Notes;Lorenzo Berkshire x female Gryffindor reader, requested, enemies to lovers, smut, mdni
You noticed Lorenzo Berkshire on the Hogwarts express in your fifth year, but the enmity had been simmering long before that. He was lounging in a compartment with Malfoy and a few other Slytherins.
His dark hair was perfectly tousled, the collar of his crisp white polo was unbuttoned just enough to draw the eye to the sharp line of his jaw. He looked like he stepped out of a wizarding fashion magazine.
You, a Gryffindor with a sharp tongue and even sharper opinions on blood purity nonsense, had brushed past their compartment. When your eyes met his through the glass, he’d smirked—not the cruel sneer of his cousin Draco, but something smoother, almost charming. Then he’d said something low to his friends, and they’d all laughed. You’d flipped him off and kept walking. That was the beginning.
By seventh year, the rivalry was legendary. Lorenzo was everything you despised on paper, a Berkshire heir with a superiority complex wrapped in faux humility. He played the perfect gentleman in public—holding doors for professors, donating to house charities, spouting feminist rhetoric about witches’ rights in Potions club that made half the girls swoon. But you saw through it. You’d overheard him in the dungeons once, tearing apart a fellow Slytherin’s insecurities with that silky voice, passive-aggressive barbs disguised as concern. He kept secrets like a vault and extracted them like a Legilimens without the wand.
He knew your name. He made sure you knew he knew it. “Careful there, love,” he’d drawl during a Quidditch match after-party in the Slytherin common room, where you’d been dragged by a friend.
You were arguing with a seventh-year Ravenclaw about house elf rights. Lorenzo appeared at your elbow like smoke, polo shirt hugging his broad shoulders, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and firewhisky. “Wouldn’t want you to strain that pretty voice defending creatures who don’t even want defending.”
“Fuck off, Berkshire,” you’d snapped, heart racing despite yourself. Up close, he was painfully attractive—high cheekbones, full lips, eyes like storm clouds. He knew it. He weaponized it.
He’d chuckled, leaning in so only you could hear. “Feisty. I like that in a girl. Makes breaking them more fun.” Then he’d smiled sweetly at the group and changed the subject, gaslighting the entire conversation into something lighter. Everyone loved him. You hated him.
All the tension came to a head during the winter of seventh year, a mandatory paired assignment for advanced Potions. You were to brew an Amortentia variant and analyzing its personal nuances, Partners chosen by lot, Your name and his were drawn together.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you muttered as Slughorn announced it. Lorenzo’s smile was angelic. “Destiny, darling. Try to keep up.”
The first few sessions in the abandoned classroom Slughorn had assigned were pure torture. You worked in silence at first, chopping ingredients with more force than necessary. Lorenzo moved with effortless grace, sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, his diary— that worn leather thing he’d had since first year—tucked conspicuously in his bag.
You’d heard rumors he wrote everything in it from Secrets to Thoughts to Songs, too, he played piano in the Room of Requirement some nights, melodies drifting through the castle like smoke.
“Staring won’t make the lacewing flies chop themselves,” he said one evening, voice low and teasing. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“I’m not staring. I’m plotting how to poison your half of the cauldron.” He laughed, a rich sound that sent unwelcome heat pooling in your stomach. “Violent little thing. Most girls melt when I smile at them. You? You bare your teeth. Refreshing.”
“Most girls don’t see the real you.” He set down his knife, stepping closer. The classroom felt smaller “And what’s the real me, then? Enlighten me, Gryffindor princess.”
“An arrogant prick who hides behind charm and daddy’s money. You talk about equality but you think you’re better than everyone. You gaslight your way through life and keep diaries like some emo teenager because you can’t handle your own thoughts out loud.”
His eyes darkened, but not with anger—with something hungrier. “Careful. You’re spilling secrets without me even asking.”
The air thickened. You hated how aware you were of his height, the way his polo stretched across his chest, the subtle scent of him. He reached past you for a vial, his arm brushing yours. Electricity. You jerked away. “Touch me again and I’ll hex your balls off.” “Promises, promises.”
Weeks passed, the Potion brewed slowly layers of scent revealing themselves; old books and rain for you, something like leather and bergamot and him for reasons you refused to examine.
Arguments turned into reluctant conversations. He admitted—under duress—that he ground for his grades, staying up nights with that diary, composing melodies to clear his head. You told him, grudgingly, about your family pressures.
One night, after a particularly brutal argument about blood status where he’d defended his mother’s legacy with surprising vulnerability, you found him in the Room of Requirement. Piano music, soft and melancholic. He didn’t stop when you entered.
“You play well,” you said quietly. He glanced over, fingers still moving. “Surprised the arrogant prick has talents?” you sat on the bench beside him, closer than you meant to. Shoulders touching. The enmity cracked.
