenzo didn’t even acknowledge them. His long strides carried him forward without pause, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, expression unreadable.

When you finally broke out onto the grassy slope leading down to the pitch, the noise hit in full force—cheering, laughter, the echo of whistles. Bright banners rippled in the wind, green and silver clashing violently with red and gold. Crowds jostled at the entrance to the stands, fighting for good seats.

You faltered, momentarily overwhelmed by the chaos. The crush of bodies, the sound, the color—it was a lot, all at once.

Without thinking, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, closing around your wrist before someone could slam into you from behind. He tugged you sharply out of the way of a group of Gryffindors barreling past, his grip firm, grounding.

You blinked up at him, startled. He was still frowning, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

“Try not to get run over.” He muttered.

Slytherin had won, of course.

The common room was practically vibrating with celebration—emerald banners strung across the walls, tables piled high with butterbeer bottles and Honeydukes wrappers. Music blared from a charmed gramophone in the corner, and the laughter of students shook the stone walls, carrying over the clatter of goblets and cheers.

The party hadn’t officially started until a couple of hours after the match, which gave you and Pansy just enough time to slip away. After her meeting with Flitwick, she had met you at the pitch and guided you back to the common room herself, leaving Lorenzo behind to congratulate Mattheo, Theo, and Draco on a match well played.

By the time they’d showered and returned to the common room, ready for a proper celebration, the party was already in full swing. The moment they entered, the room erupted into cheers, drinks raised, friends hollering over the music.

Pansy had changed into a little black dress that hugged her figure, and you were dressed in Slytherin green, the silky fabric catching the light just right. Heads turned as you both moved through the crowd, the usual hum of admiration for you amplified by the festive atmosphere.

Lorenzo noticed immediately. Not the way the silk of your dress clung to your curves, not the glint of your jewelry that made it look like droplets of water were teasingly sliding down your neck, not even the way your hair caught the lamplight—though, of course, all of that was impossible to miss.

No, it was something else entirely.

It was the way you stayed close to Pansy, quietly observing from the circumference of the party instead of pushing yourself into the throng, even though the center of the room seemed like your natural habitat.

Lorenzo, for his part, had left the pitch and returned in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, looking as effortlessly composed as ever. He moved through the crowed of people with his disarming smirk, a drink in one hand, a girl's waist in the other. Just like the drink, the girl was cycled through the second he got a good enough taste.

Meanwhile, you found yourself staring at the long table lined with bottles of contraband liquor. Firewhisky, mead, enchanted vodka that shimmered like starlight in its glass—and at the center, a giant crystal bowl of alcoholic fruit punch that smelled suspiciously like it could floor a grown wizard with one sip.

Your fingers hesitated over the options before you quietly reached for a slim can of sparkling seltzer—meant as a chaser more than an actual drink. You popped it open, the soft hiss of carbonation disappearing under the music, and let the cool fizz sit on your tongue.

Instead of throwing yourself into the crowd like most of your housemates, you drifted toward the edge of the common room. From there, you could watch the mess of bodies on the makeshift dance floor, their laughter blurring into the bass-heavy beat. Theodore found you not long after, his smirk tilted just enough to be teasing as he dropped into conversation with you.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” He commented sarcastically, nodding toward the chaos in the middle of the room.

You laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. Theo was easy company, his wit sharp but his presence calm, and for a while you let yourself enjoy the quiet exchange.

But soon enough, his attention was claimed elsewhere—cheers erupting as a group of students dragged him away toward the fireplace, insisting he down a row of shots to celebrate blocking the most bludgers that day. You gave him a small wave, lips quirking, and then you were alone again, seltzer can still cold in your hand.

That was when a tall seventh-year slipped into the vacant spot beside you.

His grin was broad, practiced in the mirror too many times, and his eyes glittered with the glassy haze of firewhisky. He leaned in before you could step aside, the smell of alcohol curling off his breath.

“So,” He drawled, voice low in your ear to compete with the music, “is it true French girls kiss better, or is that just a rumor I should test for myself?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness, and instinctively stepped back. But he followed with a half-step forward, crowding you against the back of a velvet armchair. His grin widened, confident in the way boys often were when intoxication blurred the line between charm and intrusion.

Your hand came up to press lightly against his forearm, the gesture gentle, even polite, as you tried to maneuver away. “Haha, that's really more of a myth.” You said, your smile tight but disarming, hoping to diffuse without sparking a scene.

Still, he leaned closer, mistaking your poise for invitation. His hand braced on the back of the chair beside you, effectively boxing you in.

“C’mon,” He said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement, “don’t play coy. One little kiss—it’s a party, isn’t it?” His hand braced on the chair behind you, effectively caging you in, his body heat uncomfortably close.

You shifted, trying to keep the situation from escalating. “Can you move away from me, please?” You replied evenly, eyes darting toward the crowd, “Just because it's a party doesn’t mean I owe you anything.” You pressed more firmly against his arm this time, angling to slip away.

He only grinned wider, his other hand ghosting toward your waist as though he could steer you back against the chair. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” He slurred lightly, the words playful in tone but weighted with assumption, “You’ll like it, I promise—”

And that was when another hand clamped firmly around his wrist, halting his movement midair.

The boy’s hand hovered just inches from your waist when another, firmer hand caught his wrist midair.

“Judging by your ex-girlfriends’ accounts, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t keep.” A smooth, low voice drawled over the music.

The seventh-year blinked, squinting at Lorenzo, swaying slightly on his feet. “Who—who asked you, huh?” He slurred, voice rising with alcohol-fueled bravado, “I was just… just trying to be friendly!"

He tried to lean back toward you, a careless, drunken grin plastered across his face, “C’mon, you want to kiss me, don’t lie.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind his presence was enough to make the boy falter. The grip on the wrist didn’t loosen; it was firm, inescapable, unyielding.

“You’re drunk. And annoying. Back off,” Lorenzo said evenly, voice calm but edged with warning, “Now. Before I make you regret it.”

The boy stumbled backward, muttering incoherently, clearly unsure if Lorenzo was serious—or if he wanted to test him. He disappeared into the crowd without another word.

You were still shivering slightly, adrenaline leaving your body in uneven waves, when Lorenzo finally released your wrist. The music thumped around you, but the edges of it felt sharp, almost overwhelming after the tension of the encounter.

“Next time someone like that bothers you,” He said, voice low but firm, “Just make a scene. Don’t wait for someone to show up and come save you. You're a witch, are you not? Hex his balls off.”

You gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to steady yourself, though your hands trembled a little, “I—I’m fine. I just… got a little startled, that’s all. Really.”

But Lorenzo wasn’t convinced. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your still shaking shoulders, the weight warm and grounding. His eyes softened slightly as he added, “No. You’re done for tonight. Go to bed.”

“I’m… okay,” You tried again, tugging slightly at the edges of the jacket, “I want to stay. It’s… it’s the first house party. I just....want to fit in, you know?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he stared at you, the chaos of the party around you fading into background noise, "Can't say you were doing much of that by standing in the corner completely sober."

You sighed, looking up at him, caught between the desire to protest and the strange comfort of his jacket around you, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Lorenzo’s eyes softened ever so slightly, “Just… go rest tonight. You’ve already made an appearance, and everyone else is already sloshed—they won’t even remember if you left early.”

