Roses are Red

Jedi Goat

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter.

Author's Note - for Fanfic100, 076 - Who. Check my profile for details. ;)

Tap. Tap. Tap.

God, Transfigurations could be such a bore sometimes.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What was it McGonagall was on about again? Fred shot a glance in his Professor's direction and was rewarded with a direct glare; he straightened slightly in his seat, feigned looking down at his textbook in fascination, and as soon as she had resumed reiterating the theory of transfiguration's history, he returned to absently drumming his fingers against the desktop.

Tap. Tap. Taptaptaptap.

He and George were supposed to be working on their latest product plans – or at least, they were, until Professor McGonagall caught them whispering at the back of the class and promptly separated them. From his seat at the front of the class, Fred chanced a glance back at his brother; George had his head propped in his hands, gazing off into space with his brow furrowed slightly as if he was considering McGonagall's words – fortunately, Fred knew him better than that.

He turned back around soon enough to placate their professor, who was giving him her predatory eye again. Well, Fred reflected, he supposed there was nothing to do about it – and by gauging his brother's particular focus, George would probably have the quirks of Puking Pastilles worked out before the period was over. He was always better at the details of their ploys, anyway.

Now – Fred's eyes drifted toward his watch – he just had to find a way to amuse himself for eighty minutes. Not a problem for a Weasley twin. Unfortunately, as he was now a sixth-and-nearly-one-half year, McGonagall had caught on to the majority of his havoc-creating schemes, which just called for more ingenuity on his part. Hmm...everything so far looked theory-based, which pushed accidentally spontaneously combusting something out of the question. A pity, really.

Fred glanced idly to the desk beside him, for a moment amusing himself watching Alicia Spinnet feverishly record Professor McGonagall's every word, the tail of her quill bobbing in the air. This spurred his motivation, and Fred decided to humour their teacher for once. He withdrew a crumpled slip of parchment from his bag, blotted a rumpled quill, and paused in thought.

Now, what was he actually to write?

Fred figured some poetry wouldn't hurt, and spent a few minutes wracking his brain for anything that rhymed with 'Malfoy' or 'Dungbombs'. That particular course didn't lend itself very well at the moment, so he settled for the highly clichéd, but effective, opening.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue

Then he paused, tapping the quill to his lips as he considered where to go next. A fake love poem to 'accidentally' leave among Harry Potter's books – or better yet, Ron's? Or maybe... Then he smiled wickedly as the next lines came to him.

Slytherins are green

With envy, I mean

Pleased with his rhyming skills, Fred cast about the room for more inspiration. He thought again of making a mocking love poem, and smirked at how he could make it out to be from Ron to another Gryffindor girl – to see his reaction alone to his "true feelings" being spread about Gryffindor house was priceless in itself. Fred scrawled the next line.

Her eyes

Are like chocolate.

He frowned, considering this; well, maybe it was a dumb simile, but no one said Ron was a poet either. Seeking some sort of justification he hurried on:

So warm and sweet

You want to fall in them forever.

There, that sounded sufficiently cheesy. Now... Fred thought a moment.

Her cheeks are like rose petals

Though I don't really know why –

Something about them reminds me of springtime.

Roses, chocolate... What else was there that girls liked? He glanced over at Alicia again as he thought. Well, most of the females he knew were Quidditch fanatics – but Fred stopped himself before he could make an analogy between Quaffles and certain parts of anatomy, cringing as he knew he ran the risk of disembowelment from angry, very dangerous women.

Fred settled for a safer substitute.

Her hair is softer than the richest silk

And her lips, they taste sweeter

Than all the ice cream in the world

And I'd give all the galleons in the world

Just to hear her laughing.

"Five points to Gryffindor, Mr Weasley," said Professor McGonagall appreciatively as she swept by his desk. Fred glanced up in utter confusion; those words did not belong in the same sentence where he was concerned. A quick bewildered glance around the classroom revealed all the other students to be bent over their pages as well, scribbling notes. He blinked, shrugged, and chalked up his idea as a success. He returned to the poem.

Somehow she's different than other girls

By the way she smiles, and tosses her curls

She's lovely and brilliant, though I'll never be

So there's no way she'll ever see

More to me than just another Weasley.

