There was a reason that James Potter was a Quidditch player and not a poet. Quidditch players needed speed and agility. Poets needed patience and rhyming abilities.

Guess which one of those James had.

No, James Potter was no poet. Yet he was presently sitting in the Gryffindor Common Room attempting to write poetry.

How he had gotten into the business of writing poetry was beyond him. All he knew was that it had started with going out with one Lily Evans.

Lily Evans. The fiery tempered, red headed seventh year Gryffindor.

It had taken years, but now she had finally taken an interest with him.

And James was going to do whatever he could to keep it that way, with Lily happy and enjoying his company.

He had said this much to his dorm mates.

Sirius Black had suggested that girls like poetry. Romantic poetry, specifically.

Peter Pettigrew had readily agreed.

James had asked his other friend, Remus Lupin, if he knew if this was true.

Remus had simply shrugged.

So James had taken Sirius' advice and was now sitting in the Common Room, quill poised above a blank piece of parchment.

Roses are red,

Lilies are white,

And I'm so glad

You're with me tonight.

James scribbled the sonnet out. Too generic.

There are six kinds of flowers that people love:

Roses for love,

Aloe for strife,

Lilac for innocence,

Tansy often means to get a life.

Irises are for when you do well in Quidditch,

And lilies to give to my Lily Flower.

James groaned as he reread it.

"Having trouble, mate?" Sirius asked from where he was doodling, a few plush seats over.

"It's too sappy," James said unhappily. "Like… I dunno what, but it's sappy."

"Have you tried a flower theme?" Sirius offered.

"Yeah."

"Bugger. Well, now you know why I didn't go after any of the girls. I'm Sirius Black, I can't afford to be sappy."

"Yeah, because it's 'not punk rock.' Also, you don't like any of the girls."

"Exactly."

James groaned again. "Can you please be helpful?"

Sirius glanced up at James thoughtfully. "You could give up on Evans. Or girls in general. I'm sure Peter-"

"That is not helpful," James interrupted, "and I don't want to hear it."

Sirius shrugged. "Suit yourself."

James turned his attention back to his parchment.

This poem was really hard to write

So I hope you like what you hear tonight.

Some people count crows,

Others count sheep,

But me, I count the hours until we meet.

Up in the astronomy tower

Where the stars shine,

Bright as your eyes, which are beautiful as the flower for which you were named.

I'm not trying to say that the stars are more beautiful than you.

Actually, I'm trying to say that you're more beautiful than the stars.

Lily Flower, so bright and brilliant-

James crumpled up the paper.

"The poetry isn't working," Remus noted, peering over his shoulder.

"It's bloody impossible!" James said. "Honestly, I have no idea how people do this for a living."

"They drive themselves mad," Remus said knowingly.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Anytime."

James began another attempt.

Red is your color.

Red like your hair,

Like Gryffindor House.

Red like roses,

Though you're actually a Lily.

"I give up," James declared. "I'm going to the library to copy out of a poetry book or something."

"He's gone mad," Sirius said, watching as James stood. "Willingly going to the library…"

"It's your fault for suggesting poetry!" James called over his shoulder as he left the room.

"He has a point," Remus nodded.