You glanced up at him, eyes catching his in the dim light of the common room. There was something about the way you were looking up at him, something that was hidden behind your eyes that he couldn't quite place but that was way deeper than anything the two of you shared. Something that made the chaos behind him fade into background noise.

"Okay," You whispered, "Thank you, Lorenzo."

The next morning, before breakfast, you hovered outside the Slytherin boys’ dormitory with Lorenzo’s jacket folded neatly over your arm. You stood there, staring at the door, debating with yourself. Really, why were you making such a big deal about it? You were just returning his jacket. It wasn’t something that needed to be so thought over.

You could even wait until you saw him at breakfast and hand it over casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all.

But the thought of doing it in front of everyone, of the curious stares and inevitable whispers, twisted something in your stomach. No—better to get it over with now.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked.

There was a pause, some muffled shuffling inside, and then the door creaked open. Lorenzo appeared, still tugging on the cuff of his shirt, his tie hanging undone around his neck. His dark hair was messy in a way that didn’t look careless so much as deliberate, and he blinked at you with mild surprise.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was rougher than usual, freshly woken, the question hanging somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

The sound seemed to spark interest from the room behind him—three other heads popped up almost comically, like meerkats.

“Good morning.” You said softly, shifting the jacket in your arms like it might shield you from the weight of all their stares.

“Good morning, (Y/N)~” Mattheo purred, leaning lazily against the bedpost. His unbuttoned shirt hung off his broad shoulders, exposing the lines of his abs with theatrical nonchalance. The smirk on his lips told you he was very much doing this on purpose.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. With a deliberate shift, he leaned against the doorframe, his frame blocking most of their view of you. His voice came low, smoother than usual but clipped at the edges, “Did you need anything?”

“Um—no, just…” You shifted, clutching the jacket tighter against your chest before finally holding it out with both hands, “I wanted to return your jacket.”

His eyes flicked down to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face. Something unreadable passed across his features. “You could’ve just given that back in the Great Hall.” He said evenly, though his voice carried an undertone of confusion.

You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck, “I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand.”

That caught him. His brow furrowed slightly as he reached to take the jacket, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. The touch was brief, accidental, but it sent a ripple of warmth through your skin, like a spark finding kindling.

“Misunderstand what?”

The question startled you, making you blink up at him. Surely he knew. Surely a boy like Lorenzo—social, sharp, always aware—understood the game people played at Hogwarts. How the smallest gesture could spiral into whispered speculation by lunch, exaggerated into something entirely different by dinner.

“Um… nothing,” You mumbled quickly, dropping your gaze, your voice thinner than you meant, “Just… misunderstand.”

“Right,” He said quietly, “Thanks.”

The library was quieter than usual, a soft hum of enchanted quills and the occasional rustle of parchment filling the high-ceilinged room. Your eyes bounced around the crowded space, books clutched tight against your chest as you searched for an open spot.

Unfortunately, every table seemed taken—clusters of students hunched over their notes, quills scratching, parchment piled high. Some weren’t even studying, just leaning close to whisper and laugh with their friends, and you found yourself quietly frowning. Why would anyone choose to chatter here, of all places, instead of their common room? And why did one student think it fair to take up an entire table for four?

Your gaze kept drifting until it landed on him.

Lorenzo.

He sat alone at a table tucked into the far corner, posture perfectly straight, brow furrowed over a thick stack of textbooks. His quill moved sharply across the page, deliberate and neat, and the way he leaned into his work made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. The other three chairs at his table sat empty, almost daring you to consider them.

You hovered where you stood, indecisive.

He wasn’t your biggest fan—that much was obvious—and you weren’t sure what he would make of you interrupting while he was so focused. On the other hand… it wasn’t as though his table was overflowing with notes. And if you sat with Lorenzo, you knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t chat you up like half the others in this room.

Taking a small breath, you gathered your courage and stepped closer.

“Um… excuse me,” You said softly, keeping your voice polite, almost tentative, “Is this seat… taken?”

For a moment, Lorenzo didn’t look up. His quill continued its steady scratching across parchment, jaw tight in concentration. You began to wonder if he’d even heard you—or worse, if he was deliberately ignoring you.

Then, slowly, his eyes lifted, dark and sharp, fixing on you with that unreadable expression of his.

“Depends,” He said, voice low and even, “Are you planning to talk the whole time, or can you actually study in silence?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I can be quiet.” You promised quickly, shifting the weight of the books in your arms.

His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk threatening at the corners, “We’ll see.”

With a lazy flick of his hand, he gestured toward the chair opposite him. You slipped into it carefully, placing your books down as quietly as possible, suddenly hyperaware of every sound you made—the squeak of the chair, the scratch of your quill, even the way you exhaled.

For several long minutes, you both worked in silence. Lorenzo’s handwriting was fast but precise, his notes neatly organized in a way that made your own look almost childish. You caught yourself sneaking glances more than once, and each time, he seemed to notice.

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet where even the faintest scratch of a quill seemed magnified. You glanced up from your own notes, eyes wandering until they landed on Lorenzo. He was hunched forward, one hand braced against his temple, the other drumming his quill against parchment. His expression was pinched, irritated.

You glanced over from where you’d been reviewing your own work and caught him muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody useless assignment.”

You hesitated, then gathered your courage and padded over. “Stuck?” You asked lightly, tilting your head at the half-scribbled parchment in front of him.

He looked up sharply, quill still in hand.

He sighed, tossing the quill down, “Care of Magical Creatures essay. Three bloody feet on Veela, and I’ve only managed one. I don’t know what else Hagrid expects me to say—that they’re pretty and men lose their minds?”

The words made your stomach twist, but you forced a small, amused scoff to cover it.

You set the parchment down, the faintest nervous energy prickling under your skin. Then, with a scoff you hoped sounded natural, you leaned back in your chair, “I wouldn’t exactly consider them creatures. They’re human beings.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked up to you at that, a spark of surprise in them. He leaned back in his chair, studying you, "What's it to you? Interested in a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, are you?"

You shrugged, sliding into the empty seat beside him, doing your best to keep your voice casual even though your pulse was picking up. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of reducing people to… exotic curiosities. Veela aren’t pets to be studied, they’re—” You stopped yourself before you went too far, quickly reaching for his parchment, “Anyway. Let me see what you’ve got. Maybe I can help you add something.”

His lips quirked slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “If you’re volunteering to do my homework for me, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tight knot of nerves in your chest loosened just a little as you skimmed the page.

You leaned closer over his parchment, careful not to smudge his ink. Lorenzo’s handwriting was neat but scattered with angry little scribbles—crossed-out sentences and arrows pointing to half-formed ideas.

“So your premise,” You began, trying to sound casual, “is that Veela are basically… a scapegoat for men’s foolishness?”

He huffed, tapping the page with his quill, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous. ‘Oh, I cheated because she’s a Veela and I couldn’t control myself.’ It’s like blaming the weather for burning your house down. And of course, it doesn’t even make sense magically.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head, “How do you mean?”

