Phantom [h.s]

Sixteen

"Hold on," he says and I watch as he finishes crossing the yard and walks around the house.

Minutes later he steps into the parlor, the wide grin still present in his features.

"You'd make a good Juliet," he says.

"What makes you say that?" I raise an eyebrow, shutting the window.

"You look like how I always imagined her when we read it in school. Dark hair, blue eyes, effortless beauty."

I blush, looking toward the floor. "Doubtful," I say, all too aware of his smug gaze on me.

Harry moves to take a seat on the couch, spreading his arms over the top of the cushions. "How do you know all those lines so well, anyway?"

I shrug. "My father has a complete collection of Shakespeare's works, and whenever I was feeling...distressed, I would go and read to get my mind off things." I turn back to the window to draw the curtains. "Didn't work very often. But I do know the stories front and back, which gives me a leg up in English class."

He smirks. "I see."

"And you?" I ask, sitting down on an unopened box. "How do you know the lines?"

"English was the only class I ever paid any attention in," he replies. "And I read from your father's Shakespeare collection when you're at school."

I half smile at him.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized. Henceforth I never will be Romeo."

I recognize the line, parting my lips. "What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, so stumblest on my counsel?"

He rises from the couch. "By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word."

I push myself off of the box to stand. "My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words of thy tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?"

We are close now, a small gap of space between us.

"Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike," he says, light green eyes locked with mine, a crooked smile painted across his pale lips.

All memory of the lines that follow melts from my mind as I look up at him.

I search for the next line in my brain without luck. "Shit, I don't remember," I say, shaking my head and looking down.

He smiles. "Does your lack of recollection have something to do with my tangibility?" He raises an eyebrow, his smile turning into a teasing smirk as he raises his arm and slowly tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear.

Blush rises to my cheeks promptly.

Harry laughs lightly, turning and pacing across the room. He looks over his shoulder at me.

"Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, that tips with silver all these fruit-free tops."

"Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable."

He turns back toward me, his hands held behind his back. "What shall I swear by?"

I smile. "Do not swear at all. Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I'll believe thee."

Harry and I stare at each other from across the room.

He lets out a short laugh. "If only my old English teacher could see me now," he says.