Disclaimer: The characters and setting belong to JK, the poems belong to Shakespeare, even though the copyright's probably expired by now...
What does Shakespeare know, anyway?
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.'
Ron frowned in concentration over the lines of - he checked the cover - this 'Shakespeare' dude's poem. Apparently he was quite well known by Muggles. This hadn't exactly surprised Ron, as he was sure that anyone with such a funny name was bound to be remembered, no matter how little they did. Honestly, it was almost as bad as being called 'Weasley'. Anyway, the fact he was popular with Muggles meant that rewriting one of his poems was perfect as a valentine for Hermione. Unless he was some really modern, new guy, she'd probably have heard of him.
Ok... So. He would have to keep the first line the same, otherwise she wouldn't be able to tell what it was he'd rewritten. Ron straightened his shoulders a little. That was one line done already. He could afford to keep 'Thou art more lovely' too. One and a half down.. Hm. It would help if he knew what 'temperate' meant. It looked like 'temper'. Maybe it meant the girl the poem was about was really moody. And that would fit, cos you got thunderstorms in summer, with almost no warning. Ron swelled slightly with pride, having worked out the meaning. But it didn't seem a very nice thing to note about someone in a poem to them, even if it was true of Hermione. What he needed was a word that reflected something nice about her. That suggested she was gentle and sweet (which she was... to House Elves). Like summer weather! He was better at this comparison than the Spear guy.
'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more...' Ron paused in thought before writing, 'nice'.
Nodding to himself, he shoved the Speareshake book to one side. He could carry on now, how he liked. It was just a list of all the ways a girl was nicer than the weather.
Ok, so he should mention House Elves now, probably. 'With the way you help-' No, but...
'To help house elves is your way.'
What rhymed with nice?
Slice?
That didn't seem too positive.
Ten minutes later, Ron screwed up his effort and threw it into the fire, having decided that the original was a stupid poem anyway. He flicked to a page near the end of the book.
'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends posses'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day, arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That I scorn to change my state with kings'
"Why," thought Ron, angrily, as he scanned the other sonnets and realised they were all alike, "could he not have written in English?" For someone so famous, he didn't seem to have a very good grasp of the English language. What was with all the apostrophes in the middle of words, for starters?
The trouble was, he couldn't ask Hermione to help him with it. He needed someone smart. But he only knew one Ravenclaw. One Ravenclaw who, for the life of him, he couldn't understand how they had got into a house full of intelligent people. Though he supposed she might be artistic enough to do poetry... There was no way he was asking her help though. No - way.
Half an house later, Ron sat on the front steps beside Luna Lovegood, glaring moodily while she studied the poem intently, whilst somehow simultaneously managing to look a million miles away.
"Well?" he demanded. She impatiently 'shush'ed him, waving a hand at him.
"I am appreciating," she said loftily.
What seemed like an eternity later, she closed the book, and turned her freakishly wide eyed stare on Ron.
"It's about love," she said simply.
"Well I knew that!" Ron exploded.
"He says about how, when he's done something wrong, and no one's speaking to him, he keeps on wishing he was like other people, then realises at the end that he'd rather have her and nothing else, than everything but be without her," Luna expanded, sounding slightly put out. She disliked having to talk about the poem so bluntly. It unwove the magic of it. "It poses deep questions really," she said, sounding more like her old self again, "if you think about it. I mean, what is love? Is it an emotion, a material wealth you can-"
"Yeah, thanks," Ron cut her off. He'd met up with her to have the poem explained, not to philosophise on the nature of love. "You can go now," he added.
"Oh, no. I'd rather stay," replied Luna, taking his 'you can' literally as 'you may', rather than his intended 'shove off'. "I want to watch what you're doing," she smiled.
Ron shifted away from her a little, and leant protectively over his parchment, quill poised. Ok, when he was upset, or not being spoken to... It was usually Hermione who was doing the not speaking. He wasn't sure this was going to work, but he didn't fancy getting Luna to translate another poem. She might take it as an indication that she was welcome, and that he enjoyed talking to her.
"This one's sweet," she said, breaking his concentration, "'Shall I compare thee to-'"
"I like this one," said Ron, irritably, "And gimme that, I need to see the original."
"Please?" she said, raising her eyebrows and holding the book aloft. Ron snatched it from her.
"Well!" huffed Luna, "See if I help you again." With that, she - thankfully - flounced off.
'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
It's usually you I've had a fight with,' wrote Ron.
After hours of struggling, he had a finished poem. He would have given up sooner, his original second line hadn't even worked, but he'd have had to enlist Luna's help again if he'd done that.
'When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
It's usually you and me that's had a fight.
And though neither of us will ever apologise,
Things always seem to turn out alright.
Though when they're not, I sometimes start to wish
That I was sporty like Harry, clever like a Ravenclaw,
Or looked like Bill, cos everyone thinks he's a dish,
Because I feel like then you'd like me more.
But though I can't change and be like them,
You seem to like me anyway,
I know that we're bound to fight again,
But we always make up, so we must be okay.
We've managed to stay friends for all these years,
So if I ever make you cry, I'll also wipe away the tears.'
Ron glared at the paper. He had all these ideas, all these feelings in his head, but when he tried to make them rhyme with each other, they just sounded stupid. Writing poems for girls was a really stupid idea. And given how many Shakespeare had written, he clearly hadn't had much luck with the technique. Ron screwed up the paper his poem was written on, deciding chocolate was the one and only way forward. What did Shakespeare know about love anyway?
A/N Bless him, he tried so hard!
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