“Veela magic doesn’t work on the person they’re in love with. The soulmate, or someone they truly care about. When it actually comes to enchanting someone they want to enchant, or someone who truly knows them, the magic doesn't work. What does that say about their allure?"

You couldn’t help a small laugh, shaking your head, “That’s… actually not a bad argument. You’re taking a real angle on it.”

"So you agree with me?"

“Not exactly,” You said, smoothing the paper flat, “It’s just… well, you’re right. Veela charm doesn’t work on the person they care about most. But if you look at it another way… maybe it’s a kind of self-preservation. Soulmates are protected by magic, by design. So a Veela can’t unintentionally—or intentionally—hurt the one person they’re most connected to. It balances the… ridiculous, one-sided effect of their allure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, running a hand over his face, “Wow… that’s actually… really insightful. I think I can actually finish this essay now.”

You grinned faintly, feeling a small spark of satisfaction, “Glad I could help.”

The quiet between you settled easily, almost companionable, and for the first time in weeks, Lorenzo’s usual inscrutable expression softened just a fraction.

You pretended to focus on his parchment, quill tapping idly against the margins, but Lorenzo wasn’t nearly as distracted as you hoped. His eyes flicked from you, to the room, and back again.

He saw the way you noticed.

Every time someone passed the table, their eyes lingered on you just a beat too long. Every time a chair scraped or parchment rustled, you glanced up with that same tiny flicker of unease before quickly lowering your gaze, arranging your expression into something neutral.

You weren’t encouraging the attention—far from it. If anything, it looked like you were trying to disappear into the seat, as though ignoring it might make it stop.

You caught yourself stiffening and quickly smoothed your expression into something casual, turning back to Lorenzo as if you hadn’t noticed at all. The trick was never to react. The more you acknowledged the staring, the harder they tried to get your attention.

And yet, Lorenzo could tell. The tighter way you held your shoulders, the careful curve of a half-smile when someone’s gaze caught yours, the way you deliberately didn’t respond because you knew it would only draw them closer.

“...Doesn’t that get exhausting?” He asked suddenly.

Your head jerked up, startled, “What does?”

He leaned back in his chair, smirk faint but his eyes sharper than usual, “All the staring. The whispering. You pretending you don’t notice.”

For a moment, your mask slipped—the tiniest crease in your brow, the quick dart of your eyes toward the nearby table where two Ravenclaw boys had been not-so-subtly glancing your way. Then, almost instantly, you forced a scoff and straightened.

“I think you’re imagining things, Berkshire.” You looked back at your book.

But his gaze lingered on you, heavy and thoughtful, long after you bent over his parchment.

You were nestled into your usual spot in the common room, quietly thumbing through a book. After an exhausting week filled with deadlines, helping Lorenzo with his essay had cut into your own study time, and you’d ended up staying up late that night to finish your work. The next couple of days had been a blur of yawns and half-finished notes, and finally today you were looking forward to some downtime: a warm cup of tea in hand, a quiet chapter to read, and the comforting hum of the common room around you.

Then Lorenzo appeared at the entrance, a cocky smile plastered on his face as he strode over with purpose. Your gaze followed him, curious.

He stopped a few feet away, holding a scroll just inches from your face. You recognized it immediately—it was the essay you had so graciously helped him with. The glaring red “O” on the top and the smug pride in his expression left no doubt: he was in an excellent mood.

Blinking, genuinely impressed, you leaned forward to glance at the paper. Every mark, every sentence flowed logically, clearly showing effort—and, of course, plenty of your input.

“An Outstanding?” You echoed softly.

“Indeed,” He said, chest puffed with pride, “Hagrid even said I was the only one in the class who didn’t talk about Veelas like creatures.” He paused, his eyes meeting yours, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I owe my striking transcript to you, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips, “I see. So now my help is officially ‘life-changing.’ I should start billing by the hour.”

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “Hmm… tempting. But somehow, I think my gratitude will suffice for now.”

Your cheeks warmed at the comment, but you quickly masked it with a casual shrug, “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

He grinned, clearly amused, and for a moment the room faded away. It was just the two of you, comfortable and teasing, the kind of closeness that only comes after trust and a little shared work—and maybe a hint of admiration.

The common room was unusually lively for a weeknight. A handful of Slytherins were draped across couches and chairs, laughing and trading stories as the fire snapped in the grate. You sat in the armchair that really just had enough space for yourself, feet pulled up onto the cushion as you absentmindedly played with the threads on the ends of your stockings. Outside, the lights flickered slightly as the giant squid swam back and forth past the windows.

Draco was going on about how his family had just bought a villa just outside Paris over the summer.

“Paris is the best,” Pansy sighed dreamily from her perch on the armrest, “The food, the fashion, the art—honestly, I’d move there tomorrow if I could.”

“Not me,” Blaise said from across the room, tossing a small coin into the air, “I’m sick of the place. Overrated. Clichéd, if you will.”

“That’s the charm, though,” Pansy insisted, curling her legs beneath her on the couch, “The fashion, the cafés… I’d move there in a heartbeat if I could. Honestly, (Y/N), why would you leave the great city of love and lights for dreary Scotland?”

Your chest tightened. The question was innocent enough, but answering honestly was… complicated. You gave a small, wry laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Paris is… beautiful,” You said carefully, keeping your tone light, “I had a good time at Beauxbatons, but I felt like I needed a change. It’s… not as perfect as you guys think it is.”

A brief, awkward silence followed. A few of the Slytherins murmured under their breath, attempting to redirect the conversation—commenting on the weather, Hogwarts, anything to fill the quiet.

But Lorenzo, sitting across from you, tilted his head slightly. His sharp gaze caught the way your hand had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke, the faint blush climbing your cheeks, and the subtle flicker of tension in your eyes as they bounced around the room, gauging the reactions of others, calculating their expressions.

He knew there was more behind that casual shrug than you were letting on. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would take to draw it out of you.

Yet you remained seated, smiling softly, projecting calm and composure. For just a second, he thought he had just imagined the shadow of heartbreak cross your face.

The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of baked goods and cider as you wandered through Hogsmeade, purse in hand, eyes scanning the shelves of Honeydukes. You had spotted a few rare chocolate treats imported from Paris, ones you’d adored as a child, and decided immediately that you needed them.

You counted the coins in your hand, but your mental math kept tripping you up. “Wait… if a Galleon is seventeen Sickles, and a Sickle is twenty Knuts—” you muttered in rushed French, frowning and pushing your hair behind your ear. The cashier watched, a quiet, amused smile playing at their lips as the different-colored metal circles in your hand blurred into incomprehensibility.

A shadow fell over your shoulder. “Need a hand?” Lorenzo’s voice was quiet, casual, but the warmth threading through it made your heart skip.

You blinked up at him, cheeks flushing, “I… I think so.”

He crouched slightly to get a better look at the coins, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Here,” He said, arranging them neatly, “That’s one Galleon, fourteen Sickles, and seven Knuts.”

He handed the coins over to the shopkeeper with a flourish, and you collected your treats, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he passed the money. Your heart jumped, and he caught your glance, offering a small, almost shy smile before blending into the crowd of students.

You let out a soft laugh, holding your chocolates to your chest, “Thanks… I don’t understand how your currency works at all.”