Fred stared at those last lines, wondering why suddenly they seemed... He shook his head. It had to be what McGonagall had said, and nothing more, that suddenly directed his thoughts toward a certain fourth year overachiever. He sighed and was just about to cross out those last lines when the ringing of a bell nearly made him jolt out of his seat.

All around him students rose in a low, cresting murmur, gathering up their supplies and making for their next period. Fred shook his head and scrawled a last, hasty line in disgust:

But what do I know about poetry anyway.

He crumpled the pathetic attempt and kicked it out of sight beneath his desk. Already George and Lee were struggling through the crowd of leaving students toward his desk; thrusting the class of boredom from his mind, he made to follow them.

-/-

Hermione Granger smiled to herself as she hurried to Transfigurations class. Today, Professor McGonagall had promised they would be covering some advanced Transfigurations techniques, and she was nearly bursting with excitement. She turned back, about to reprimand her two best friends to keep up; Harry and Ron had fallen back, nearly lost in the sea of students crossing the corridors. Hermione shook her head, huffed slightly, and went ahead into the classroom without them.

She made her way to her favourite place at the front, and had already stowed away her bag, neatly arranged her quill, ink well, and some fresh parchment on her desk, and was just flipping to the appropriate chapter in An Intermediate's Guide to Transfiguration when Harry and Ron slid into the seats beside her. Ron dug in his bag for a quill and cursed faintly as one fell, rolling beneath Hermione's desk. He bent to retrieve it.

"Settle down, now," Professor McGonagall informed the fourth year Gryffindors shuffling in their seats. "We have a lot of material to cover today, thus demanding your full attention."

Hermione, straight in her seat, was rapt at attention; a small frown tugged at her lips as someone repeatedly prodded her arm. Finally she cast an irritable glance sideways at Ron. "What?"

"Did you drop this?" he hissed, holding up a crumpled ball of parchment. Hermione pursed her lips with a faint shake of her head; she didn't see how he could mistake her meticulous work for something like that. She returned her attention to McGonagall's lecture, hampered slightly by the crinkling of parchment as Ron smoothed out the paper. His brow furrowed as he tried to decipher the messy script.

Eventually the crackle of noise snapped her patience, and Hermione snatched the parchment from him, sticking it between the pages of her textbook. "Honestly, this is important!" she hissed at her friends.

With them quiet, Hermione focused on the lesson; she had already read the chapter, of course, but McGonagall's extra notes on the dangers of Transfiguring something too large, without previous experience, were fascinating. Hermione finished off another point on her notes with a flourish, and found her eyes moving magnetically toward the crumpled parchment still in front of her. Her lips thinned in a line; surely students had been passing around a note and blatantly ignoring their education, again.

However, words began to jump out at her, even as she strived to focus: Roses are red, violets are blue...

A love poem? she wondered, and, now curious, she surreptitiously slipped the parchment into her lap to read. The lines were messy, and resembled more a mash-up of thoughts than a flowing poem; however, the last few lines piqued her interest. It almost seemed...

A Weasley? She stared at the scribbled name, thinking back. Obviously it didn't belong to Ron, and Ginny certainly wouldn't have written the thing. So that left Ron's twin brothers, neither of whom – well, all right, it was such a laughably bad poem that she supposed maybe they had written it as a prank.

But why finish it on such an uncertain note? As if they had started out with the idea of a light parody, then somehow along the way, it became more personal. But what do I know about poetry anyway...

It was as if the speaker was appealing to her – or whoever the addressee was, for she was now certain there was one. Mind made up, she subtly tore a section of blank parchment off her note page, and began to write.

Roses are red

And violets blue, too

But neither could match

Quite the breathtaking hue

Of hair, blazing as flames

Or eyes of deep oceans blue

But there is nothing, I think,

As breathtaking as a laugh so true

Telling of life, so much I've never seen

And I wish no more than to smile with you.

"Miss Granger!" Professor McGonagall's commanding voice broke through her train of thought, and Hermione glanced up, her face reddening.

"Er – sorry?"

"I asked you twice what is necessary for Self-Transfiguration," Professor McGonagall said, frowning slightly with more concern than anger; no other student would have sustained such a reaction.

"Oh – er – One has to have a high degree of focus to accomplish the transformation, and a clear image of what one wants to become," she recited automatically, recalling the earlier chapter. Professor McGonagall's lips twitched.

