Mirror Poetry and Haiku in the Dark

She'd been in there for an hour.

Well, maybe more like half an hour, but he was in a hurry, and it seemed like much longer.

Damn, he thought, I'll never make it to Hogwarts if she doesn't hurry up.

He mulled it over, then decided: He'd leave her a note.

* * * * *

She threw back the shower curtain. The bathroom was freezing. She thought it wouldn't be so cold, what with the steam filling the room.

She went to wipe the mirror clean, then realized there was a message on it.

It had fogged up, of course, since she'd been in the shower for five minutes short of forever. It wasn't often that she had the chance to dawdle in the mornings, what with her habit of ignoring her alarm clock until it launched a full-out offensive.

Her eyes scanned the message, written in a familiar, neat print:

Roses are red,

Your hair is pink.

I missed my own shower,

It's your fault if I stink.

She burst into laughter. Daft prat, that one is, she chuckled. Some things never change.

* * * * *

He'd had a long day. They'd started with the wards around the school, and he felt drained, both physically and mentally.

He peeked into her room. In the dim light cast by a single candle, he could see piles upon piles of laundry, parchment, books, sweets wrappers, and - yes, that particular lump under the covers was breathing; it must be her. She seemed to be soundly asleep. Maybe I'll go give her a kiss before I turn in. I certainly wouldn't want to disturb her.

Muscles aching, he made his way to the bathroom. He may not have had the chance to get cleaned up that morning, since she'd monopolized the bathroom, but he figured that a long shower would be the best thing for him tonight.

Turning the hot water tap on as strongly as it would go, he shut the door, undressed, and stepped into the tub, giving an audible sigh of blissful relief as the spray hit his sore shoulders.

* * * * *

She'd seen him in the doorway. He thinks I'm sleeping. I'll show him.

She watched the clock for ten straight minutes, then figured she'd better get a move on, if her plan was going to work.

Slipping noiselessly through the bathroom door and holding it just short of latching behind her, she leaned over to the mirror and composed a little note of her own.

* * * * *

The shower had worked wonders. He wouldn't be surprised if he'd been in there even longer than she had been that morning.

Toweling his hair dry, he went to give his tired face a once-over...and burst out laughing.

The mirror was completely covered in a small, somewhat-unsteady script.

Roses are red,

And today, my hair's orange.

Nothing rhymes with orange,

So this poem is downright bloody awful,

But get your arse into my room and you won't be sorry.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and made his way down the hall.

* * * * *

She could pretend to be sleeping all she wanted. He knew perfectly well she was awake. He spoke from the doorway.

"Next time, you might try making your hair blue. It has considerably more literary flexibility."

"What, you're in the mood for a haiku, perhaps, Professor?"

"...Perhaps."

"You are a daft prat. You should have showered with me. Next time, screw the note."

He silently repeated what she'd said, counting on his fingers, and raised his eyebrows. "Impressive."

"I'm a woman of many hidden talents."

"Indeed."

"Are you going to stand there all night in a towel?"

"Not unless you invite me in."

"Go re-read the mirror, prat."

"I'd rather hear another haiku."

She sat up in bed and thought for a moment, then snickered.

"Got one?"

"Shut up and close the door. Do not forget to lock it. Then - drop the towel."

The door slammed. The lock clicked into place. The towel dropped.

"I concede to a poetic genius," he said, as he carefully navigated a path through the clutter, from door to bed.