He shrugged lightly, eyes flicking up at you with that familiar intensity, “It’s a bit tricky at first. Most first-years make the same mistake.”

You tilted your head, a soft smile playing on your lips, “First-years, huh? So… I’m hopelessly behind, then.”

He shook his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “Not hopeless—just inexperienced. But… that’s okay. Consider us even after your help with my essay."

You laughed, "You're gonna have to do alot more than that if you want to thank me for your first O in seven years."

He leaned just slightly closer, the space between you shrinking, and his eyes softened in a way that made your chest flutter. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.” He said, voice low, teasing, but somehow intimate.

You raised an eyebrow, playful, but your pulse quickened. “Do tell." You challenged, holding your chocolate treats like a shield.

He smirked, but instead of answering, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek gently. Your breath hitched at the contact, and he gave a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes,” He said quietly, “actions speak louder than words.”

You cleared your throat, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks, "And what might that be?"

He let his gaze linger on you for a heartbeat longer, the corners of his mouth tugging into a mischievous, yet tender, half-smile. “Well…” His voice dropped a fraction, softer now, almost conspiratorial, "I could consider letting you be my study buddy from now on."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, "You just want to steal more of my brilliant ideas."

He gasped, clutching his chest, "You wound me!"

The courtyard was alive in that golden, drowsy sort of way it always was when classes had just let out—students spilling across the flagstones in clusters, laughter echoing under the stone arches, the autumn sun slipping lazily between drifting clouds. You had tucked yourself into the shadow of an archway, parchment stretched across your knees, quill tapping absently against your thumb. It was one of the few places you’d found any peace lately, where the noise of the castle blurred into the background.

Peace never lasted long.

“(Y/N)!”

You looked up to find a Hufflepuff boy standing there, a small bouquet of daisies clutched awkwardly in his hands, their petals charmed to shimmer faintly in the light.

Your heart sank. You already knew what was coming. Already braced yourself—carefully smoothing the micro-expressions from your face, steadying your eyes so they wouldn’t flick nervously around the courtyard, doing your best to appear unbothered. Hoping, at the very least, that he would be discreet.

Lorenzo had only just stepped into the courtyard when he caught the tail end of it.

The boy’s cheeks were blotchy with nerves, but his eyes were hopeful when he blurted, “Would you… maybe want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

The world seemed to still around you. You swallowed once, heavily, willing your gaze not to dart to the groups you could feel watching. Then, with practiced ease, you slipped on a polite smile and shook your head.

“That’s sweet of you,” You said gently, “but no. I’m sorry.”

The boy’s smile faltered. He muttered something like, “figured as much,” before shoving the bouquet into his bag and trudging off, shoulders hunched.

The whispers rose immediately.

“Merlin, that’s the tenth one this term—” “Honestly, does she think she’s too good for everyone?” “She could at least give one of them a chance. It’s not like she’s perfect.”

Each word landed sharp as glass. Your smile stayed fixed, your eyes carefully pinned to the parchment as though the ink mattered more than anything else. But your hand trembled faintly against the quill, and though you stilled it with a deliberate breath, Lorenzo saw.

He leaned against a column, a book in hand he hadn’t so much as cracked open, watching. He caught every whisper, every cutting comment, and the slight tightening of your fingers around the quill before you forced yourself to relax again.

It didn’t make sense to him. Couldn’t they see the way their words carved into you? The way you’d looked cornered when the boy had confessed? To Lorenzo, the cracks in your façade were plain as day. Did no one else notice—or did they simply not care?

He hadn’t liked you at first, either. He hadn’t liked how pretty you were, how people seemed to trip over themselves just to look at you, how effortless it all seemed. But even he could see this wasn’t your fault.

And you—Merlin, you carried it like it was nothing. Smile, shrug, carry on. But it wasn’t nothing. Not with the flicker of tension in your jaw, not with the way your eyes skittered briefly toward the whispering groups before forcing themselves back to your parchment.

You waited a little longer, biding your time until the whispers began to die down. Finally, you rose, gathering your things with deliberate leisure before heading toward the castle—quickly, though not too quickly. Controlled.

Lorenzo snapped his book shut with a quiet thud. Enough.

He crossed the courtyard with that lazy confidence he wore like a second skin and fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just matched your stride, hands tucked in his pockets, expression unreadable. The courtyard buzzed behind you, but it felt like the air between you carried its own kind of weight.

Finally, Lorenzo broke it.

“You know,” He drawled, voice deceptively casual, “you could’ve just said yes. Gone to Hogsmeade with him. At least then people would stop whispering about how you reject everyone who asks.”

Your steps faltered for half a second, and you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed. “And then what?” You asked evenly, “Go on a date or two, let him think he has a chance, and then dump him? So everyone can whisper about how I led him on instead?”

Something flickered in his expression—quick, sharp, gone in an instant. He’d been teasing, half-serious at best, but the way you said it, so certain, so worn… it sounded like experience. Like you weren’t just imagining what they would say. Like you’d heard it before.

Lorenzo slowed, his usual smirk faltering as his eyes searched your face, “...Has that happened?”

You didn’t answer immediately. The words seemed to stick in your throat, something bitter pressing against your tongue. You forced a shrug, eyes forward, though your voice dipped quieter than before.

“Besides,” You said finally after a long beat of silence, so softly he almost missed it, “I like someone else.”

That stopped him. For a moment, Lorenzo felt something in his chest tighten—surprise, confusion, something he didn’t quite want to name. But he said nothing, only slipped back into step beside you, though this time his silence carried less ease and more thought.

“Oh?” His voice came out smoother than he felt, though it scraped in his throat like glass, “And who’s the lucky bloke?”

It felt like wringing words out of his chest, like something sharp was lodged there. His usual lazy smirk was gone, his lips pressed in something closer to a line.

You gave a small laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t matter,” You murmured, eyes fixed ahead, “He doesn’t feel the same way.”

For a fleeting second, something in Lorenzo’s chest twisted. Too tight. Too sharp. He swallowed it down, burying it beneath the casual mask he always wore.

“His loss.” He said finally, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, but he couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his tone.

The walk back from the library was quiet, the crisp autumn air filling the courtyard as you and Lorenzo trailed along the stone paths, your books tucked under your arms. The sun was dipping low, painting the castle walls gold, and the occasional chatter of students heading to dinner drifted around you.

You had both planned to study until dinner, but that plan had been quashed the moment Daphne Greengrass’s boyfriend made a scene in the library, disrupting your session. Apparently, they had a row, and now he was desperately trying to make it up to her, much to the inconvenience of the other students.

“That was… quite hard to watch.” Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head as you both recalled the fifteen-minute spectacle of Daphne laying into her boyfriend, effectively blocking the doorway.

“Poor guy.” You murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Dumbass didn’t even bring her flowers,” Lorenzo said, smirking, “My mother always told me to get a girl a bouquet if you did anything wrong—or anything right, for that matter.”

You shrugged, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips, “Perhaps she doesn’t like them.”

He blinked at you, genuinely perplexed, “What girl wouldn’t like flowers?”

“Well…” You hesitated, adjusting the strap of your bag as you chose your words carefully, “I’d take a potted plant over cut flowers any day.”

