Where two Veelas Meet pv Sebastian Drake

“What are you doing?” a voice rang out. Everything in Lorenzo jolted. As the clammy air shot into his lungs, a gasp slipped past his lips. His shoulders seemed to shrink to half their size. The blue eyes widened, and the hairs at the nape of his neck stood like soldiers arrayed in tight formation, ready for the firing squad. For a moment, the pen nearly slipped from his fingers—then the tension locked his grip around the quill’s shaft, pressing the thin breadth into his skin.
Though the velvety timbre of the voice trembled against his ear like a gentle touch, it was far too close. The suddenness of it ran through him like an ambush from a dark corner of the woods. Instinct might have driven him to lash out—or at least lean away and smother the flight impulse—had the scent not reached him at that instant! It poured into his nose as though a god of flowers had appeared at the very spot from which the voice had come—near him. A drift of roses, peonies, and jasmine swept over his cheekbones and danced around the tip of his nose. Lorenzo’s heart pounded. A faint tremor unfurled through his muscles, setting the cords of his neck alight. The young Italian turned his head.

“Che diav—” The startled question almost slipped free, dragging his manners behind it. Italian ran through his veins and slipped in confusion on his tongue.

Lorenzo stared at the figure beside him. The stranger was far closer than he had imagined. Directly at his side, leaning half over his shoulder, stood an older student. However, it felt as though, for the first time in his life, he was allowed to look comfortably into the sun. The rays seemed to gather like gentle light in the stranger‘s breath. Lorenzo’s lips parted. A warm astonishment washed the irritation away, yet left no less stunned silence in its wake. It was as if the goddess of beauty and love herself had kissed the boy with the crimson collar, right upon his full lips and consecrating his entire being. Lorenzo‘s heart quickened, as though it were remembering a familiar nature. His gaze fixed on the thick lashes; each blink felt conducted like the rise and fall of a musical piece. He had not known time could behave this way—slowing, languidly rolling past with every breath. Lorenzo's shoulder relaxed, but not even embarrassment could break the spell. An ancient longing bloomed in red across his cheeks. The dream of belonging and family choked his sense of etiquette and manners, but the question still lingered in the air.

Lorenzo breathed softly, “Drawing… my name is Lorenzo, and what is yours?” The question unspooled from his lips, less an inquiry than a reflection of astonishment at his own feelings.

They sat heavy in his stomach and head, but unraveled his senses as though he were seated beside a long-lost family member—the kind whose identity would be discussed over a delightful brunch. Lorenzo did not notice how his fingers slowly uncurled, not even when the quill made its escape and fell onto the paper. Ink welled from its tip, spreading across one of the finely drawn sleeves and covered it whole. Even his exhale felt slowed.

The stranger boy began to charmingly chuckle. The sound swirled into Lorenzo’s left ear, brushed gently across his thoughts, and slipped out the right. He said it was obvious—at least to anyone who wouldn’t count themselves among the stupid. It stirred a thought and with it, suddenly, Lorenzo found himself in the latter category. For he had given such an obvious answer, he can‘t claim to be of cleverness. His brows furrowed slightly, and an embarrassed expression lowered his gaze.

"Yes, that is indeed true. Forgive me,.." Lorenzo quietly admitted.

In the brief silence which followed, the Ravenclaw tried to call himself back to composure. His blue eyes studied the scene on the sheet of paper. The quill now rested with its tip half drowned in a puddle of dark ink. That black mishap reflected his own unsettled eyes and admonished the young Italian to smooth his features. Even if the beautiful boy beside him stood too close and had caught him in a private moment, he shouldn’t sit there with lips frozen stiff and discomfort painted on jaw and chin. His father would disapprove. The realization tightened his chest with strict teaching.
He immediately lowered his hand back to the paper—gently pulled it closer. The jacket he‘d been sketching slowly vanished beneath an accident summoned by shame. With measured breaths Lorenzo forced his jaw to ease and the brows to settle into calm form.
Only to be suddenly jump-started by a voice, for him too loudly ringing into his ears: “Lorenzo… Oh! So you’re Italian? You know, I used to live in Rome for a while!”
The voice was smooth, perfectly honed for the Gryffindor’s throat. Yet the volume thundered through Lorenzo’s body. Combined with the closeness, the unfamiliar mix nearly caused him to flinch. His head snapped up, turning back toward the other. Realization pressed into his mind and claimed the throne of his awareness: the boy was Part-Veela.
Recognition sank into Lorenzo’s chest. His shoulders eased, and a warm, benevolent light unfurled across his eyes. He could not recall ever having met another of his kind. At one or two events he had crossed paths with female Part-Veela, but never a male—and certainly not one of similar age. A small smile threatened to curve his lips. Although, the other boy, with a natural air of confidence and charm, began tossing Italian words from his tongue. They tumbled into Lorenzo’s ears like drunken men through a doorway. Even the pronunciation mangled the romance language, as if the boy’s jaw were some cruel device of linguistic torture. Nonetheless, Lorenzo could hear that it was about Rome. The boy said he would like the city, but find the homeless people frightening at night. Lorenzo couldn’t help but let his own excitement spread into a wider smile. Though the performance bordered on insult, it was amusing—and terribly precious. The boy shifted slowly to the side and leaned against the tabletop. The wood pressed into his ribs, but it didn’t bother him, since the Gryffindor suddenly pulled a pout across his face. Like a dejected puppy, the stranger tried to explain himself: “…It was a few years ago, you know?”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that at all,” Lorenzo replied, a trace of deliberately scattered sugar on his lips. “Especially since you still remember quite a lot of words.”

With a rather graceful gesture he lifted a hand toward the chair beside him. How much of his remark truly matched his opinion was left unresolved. Lorenzo deemed of importance to cheer the puppy up. Even the ink blot was nearly forgotten—and so the thickening smell of dirt and plants.

“Please, take a seat. May I ask your name? I don’t believe I’ve ever met another of my kind in person—male, at least,” Lorenzo explained himself, keeping his voice as comfortably confident as he could muster. After all, he didn’t want the invitation to be mistaken for a sudden whim.