Bloody Awful Poetry

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If I were dead,

I wouldn't have you.

"Too morbid," he muttered.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

I lose my head,

Everytime I see you.

"Well, she'll think Nearly Headless Nick has a great, whopping crush on her." He shook his head contritely and tried again.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Join me in the bed,

I have some tricks to show you.

"Mind out of the gutter, you sod." Quill met paper once again.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

"Just tell her," he said.

Great, bloody, prick he thinks it is so easy. Why doesn't he take his own god awful advice? I'll beat the bloody pulp out of him...What the hell am I supposed to say?

He crumpled the parchment into a tight ball and threw it to the side of his bed.

In the morning, he found it smoothed out, looking new, on his night table. At the bottom, quickly scrawled in messy handwriting, it said:

It's easy, you ponce. I love you.

Ruefully, he smiled, and grabbed a spare piece of parchment. He wrote something quickly, and, with a spring in his step, headed up to the Owlery.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

She was sitting in the Great Hall, spreading jam on her toast, when the owls came.

She was surprised to see a letter land neatly next to her goblet.

She picked it up, glanced at the front. It was blank.

Feeling a tad bit uneasy, she flipped it open. In neat, block letters, it said:

Hermione,

I don't know how to tell you this, but...OK. Scratch that, I do.

It's simple really. I love you. I love your hair, your smile, and how you pretend to understand Quidditch before the House Cup. I love when you have ink on your chin and you don't know it; I want to kiss it off. I love the patches on your schoolbag, I love how I know I can always find you at that dusty corner in the library, and I even love when you quote Hogwarts, a History, at me. I love your flares of anger, and your bouts of self-consciousness, when all I want to do is hold you and tell you how beautiful you are. I love the way you grip your quills when you're nervous, and I love how you look when you are sitting by the fire, Crookshanks in your lap. Actually, at that point, I want to be Crookshanks. Does he realize what a bloody lucky bloke he is?

Love (it feels so good to finally write that),

love love love love love love love love love

Ron.

She smiled, a blush creeping along her cheeks. She ducked her head down, and looked over at Ron, sitting a few seats down. She wondered why he hadn't sat next to her this morning. She scrawled something on the bottom of the note, and handed it across to him.

Ron opened the letter. At the bottom, under his name, it said one word.

Finally.