Lorenzo arched a brow, skeptical, the kind of look reserved for girls who claimed one thing but wanted something entirely different. He’d known plenty of them—girls who said they didn’t need titles on a relationship but wanted exclusivity, who claimed they didn’t care about gifts but were secretly disappointed when he showed up empty-handed.

“You want a jar of dirt? God, you French are impossible to please.”

“I’m serious,” You said softly but firmly, “Bouquets don’t make sense to me. To have something pretty, you have to kill it. It’s like people don’t value what made it beautiful in the first place—they only care about possessing it, no matter the cost. If you truly wanted something beautiful…” Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, “…you’d let it keep growing.”

The way you spoke, glancing off into the distance as though seeing something he couldn’t, made Lorenzo feel like it wasn’t really about flowers at all. There was something deeper beneath your words, something carefully held back, and it tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Every pause, every subtle gesture felt deliberate, and he found himself straining to memorize it—not just the words, but the way you said them, the weight behind them—even though he didn’t yet understand why he felt he needed to.

He didn’t know why he needed to hold onto it, why it felt so important, but he still tucked that tidbit into the back of his mind, waiting until he'd need to use it.

He chuckled, half-amused, half-intrigued, “Is that why you’ve rejected every single guy who’s come up to you? Because he didn’t hand you a succulent?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

For a moment, Lorenzo was quiet. Then, in a tone stripped of his usual teasing edge, he said almost matter-of-factly, “I can respect that. Just because you want something beautiful doesn’t mean you have the right to possess it.”

The words caught you off guard. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t brushing you off—he sounded like he actually understood. Your chest gave a small, startled flutter, and you found yourself squeezing the strap of your bag. For the briefest second, you considered telling him. Maybe he really would understand.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. You pressed your lips together, tucking the thought away, and only nodded before letting the silence stretch comfortably between you again.

The Great Hall was its usual blur of noise, laughter, and clinking cutlery, candles floating high above casting warm pools of light. You were looking forward to the meal, mouth practically watering at the thought of pancakes drowned in strawberries and cream. But the moment you stepped past the doors, your appetite vanished as though someone had ripped it from you.

The room shifted. The buzz of chatter seemed to die down at once, leaving only a faint rustle of robes and the sharp echo of your own steps. Every head turned. Dozens—hundreds—of eyes latched onto you, cold and heavy, pinning you to the spot like you’d been caught trespassing where you didn’t belong.

Why were they—?

A horrible chill crawled down your spine. This was too familiar. The air, thick with judgment. The stares, unrelenting. Your gaze flicked across the hall, trying to separate one expression from the next, but they all blurred together the longer you looked: vengeful smirks, disgusted scowls, wary frowns, indifferent curiosity—but they all blurred together the longer you looked, merging into a faceless audience with wide, domineering eyes. And you were center stage.

“…said she’s a Veela.” “Transferred from France.” “Veelas are common there.” “Now we know why everyone keeps fawning over her—”

Your throat constricted, bile burning the back of it. You took a cautious step backward, your mind scrambling. How much did they know? Was it only rumor? Was your face betraying the truth? You tried to smooth your features into calm indifference, but the anxiety rushing through you pulsed in your eyes, impossible to hide.

Run? Stay? Deny? Laugh? Which would damn you less?

Your eyes darted to the Slytherin table, searching desperately for your friends, for a safe place to sit before someone cornered you. But the moment you spotted them, your stomach sank, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes.

They were staring at you too.

Pansy’s lips were pressed thin, concern buried beneath a veneer of hurt. Theo and Blaise—sharp-eyed, critical, their thoughts written plain as ink across their faces. Draco and Mattheo wore faint masks of disgust. But they all shared that same thin veil of suspicion.

You could practically hear the questions unspoken but loud in their eyes: Did we only like her because of her Veela charm? Has she been using it on us this whole time?

Not again. Please, not again.

Your gaze slipped, almost against your will, to the last of them. Lorenzo.

You almost wished you hadn’t looked.

His gaze was unyielding, pinning you where you stood. He didn’t look away. He didn’t soften. Something simmered beneath the sharpness of his eyes—something that struck you harder than disgust or suspicion ever could.

Betrayal.

The crack in your chest spread, shattering something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding together. You tore your gaze away before the tears could spill and turned on your heel.

And you left.

Lorenzo sat in the back of the classroom, notebooks open but barely touched, mind elsewhere. He had barely eaten breakfast, the food tasteless as he replayed the scene in the Great Hall again and again—the whispers, the sharp stares, the way your shoulders had stiffened, the moment you'd finally fled.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in. Your steps were measured, careful, almost like you was trying to make yourself small, to avoid drawing attention. But even through the chaos of the classroom, he could see you—the way your fingers clutched your bag, the faint tremor in your hands as you scanned the room.

Still, you went to your place. To Pansy.

“Hey,” you said softly, the word small, almost pleading.

Pansy glanced at you, her lips parting as if she might answer—but then she pressed them together, eyes flicking to the rest of the room, to the stares and whispers that hadn’t stopped since yesterday.

“Not now.” She muttered under her breath, gathering her things.

You froze.

Lorenzo felt it, the way you stiffened, holding yourself upright with every ounce of strength you had left. He watched Pansy stand, watched her skirt the desk and take another seat across the room, her back deliberately turned.

And then he watched you.

Your eyes lingered on the empty space beside you for a moment too long before dropping to the desk, your hand hovering over the chair as if you weren’t sure whether to sit or flee. The rest of the class pretended not to stare, but the silence was thick with curiosity, with judgment.

You didn’t break—not outwardly. You lowered yourself into the chair, pulled your books from your bag, and kept your head down. But Lorenzo could see it. The way your throat worked as you swallowed. The way your fingers trembled as they straightened the edge of your parchment. The way your jaw tightened to hold yourself together.

It was like watching someone drown quietly in the middle of a crowded room.

And for reasons he still couldn’t name, Lorenzo’s chest ached with every second of it.

The door creaked again, and Professor McGonagall swept in, robes swirling, the usual stern expression softened only slightly by the hint of morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Lorenzo sat up straighter, though his attention never wavered from her. He watched as she carried a stack of parchment to her desk, the classroom settling into the usual quiet hum.

“You may take your seats.” She commanded, and everyone quickly complied. Lorenzo watched her settle behind the desk, and his attention immediately flicked back to you—the way you tried to keep your back straight, the faint slump in your shoulders, the rigid tightness in your hands as you set your bag on the desk.

“Today, we’ll begin by returning your essays on the care and handling of magical creatures.” She announced, her voice firm. The students shuffled nervously, anxious to get their grades back.

McGonagall began the lesson, distributing essays with quiet efficiency. When she reached her, she handed back her parchment with a brief, “Good work.” and Lorenzo saw the familiar red O in the corner.

A quiet swell of whispers started almost immediately.

“She only got it because she’s a Veela, I’m sure of it.” "I guess even professors are not above pretty privilege." "Beauty over brains with Minnie, I guess."

The second you heard those words, your hands unwillingly curled into the parchment, wrinkling your perfect essay. Your eyes turned downward, not wanting to look at the way the students had all turned around in their seats to stare at you.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He wanted to stand, to defend you, to shout that you had earned it. He had personally seen just how much you studied, how much you valued your grades, how brilliant you were, a truly unique thinker.

