Roses are red
And so is your hair...
It was meant to be eyes next, he knew. But her eyes weren't blue. Her eyes were brown. He wasn't sure what you could say about brown eyes. There weren't any brown flowers you could compare them to. When
you got down to it, brown was a pretty boring colour, really. It wasn't that her eyes were boring, exactly, but they were only interesting because they were her eyes, not because of anything particular
about them. Her eyes were just eyes, brown ones. Like two brown circles inside two white ovals, with big black dots in the centre. Maybe he shouldn't write her poetry.
"Pansy," he called imperiously, "what is it that girls like, exactly?"
"Flowers," she called back. It wasn't a good sign that she didn't immediately run to his side, like she would have once. That, he reminded himself, was why he needed a new girlfriend in the first place.
"Flowers and chocolate. And to be told how pretty we are."
He could have told her that. There must be something else; some magic formula he could find. At that point, he could have kicked himself. Of course; the answer was magic. He'd get his dad to lean
on that stupid Potions teacher, and he could have a love potion thrown together before the week was out. Perfect. Ginny Weasley would never know what had hit her, and it would be one in the eye for that stupid
brother of hers. Father wouldn't like it, of course, but he'd deal with that somehow. Perfect.
He crushed the pathetic beginnings of poetry into a ball and tossed it into the fire. So much for Mister Romantic.