𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐱𝐱. the eidolon of you.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

'Juliet, I'm quite daft but you make me look so smart.'

Harry snorts, quickly lifting his hand to disguise it as a cough as to not draw Ron and Hermione's attention from their Potion's essay ( in which Hermione hounded on Ron until he eventually caved and began writing it, if only to appease her nagging ) further drawing his knees up in the armchair he sits, much in the same way the light of day found him lounged in Lavinia's bed and against her headboard

The fires lambent before him is soft, dying wood gasping for it's last breath before crumbling into ashes that sporadically spill over the hearth, a mug of fresh mint hot tea that Lavinia had introduced him too resting atop one knee. In moments like these he forgets he's at Hogwarts, fully believing if only for an inescapable second, that's he's enshrouded in his and Lavinia's own personal ghost city; Romeo and Juliet open in his lap, Lavinia seated across the room on her stool, art on yet another blank canvas ( and Harry thinks that she's the art. she must be, in his eyes ) as she hums the same tune he's not even sure she's aware she's humming. It's peaceful, it's comforting, it's home.

If he's being honest, he's quite proud of his discovery on his second day back at Hogwarts. Was it utterly embarrassing stumbling over his words as he asked Professor Flitwick to privately teach him a stasis charm for the flowers? Yes, it absolutely was. Would he do it again in a heartbeat when Professor Flitwick seemed to grasp just what he was hinting at, and subtly ( well, in truth it wasn't very subtle; Professor Flitwick had asked him straight out, but he'd have to be on his deathbed before he admits that ) teaching him a charm so the play would carry a different cover? Again, yes, absolutely.

'Well, now I'm quite miffed if I'm honest. Where's the Romeo to my Juliet?'

He'd charmed Romeo and Juliet to look like a school textbook, changing the cover every few days as to not raise suspicion, and found himself entering his own ghost city during different intervals of the day for a shallow echo of her. Whether he be in class, the common room, or even the Great Hall, the eidolon of her company seemed to be just in reach of his fingertips; but his reality is upsetting, and with just one wrong movement he found she would disappear. After the first week of reading the play in early July, he'd memorized every single one of her annotations, but yet he still found himself amused by them, drawn in such a way that he swore he could hear her voice when he read them.

He wasn't sure what it was that drew him to Lavinia, but he could say with an unwavering intensity that she constantly occupied his thoughts; and he'd by lying if he said it didn't drive him mad. He craved her presence, craved her touch, craved the warmth that shot up his spine and depleted his worries, craved the way she said his name, and most of all, craved to hear her call him mooie jongen. It was an endless cycle and the play was the only way to appease those cravings.