He could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you gripped your essay. The smallest hitch of your breath, the subtle flicker of discomfort in your eyes—it made his chest ache. You were trying, as you always did, to maintain composure, to keep yourself from unraveling under the weight of the scrutiny.

But he tore his gaze away.

The common room was nearly empty, the usual warmth stripped down to a few glowing embers in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the stone walls, flickering and bending with every pop of the fire. You had hoped to slip in quietly, make it to your bed without anyone noticing, but your plans crumbled the moment you saw him.

Lorenzo was there.

He leaned against the edge of the sofa, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dying flames. His posture was rigid, unreadable, and for a moment you thought he might not even notice you. But the way his shoulders tensed as you approached made your stomach twist. You had hoped this encounter would be calm, a chance to explain, to smooth over the hurt—but his presence alone made your chest ache.

“Lorenzo…” You began softly, stepping closer. Your voice sounded small, even to your own ears, “Can we talk?”

He didn’t turn. His voice, low and strained, cut through the quiet, “I have nothing to say to you—and even less to listen.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Your heart stuttered, chest tightening painfully. You swallowed, your throat dry, “Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” His head snapped up, eyes flashing, “You don’t get to ask things of me. You hid this for months! How did you think we’d react? That we’d just… carry on like nothing happened? Without a single ounce of suspicion?”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a mixture of shame and fear that your secret had hurt him more than you had anticipated. You wanted to reach out, to explain, but your hands trembled in your sleeves. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just…” Frustration and exhaustion twisted in your chest, making it hard to find the right words.

“You just what?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the embers’ quiet crackle, “You just thought you’d keep it a secret while all of us—while I—began to care about you? How much of it was real, (Y/N)? Are my feelings real? Are you using your appeal even now? Is that the only reason I’ve noticed you at all?”

The words hit harder than you could have imagined. Tears pricked your eyes. “That’s not true, Lorenzo!” You said, your voice shaking, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to treat me differently!”

He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter, and it made something inside you contract. Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve been different since the second you stepped into the Hall. But things changed since then. We changed. I—” His hand fell to his face, and he cut himself off, the tension in his shoulders radiating frustration, “You should’ve told me before I started to—you didn’t even give me a chance. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” You said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling as you tried to steady your breathing, “I just… I didn’t want to lose you. People have been cruel about this before, and I didn’t want you—”

“That was my choice to make!” His voice cracked, and the anger in it was jagged, “Salazar, and now I’m sitting here thinking about all these months we’ve spent together, wondering how much of it was even real.”

“It was all real.” You whispered, tears spilling over, burning your vision as your throat constricted painfully. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make him see the truth behind your fear and your silence—but the words wouldn’t come.

His gaze cut to you again, piercing and cold, and you flinched under it, “And I’m supposed to what? Just trust you?”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight, “I thought… I thought you’d understand.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire. You wanted to tell him everything, to make him see that your feelings—your friendship—had never been about magic, charm, or anything like that. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and unsaid.

Instead, you pressed your lips together, taking a shaky breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He gave a laugh, bitter and hollow, shaking his head, “Great job.”

Before you could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs, leaving you alone. Your hands flew to your face, muffling the sob that finally broke free. The quiet of the room, the dim light of the dying fire, and the shadows pressed down on you as your body shook with grief. You crouched there for a long moment, wishing somehow you could turn back time—or at least explain. But for now, all you could do was feel the weight of silence, the sting of misunderstanding, and the emptiness of the space he had left behind.

Dawn filtered through the tall windows of Dumbledore’s office, spilling soft gold across the polished floor. You sat in front of the headmaster's desk, shoulders hunched, hands twisting the edges of your robes, heart hammering with the weight of everything that had happened.

A sudden shimmer of magic announced the arrival of your parents. The second you had contacted them, they had immediately arranged to get a portkey ready to Hogwarts.

Before you could think, you were running into your father’s arms, burying your face against his chest. “Papa… I tried.” You whispered, voice breaking as hot tears slid down your cheeks.

He held you tightly, and for a moment the world outside didn’t exist. You felt the familiar strength of his embrace, the solid warmth that had always made the impossible seem bearable. But even through the comfort, one noticed the tight set of his jaw, the subtle furrow of his brow. For all his striking looks and presence, there was guilt there—because he had been the reason you were here, caught between worlds, exposed and vulnerable.

Your mother stepped closer, her hand brushing your hair, a quiet reassurance. You let yourself shiver into their warmth, letting the sorrow, fear, and frustration slip out in shuddering sobs. The morning light caught in your tears, and for the first time that day, you felt a fragment of relief, the sense that at least here, in this quiet, safe space, someone truly understood.

Pansy came barreling down the corridor, her heart hammering like a drum. Each step echoed sharply against the stone walls, her breaths coming in short, jagged bursts, leaving her gasping by the time she skidded to a stop in front of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory. Her knuckles flew against the door, the sound sharp and insistent.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a few bleary-eyed boys, squinting at her in confusion. “Pansy? It’s… early. What’s going on?” Mattheo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“She—she’s here, right? (Y/N)?” Pansy practically shoved the words out, desperation threading every syllable, her voice catching in a half-panic.

The boys exchanged puzzled glances. “Why would she be here?” Theo asked, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorframe.

Pansy whirled, fixing Lorenzo with an intense, almost pleading stare, “You two—you both have that weird… thing going on. Do you know where she is?”

Lorenzo froze. His breath hitched slightly at the mention of you. His mind immediately began replaying the last twenty-four hours in agonizing detail: your tear-streaked face, the tightness in your voice, the sound of your muffled sobs echoing up the staircase as he walked to his dorm.

He tossed and turned all night, the words he’d shouted at you replaying over and over. Was he any better than the others when he had treated you like that? Did he have the right to get upset? Were his feelings for you real—or had he just convinced himself they were? Did you even know how he felt? Perhaps you did, perhaps you had made him feel this way.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing against his side as guilt coiled in his stomach. He shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.” He admitted, voice quieter than usual, weighed with unease.

Blaise, now more alert, leaned forward, curiosity and concern in his voice, “Wait—what’s going on? Why are you freaking out like this?”

Pansy’s hands flew to her face, tugging at her hair in anxiety, then she pulled them down as if trying to steady herself. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, “I… I don’t know. Her things… they’re gone. Her chest is empty, her desk is empty. I tried asking the others, but—nothing. She’s just… missing.”

A tense silence fell over the doorway, thick and suffocating. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of her words sinking in. Lorenzo’s chest tightened painfully, the cold knot in his stomach making it hard to breathe. He stepped closer, heart hammering against his ribs, mind racing with a flurry of guilt and fear.

Enzo’s jaw clenched, furrowing his brow as the memory of last night replayed in his head for the millionth time. Had he pushed you too far?

Pansy’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, “What if—what if something happened? What if—because of the way we treated her? Fuck—I went to bed early last night just to avoid talking to her. What if something happened to her?"