"Exact, as always, Miss Granger. However, it is plainly not schoolwork that is your current focus."

Hermione wished she could disappear into the ground. Shrinking in her seat, she mumbled, "No, Professor."

Professor McGonagall proffered her hand, and Hermione, shame-faced, handed over her poem. Professor McGonagall frowned slightly, but only said, "I would like to see you after class, Miss Granger."

As she swept back to the front of the room to resume the lesson, Hermione fervently wished she could disappear out of mortification.

-/-

"I can't believe it, she still gave me detention," Fred fumed as he marched along the emptying corridor. All other students were heading downstairs with only the thought of a delicious dinner on their minds – he, on the other hand, made his way to Transfigurations with his stomach growling irritably. George had laughed at him; he, somehow, had escaped trouble for once.

Fred sighed, braced himself for an hour of what he liked to call 'torture', and pushed open the classroom door. His footsteps echoed as he ventured alone to the front of the class; Professor McGonagall hardly spared a glance up from where she was grading papers at her desk. However, Fred did a double-take to see someone already seated in front of her desk, in the chair usually reserved for George.

"H-Hermione Granger?"

She glanced up, gave him a tight smile, and went back to whatever it was she was writing: apparently she had been recruited to help mark assignments. Only she would consider such a task a reward; rolling his eyes, Fred tossed down his schoolbag and hooked his chair with his foot.

"Mr Weasley," Professor McGonagall said once he was settled, "I'm afraid tonight Mr Filch is already supervising a group of fifth year Slytherins who...volunteered to polish the second floor suits of armour." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Therefore, you will simply be helping me with some marking tonight – do not let this alleviation go to your head, however, as I expect the appropriate level of responsibility from you."

"All right," shrugged Fred, hardly believing his good luck – his hands were still raw from the last time Filch had him cleaning the floors on hands and knees. Professor McGonagall slid a stack of papers toward him, and Fred got to work. He cast a discreet eye over what Hermione was doing, copying her method; it must have been right, for McGonagall made no comment.

Only fifteen minutes or so of silence had dragged by, penetrated only by the scratch of their quills, when a boy Fred distantly recognized as a Gryffindor Prefect hurried into the room and whispered urgently with their Professor. She nodded curtly, set aside her quill, and rose.

"I'm afraid I must attend a staff meeting – Miss Granger, Mr Weasley, I trust you two can manage by yourselves. If you finish before I return, replace the papers in alphabetical order and be sure to lock the door behind you. Miss Granger, if he so much as thinks of causing any more trouble, I give you permission to punish him appropriately." At Hermione's nod, she turned and swept out of the room.

As soon as the heavy oak doors had closed behind her and the Prefect, Fred glanced sideways at Hermione, faking a look of horror. "You wouldn't dare punish me, would you?" he queried.

Hermione chose not to respond to answer that and continued writing, though her fist clenched tighter around her quill.

"You're actually taking this seriously, aren't you," said Fred, ignoring the warning signs as he delved on. "I mean, really, it can't be good for your health – you have to lighten up sometime –"

It happened very suddenly. Hermione let the quill fall from her hands and instead dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders trembled; Fred's eyes widened as he realized he'd probably just hurt her feelings. Smart move.

"Hey..." he prodded urgently, "I mean, I didn't mean –"

"I'm here for the same reason as you," she mumbled through her fingers.

"Er – what?"

"I got detention. Me, Hermione Granger...detention for writing a stupid poem." She raised her head, and to Fred's immense surprise she wasn't crying; instead, she was trying desperately not to laugh. "And now I'm in the same boat as a delinquent like you. It's a slippery slope, isn't it?"

Fred, still gaping at her, could only mutely protest, "I'm not a delinquent..."

"It was terribly mortifying at the time, but now... I'm not sure, it was sort of thrilling, I guess. To break the rules for once."

"Wow, Granger..." Fred couldn't really come up with anything intelligent to say to that. As if remembering her audience, she suddenly flushed and ducked her head, hastening an explanation.

"But I wouldn't – not all the time – no, it was terrible of me – maybe I should just apologize..." Hermione's eyes were unnaturally bright now and she worried with her hands, looking on the edge of control. "Oh, I must really look like a fool now..."