“I hate you,” you whispered. “I know.” His voice was rough. He stopped playing, turning to face you. Those storm eyes searched yours. “But you’re here anyway.”
The first kiss was angry—teeth clashing, hands fisting in fabric. He tasted like firewhisky and mint, his mouth demanding as he pulled you onto his lap.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan. “Fuck, you’re infuriating,” he muttered against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your waist.
You rocked against him, feeling him harden beneath you. “Shut up and kiss me.”
Clothes came off in a frenzy. His polo hit the floor, revealing a lean, muscled torso dusted with faint scars—reminders of family expectations. Your blouse followed. He worshipped your breasts with mouth and hands, sucking a nipple until you arched, whispering filthy praises. “So perfect. Been thinking about this since that first train ride. Hating you made me so fucking hard every night.”
You pushed him down on the conjured couch, straddling him. His cock was thick, flushed, leaking at the tip as you wrapped your hand around it. He hissed, hips bucking. “Tease.”
“Payback.” You sank down slowly, inch by inch, both of you moaning at the stretch. He filled you completely, hitting spots that made your vision blur. Lorenzo’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you as you rode him—slow at first, then faster, skin slapping, your moans mixing with his low curses.
“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he growled, sitting up to bite your neck, leaving marks. One hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit with expert precision. “Come for me, love. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock.”
You did, shattering around him with a cry. He followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a guttural groan, forehead pressed to yours.
After, he didn’t pull away. He held you, stroking your back almost tenderly. “This doesn’t mean I like you,” you mumbled into his chest.
“Liar.” He kissed your temple. “I’ve been yours since you told me to fuck off on the train.”
The shift wasn't instant, Publicly, you still sniped at each other—him stealing your notes and “returning” them with filthy annotations in his elegant script, you hexing his shoelaces to trip him in the halls. But privately, in hidden alcoves, the Room of Requirement, or his dorm when his roommates were gone, it was fire.
He was insatiable. One night after a party, drunk on victory and each other, he bent you over the piano bench. “Quiet, darling. Wouldn’t want anyone hearing how well the Gryffindor takes my cock.” His thrusts were deep, punishing, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing your clit until you came twice, soaking his thighs. He pulled out and finished on your back, marking you with a satisfied hum.
Another time, he was gentle—rare for him. After you’d had a fight with your friends about associating with “Slytherins,” he found you crying in the Astronomy Tower. No words at first. Just his arms around you, then slow, reverent kisses down your body. He ate you out like a man starved, tongue fucking into you, fingers curling against that perfect spot while he hummed praises. “You’re mine now. Let me take care of you.” When he finally slid inside, it was missionary, eyes locked, slow rolls of his hips until you both shattered together.
He read you passages from his diary—raw thoughts about you, how you challenged him, made him want to be better without the masks. He played piano for you, original pieces that sounded like longing. He still talked shit about everyone, but now it was to make you laugh, and heaven help anyone who talked shit about you. His protective streak was feral.
Jealousy flared when a Hufflepuff boy flirted with you. Lorenzo cornered you later, possessive. “He doesn’t get to look at what’s mine.” The resulting sex was rough—against the wall in an empty corridor, your legs wrapped around his waist, his hand over your mouth to muffle screams as he pounded into you. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Lorenzo. Fuck—only yours.”
Graduation loomed. The war whispers grew louder, but in your bubble, it was just the two of you. Late nights grinding through NEWT revisions turned into study breaks where he’d pull you into his lap, sliding your panties aside and fucking you slow and deep while quizzing you on potion ingredients. “Focus, love. What’s the counter for… fuck, you’re clenching so tight.”
Post-NEWT celebrations were wild. In a private suite conjured in the Room, he took you apart for hours. On your back, legs over his shoulders, hitting deep with every thrust. Then riding him reverse, his hands spreading your ass as he watched himself disappear inside you. Oral in the shower—him on his knees for once, worshipping. You returned the favor, taking him down your throat until he came with a broken moan of your name.
“I love you,” he admitted afterward, voice raw, diary open beside the bed with fresh entries about forever. No masks. Just him—arrogant, flawed, musically gifted, secretly soft for you. “Hated you first. Then wanted you. Now I can’t breathe without you.”
You kissed him, slow and sweet. “Enemies to lovers. Cliché, Berkshire.” “Best kind.” He smirked, already hardening again. “Now come here. I’m not done ruining you for anyone else.”
Years later, post-war, you’d laugh about it over wine in your London flat. Lorenzo, still in tailored polos and old-money elegance, still keeping that diary (now full of songs about you). He’d pull you close, mouth at your ear: “Told you I’d steal your interest.”