The words hit him like ice. His chest tightened further, guilt and fear coiling in a spiral he could hardly control. He couldn’t shake the image of your small frame, trembling, your eyes glistening as you tried to hide your tears. His hands itched to reach out, to make things right—but you weren't there.

Lorenzo’s gaze hardened, jaw clenching as he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

And that’s how Enzo and Pansy found themselves standing outside Professor Snape’s office that morning—a half-dressed, panicked lot huddled together in the dim corridor. Their robes were thrown on haphazardly over their pajamas, hair still mussed.

They pounded on the heavy wooden door again, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and yet none of them flinched at the thought of the torrent of wrath and fury they were about to unleash upon themselves.

The door creaked open, and Professor Snape’s shadow fell across the threshold. His expression was as unreadable as ever, dark eyes scanning each of them with a mixture of mild annoyance and measured calculation. “Yes?” He asked, his voice low, smooth, but brimming with authority that made the air itself feel charged.

Pansy stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to force the words out before the panic strangled her, “Professor… we… we can’t find her. (Y/N). She’s—she’s gone!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting the panic in the students’ voices sink in before speaking, “Her parents picked her up this morning. She went home for the holidays.”

The words hit like ice. Pansy blinked, confusion and disbelief washing over her, “The holidays… aren’t for another week.”

“Yes. She went early,” Snape replied, his tone clipped, precise. He didn’t flinch at the wide-eyed shock on their faces, didn’t soften his words for their panicked pleas.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, the frustration building in his chest like a storm pressing against his ribs, “You just… let her go? Miss a week of school? You’re okay with that?” His voice cracked slightly, more from the helplessness gnawing at him than from anger.

Snape arched a brow, his gaze sharp enough to make even Lorenzo pause. “Mr. Berkshire, despite what you may think of Hogwarts, this is an institution that prioritizes the welfare and development of its students. Ms. (L/N) wanted to go home early, and her parents agreed it was in her best interest. Furthermore, international students cannot always schedule Portkeys according to their own timelines; we provide additional discretion and consideration in such cases.”

Lorenzo felt something cold wash over him. Right, you lived in France. Even if he wanted to visit you, to straighten things out. You weren't simply a hop, skip and a jump away. He wouldn't be able to apparate there.

Snape’s eyes glimmered briefly with a cold, almost imperceptible calculation. He stepped back slightly, his hands folding neatly behind his back, leaving them to absorb the weight of the decision without another word.

The two of them stood frozen in the corridor, a thick silence settling over the stone floor. Pansy let out a small, shaky breath, her hands twisting together nervously. “What...what did we do.” She whispered, voice barely audible.

Lorenzo sank to the nearest bench, chest tight, shoulders hunched, as guilt and helplessness coiled together in his stomach, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped together.

He could still see the way you had looked at him the night before, tears welling in your eyes as he shouted, as he accused you. He had been so sure then, so certain he was in the right—but now the certainty wavered. Was it really you he cared about? Or was it the pull, the allure, the irresistible charm he could never explain?

That didn't make any sense.

If it truly were the veela appeal, the rest of his dormmates would have been banging on Snape’s door with him, wracked with guilt the way he was. But they weren’t. They weren’t the ones who had pushed you, who had shredded your confidence piece by piece, and yet here he was, drowning in guilt, replaying every word, every accusation. He should feel guilty—he had pushed too far, ignored the tears streaming down your cheeks.

And yet… you had wanted to talk to him, not the others. That had to mean something, right? That your connection was deeper than the one you had with the rest? That you trusted him, that he mattered more to you?

But what if that was exactly why you had used your appeal, carefully, deliberately, to keep him wrapped around your finger—to make him want to see you, to apologize to you even though you were the one who had hidden the truth?

And yet—the memory of you voice, the sight of your smile, the sound of your laugh that sent a strange, intoxicating thrill rushing through his veins—they weren’t magic. Not entirely. That was you. That had to be you.

Still, doubt lingered like smoke curling around his heart. He wanted to believe, to trust, to go to you and say everything he hadn’t been able to the night before. But how could he be sure his feelings weren’t… tainted?

He leaned back, shoulders tense, staring at the ceiling as if the answers could somehow be etched into the stone above, and wondered if he would ever truly know the difference between magic and the person behind it.

Lorenzo sat slouched low in the armchair nearest the fire, head tilted back against the crushed velvet, eyes locked on the ceiling as though the flickering shadows overhead might hold the answers he couldn’t find. His jaw was tight, thoughts looping endlessly in a vicious cycle—he liked you. He didn’t know if his feelings were real. He liked you. He didn’t know if you had used your veela appeal on him.

Merlin, he loved you—

A sigh slipped out, heavy and tired, cutting the silence.

Theo, sprawled across the sofa with a book he clearly wasn’t reading, glanced up. His sharp eyes lingered for a beat before he let the book drop onto his stomach with a loud thud, “Merlin’s beard, Enzo, you look like either end of a blast-ended skrewt. This brooding thing is starting to get pathetic.”

Lorenzo didn’t so much as twitch, “Mind your business, Theo.”

Theo smirked, undeterred, and sat up, elbows braced on his knees, “Oh, I am minding my business. You moping around affects the whole bloody dorm. I cannot listen to your pathetic, wistful little sighs anymore. It’s like being haunted.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Theo…” in warning, but Theo only shook his head with exaggerated pity, clearly enjoying himself.

“Relax,” He said, leaning back with a lazy stretch, “I’m just saying, stop acting like the world ended. You’ve got the rest of your lives together.”

That snapped Lorenzo out of his haze. His head jerked toward Theo, eyes narrowing, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t fuck around with my feelings, you prat.”

Theo blinked, looking almost innocent, before he arched a brow, “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Lorenzo’s voice was sharp now, defensive, brittle.

Theo studied him for a long moment, then barked a short laugh, “Salazar, you’re denser than I thought. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, suspicion stirring, “…Know what?”

“That you’re her fucking soulmate, scemo.” Theo’s grin spread, slow and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered some great cosmic joke.

The words landed like a Bludger to Lorenzo’s chest. For a second, he just stared, breath stalling. Theo, of course, recognized the look of disbelief and pressed on.

“You were the only one at the opening feast who wasn’t immediately taken with her. Even Malfoy was tripping over himself that night. And you? You said she wasn’t prettier than fucking Granger.”

The firelight danced across Lorenzo’s face as his mouth opened, then shut again, something unsteady flickering across his eyes.

Theo leaned forward slightly, voice dripping with smugness, “Come on, man. You wrote that bloody paper in Hagrid’s class yourself. You know a veela’s soulmate is immune to their appeal.”

Lorenzo wanted to scoff, to tell Theo he was full of shit. But the denial stuck in his throat. Because the moment Theo said it, the memories rushed in—the way he’d been indifferent to you at first, how he hadn’t fallen under your spell like the others, how his feelings had only taken root as you drew closer. It wasn’t instant. It was gradual. Real. And that thought made his pulse quicken, his stomach clench.

Theo didn’t notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He smirked wider, leaning back into the sofa like he’d just delivered gospel, “So quit sulking. Or at least go do it somewhere else—I cannot stand looking at your dumb mug for another second.”

The rain had just let up when the doorbell rang. You were curled up on the window seat in your father’s study, staring blankly out at the drenched garden, wondering who would visit in weather like this.