Fred decided it was best to intervene now. "No, listen, 'Mione," he said, leaning across the desk and earning a somewhat nervous stare. "You're not a bad person for tripping up once, all right? Rules are meant to be broken. And I'm sure ol' McGonagall has the heart to forgive you for your distraction. Even deep down, I'm sure, she has a soft spot for George and me."

Hermione cracked a smile at that. "You're right, I guess..." she mumbled.

Fred nodded, satisfied. "Though, I wouldn't mind seeing that side of you more often... Just think of what would happen if you teamed up your mind with our own brand of Weasley brilliance."

Hermione's cheeks went pink. "I don't think so," she told him flatly, her usual stiff tone returning; but then she shook her head slightly and giggled, "The school might not survive if we did!"

"Oh, but it would go out with such a bang," he grinned, cajoling her. "Just imagine, we'd double our pranking potential overnight. No one'd know what hit them."

"Well, maybe another time," she conceded, and pointed at the pile of papers still in front of him. Fred grimaced, but picked up his quill.

"All right, so long as you'll think about it."

Hermione settled for a slight amused smile as she set aside another neatly graded assignment; then she held out her hand. "Here, give me some of those."

"Oh – thanks." They divided the remaining stack and got to work; Fred's progress was still slow as he watched Hermione's efficient penmanship, the concentration in her features.

"Hey, Granger," he interrupted after a pause.

"Mm?"

"Mind if I ask what caused your delinquency?"

Hermione grimaced, but acquiesced. "It was just a silly poem I was writing – someone had left one behind, see, so I don't know, I thought I'd write back..." She didn't notice Fred suddenly straightening in his seat, for an instant panic flickering across his face.

"Er – what sort of poem?" he asked quickly.

"It was a love poem, of sorts. It was rather sweet, if not terribly written."

"Ah," said Fred, watching her expression as he shifted uncomfortably, "so why'd you write back? Did you – er – like him, I mean?"

"Well, no, of course not," she giggled. "I just thought – I don't know – I could show him I could write it, too, even if neither of us –"

"Knew anything about poetry anyway," Fred finished for her, staring at her in awe. Hermione's eyes widened.

"You...?"

"Yeah, that was me," he swallowed, "I don't even know what I was thinking. Boredom caught up with me, I guess." He didn't know why, but he really didn't want to discuss it with her; the thought alone of him writing such a thing was mortification enough, but somehow now it seemed so – personal.

"You just wrote it because you were bored, then? You didn't...write it to anybody?" she asked timidly.

"No, definitely not! That would just be stupid," he muttered, returning to his marking so that he could turn away from her. "It was just a random poem," he muttered to reassure himself, shuffling the stack of fourth-year papers. He was idly looking for Ron's so that he could laugh at him and detain his current thoughts when a torn stub of parchment stuck between papers caught his eye. Curious, he pulled it out, and read over the familiar neat script.

Roses are red

Violets blue, too...

Hermione glanced up, hearing only the solitary scratch of her quill; she huffed noisily to see Fred staring absently at the parchment in front of him, his quill frozen in the air. Gritting her teeth to detain a frustrated remark – honestly, how much time did he plan on wasting? – she leaned across to reprimand him.

"What –"

The words died on her tongue as she recognized the sheaf torn from her notebook in his hands; her face flushed deep red, and she made a blind grab for it. "No, don't read it -!"

With reflexes only a seasoned Qudditch player could possess, he dodged out of her reach, the parchment clenched in once fist. Half-out of her seat, Hermione lunged across him for it again; but Fred was faster still.

Before Hermione even knew what was happening, he had caught one hand in her tangles of bushy hair and dragged her head forward. At the risk of overbalancing completely, she couldn't react; not even when their lips met and he kissed her in full, decisive force.

Hermione could only close her eyes and accept his advance, too frightened to move else the moment end; when he finally drew back, she still didn't move, as he combed a hand gently through her hair.

"'Mione..."

And I wish no more than to smile with you.

Fred gave a lopsided smile. "Let's face it, Granger, we're both absolutely horrid poets."

Hermione grinned back; suddenly, it didn't seen to matter anymore, not her detention, not anything aside from the two of them, together.

"I don't know about you...but that's perfectly fine with me."

The End

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