You padded toward the door, still in the soft cardigan you’d thrown on that morning, hair loose around your shoulders. You pulled open the heavy oak door.

And froze.

The last thing you expected was Lorenzo Berkshire standing on your front step, damp from the drizzle, his hair mussed from travel—but none of that made your breath catch.

It was the enormous potted rose bush he was clutching awkwardly in front of him, as tall as he was, the deep crimson blooms brushing his jaw.

“Hi.” He said, voice rough and uncertain in a way you’d never heard before. His usual sharpness, the polished wit, the shield of arrogance—it was gone.

You blinked, throat tightening, hands curling at your sides, “Enzo? What are you doing here? What on earth is that—?”

“I’m sorry,” He said, shifting the weight of the plant so it wobbled slightly in his arms, “I’m here to apologize. To beg for your forgiveness. And my mum always said flowers were the way to go, so…” He chuckled, though the sound was unsteady, holding the pot even higher though you could see his arms trembling.

The corners of your lips parted, but no words came.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” He continued, voice raw, “I should never have said those things. I should never have treated you like that. I… I was just hurt because—”

“Because?”

“Because I thought my feelings for you weren’t real,” He admitted, stepping closer, letting the damp from his coat cling faintly to yours, “Since you came to Hogwarts, I saw people fawn over you, fall in love with you, even if you didn’t spare them a glance. When I found out you were a Veela, I thought… I thought what I felt was just like that. Shallow. Fake. That the feelings keeping me awake at night, driving me crazy… were all the same as theirs.”

He finally set the plant down, stepping closer still, the earthy scent of roses filling the space between you. “But I think I know now.” His dark eyes searched yours, vulnerable, “Am I… really your soulmate?”

A single, constrained nod, and relief softened the pained lines on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, voice breaking slightly.

“My whole life, I’ve been on the receiving end of endless and unwanted love and attention,” You whispered, emotions clogging your throat. “And the first guy I’ve ever—” You swallowed, trembling, "The first guy I’ve ever loved is the only one in the world who isn’t obligated to love me back. I… I was scared. You seemed so aloof… the only person who didn’t immediately fall for me but seemed the opposite. I was scared if I told you, you’d reject it. Say it wasn’t real… or go against it out of spite.”

Lorenzo’s heart sank. He could almost see himself, had he known earlier, dismissing the idea entirely—thinking the whole thing foolish, running from it, ignoring it. He swallowed the sting of that imagined scenario, leaning closer.

“And perhaps it was cowardly,” You added, your lip trembling, “but I just… I wanted to keep you in my life. Any way I could. Even if you didn’t feel the same.”

He cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, rough thumb brushing lightly against your skin, giving you the chance to pull away, to reject him. But you didn’t.

“I do,” He whispered, voice raw and breaking, “I do feel the same way, (Y/N). I have for months now. I love you.”

You searched his face, your breath catching as you found only sincerity there—sincerity tinged with pain, with regret, with something desperate and unguarded. Your heart began to pound against your ribs, hard enough to hurt, your eyes stinging as tears blurred your vision.

“Ever since that day in Hogsmeade,” Lorenzo continued quietly, voice trembling but steady, “maybe even before that… I began to see past what other people wanted to see. And I began to see you. Just you. And I loved what I saw. Those feelings have only gotten stronger with time.”

You blinked up at him, your fingers curling lightly into the sleeve of his coat. “Really?” The question came out small, almost childlike, as if you were afraid to believe it.

“Yes.” His answer was immediate, certain, “And I don’t think what you said that day was true.”

Your brows furrowed, “When I said what?”

“That the reason the Veela appeal doesn’t work on your soulmate is to protect them from it.” He drew in a shaky breath, thumb still tracing slow circles against your skin, “I think… it’s the opposite. I think it’s so that, when I did fall in love with you, you’d know. You’d know it wasn’t because of your bloody appeal but because of you.” His voice cracked softly on the last word, and his eyes burned into yours, fierce and unflinching.

“Because I’m not in love with the qualities everyone else can see.” His other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer, “I see you. All of you. And I love you more because of it.”

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t speak. The room seemed to shrink to just the two of you—the scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the muted glow of the hallway lamp casting soft shadows across his face. His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your cheeks, as if afraid you might vanish the moment he let go.

Your chest heaved with a sob, and you collapsed against him, shuddering uncontrollably. Lorenzo wrapped you tightly in his arms, holding you as you cried and wailed, the sound raw and unrestrained. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, murmuring against your hair, wiping away each tear with painstaking care. Every droplet he caught felt like a confession, a promise that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

His face twisted into a sorrowful, yet tender, smile. He hated that he had ever been part of the reason for this pain, that his own doubts and fears had added to the weight on your shoulders. “I love you, (Y/N).” He whispered, voice breaking, almost reverent.

You sobbed harder, the words hitting you with a force that made your knees weak. The devotion in his voice, the first time you had ever received such genuine affection, filled you with such overwhelming joy, it felt heart-breaking.

You clung to him, to the warmth and the certainty of his embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The sobs began to ebb, leaving a raw, quivering quiet in their wake. Your forehead rested against his chest, breathing mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. Lorenzo’s hands tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair and along your back as if anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the certainty of his love.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, his lips brushed yours. A whisper of a kiss at first, testing the boundaries, letting you respond—or pull away. But you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted your head, pressing closer, letting the pent-up ache and longing of months spill into the contact.

The kiss deepened, desperate and unrestrained, a collision of relief, apology, and love. It was messy, imperfect, but painfully real, and it burned away the last of the fear and doubt that had clung to you for so long. Your hands found his shoulders, then his neck, holding him as tightly as he held you, as if letting go would undo everything.

When you finally broke apart for breath, your foreheads pressed together, eyes wet but shining, Lorenzo’s voice was a low, trembling murmur, "Do you...like the flowers?"

You managed a shaky laugh, resting your hands on his chest, "I love them, Enzo. Almost as much as I love you."

Bonus:

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning energy—floating candles casting golden light across the long tables, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with the crisp autumn air. You were perched on your usual bench, a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands, when a small, neatly wrapped package slid across the table in front of you.

You blinked in surprise. “From my mom,” You murmured, peeling back the ribbon. Inside was a delicate little jar, filled with dried petals that still smelled faintly of roses. “She made potpourri from the fallen petals of the rose bush you gave me,” You explained softly, eyes flicking to Lorenzo, who had just plopped down beside you.

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as he leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and taking a deep inhale. Not of the rose petals, but of you.

"What's that?"

You smiled softly, glancing at the short note tucked into the jar, recognizing your mother’s handwriting and her messy French. “In a nutshell,” You say, “she says, ‘She has eyes in the back of her head.’ I think she’s surprised… she didn’t meet my dad until she was twenty-three.”

Surprised was an understatement. Your parents had gone for a brief grocery run when they had gotten caught in the rain and by the time they had returned you had been curled up on the couch with a boy you had claimed to be your soulmate.

Your father almost had a heart attack.

You turned over the note and laughed, recognizing your father's messy scrawl.

"If you ever bring that boy in my house again, I will bury him underneath that stupid rose bush in the backyard."