Taboo

"Happy Christmas!" said Ginny brightly, bursting into Ron's room, still in her pajamas. Harry sat up drowsily and shoved his glasses onto his face. Ron yawned and burrowed deeper under the covers. "Come on, aren't you going to open presents?"

"Yeah, alright," mumbled Harry, putting on socks.

"Great." Ginny beamed. "Come downstairs for breakfast when you're done. Mum's said we can go sledding after." She gave Harry a quick kiss on the cheek and happily bounded down the stairs.

"Sun's barely up," complained Ron, examining his pile of presents. "Hey, look at this!" He held up a box of brightly colored sweets. "Fred and George have sent me one of their Skiving Snackboxes. Brilliant!"

"The note says we're going to need them," said Harry, tearing open a similar parcel.

"Yeah, but it's still cool though." He ripped opened another package. "Krum's autobiography...didn't think he'd be much of a writer, but it should be an interesting read. Thanks, Harry!" They grinned at each other and Ron immediately started skimming through the book.

"You missed one," said Harry, pointing at a slender package that was partially hidden underneath a pile of discarded paper.

"Oh," said Ron, his face falling as he unwrapped it. "A sterling silver tipped eagle feather quill and Color-Changing-InstaDry Ink." He tossed it aside.

"Who's it from?"

"Hermione," said Ron, trying to sound indifferent. "Let's go. I'm hungry."

Harry shrugged and pulled his Weasley sweater over his head.

"Happy Christmas!" Mrs. Weasley greeted him cheerfully, setting down a plate in front of him. "There's plenty for everyone, and when you're finished you can go sledding."

"Thanks, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, smiling through a mouthful of bacon and eggs.

"There's hot cider over here," called Mr. Weasley, plunking down several mugs.

Harry and Ron quickly finished eating and went outside to join the others. The yard sparkled, pristine and blindingly white in the morning sun. Harry, Ron, and Ginny dragged their sleds to the top of the hill and raced down, narrowly avoiding trees. Bill, Charlie, Fred, and George were having a boisterous snowball fight down below. After sledding, they joined the snowball fight, building elaborate structure in an attempt to block the snowballs.

"That's not fair!" yelled Ginny, as she was hit in the arm. She lobbed a snowball as hard as she could in the twins' direction. "You can't use magic!"

Fred winked at her and sent another snowball zooming at her with a flick of his wand. She dove behind Bill's igloo for cover. Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley completed his snowman, which was modeled after one he'd seen in a Muggle children's book. He stuck a carrot in for the nose and stood back to admire it.

"Who wants hot chocolate?" called Mrs. Weasley, sticking her head out the kitchen door. Exhausted and faces red with cold, they trekked inside to sit by the crackling fire. "Ron, you're melting all over the carpet."

AS soon as everyone was happily drinking hot chocolate, Mrs. Weasley brought out the camera. "Now, squeeze together, everyone. Ron, why haven't you got your sweater on? Go upstairs and put it on."

Grumbling , Ron disappeared upstairs and came down wearing his usual maroon sweater.

"Smile!" The flash went off and Harry felt himself momentarily blinded.

"Stupid sweater," muttered Ron under his breath. He stormed up the stairs, blinking the spots of light away. He pushed open the door to his room and sat down on his bed, the mattress sagging. He tore the sweater off and threw it into the corner of the bed, knocking Hermione's present onto the floor. With trembling hands, he picked it up and set it in his lap, a look of contemplation upon his face. Then, in one fluid motion, he hurled the bottle of ink against the wall and snapped the quill in two. The ink splattered against the wall and fell onto the floor, where it dried in a puddle and flashed iridescently.

"Ron, are you in here?" Harry burst through the door. "Tonks and Lupin just--"" He noticed the mess on the floor and Ron's stressed looking form. "What happened?"

Ron slowly lifted up his head. "I--love--her," he whispered hoarsely.

"Who?" asked Harry, thoroughly confused.

"But she doesn't love me back," he choked.

"Who are you talking about?" asked Harry, now alarmed. "Did Fred and George slip something into your hot chocolate?"

"Hermione," he breathed, squeezing the broken quill.

"Hermione?" repeated Harry dumbly.

"She doesn't love me," said Ron in a monotone.

"She-she doesn't?" Harry's stomach sank. Ron knew about Malfoy. How was he going to explain? How could he explain? He'd just sat there and let it all happen... "I'm sorry, Ron," he said quietly, bursting out in cold sweat. This was the moment... "I should've told you...I--it was wrong of me..."

"You knew?" Harry nodded. "You knew all this time that she wasn't really in love with me?"

"I knew," said Harry meekly, feeling worse and worse by the second. "Look, I was going to tell you. I was just waiting for the right time."

"The right time?" said Ron furiously. "What would you call the 'right time'? After we were--I dunno--married or something?"

"I--I--no!" stammered Harry.

"So, what?" continued Ron. "You figured you'd just let me trick myself into thinking that everything was perfect and then you'd tell me? Or let me find out on my own?"

"How did you find out?" asked Harry, dreading the answer.

"Ha, she practically told me herself!" snorted Ron. "She told me she would be staying at the castle the night of the Ball. Doesn't take a genius to figure the rest out."

"Did she say why she was staying?"

"Something about 'research,' apparently," said Ron, making air quotes. "Research, my arse. She just wants to get away from me. She's probably eating pastries at some café in France with her boyfriend."

"That's what she told you?" asked Harry, trying to make sense of the whole situation. He found it odd that Ron wasn't cursing Malfoy and his family...unless Ron still had no idea. Harry sighed in relief. Ron mistook it for a sigh of sympathy.

"Yep, that's what she told me," he said dejectedly.

"So now what are you going to do?"

"I dunno," said Ron, kicking aside the broken quill. "Let's play some Gobstones. I don't want to think about this anymore."

Harry readily agreed. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The truth would have to come out someday. The question was, who would be the one to tell it?

----------------------------

Hermione sat cross-legged in front of the fire unwrapping Christmas presents while Malfoy sipped hot chocolate, his back facing the flames.

"Aargh!" he yelped, as something soft sailed into his face. He toppled backward, spilling his drink and landing partially in the smoldering logs. Hopping around the room, he drew out his wand and quickly extinguished the fire on the tail of his velvet bathrobe. "I know I'm so hot that I'm on fire, but I don't think I meant it literally," he said, inspecting his now smoking robe. Too late, it was already ruined.

"What was that for anyway?" He picked up the offending object which had landed just inches away from the fire. "Isn't this one of those hideous sweaters Weasel King wears?"

"His mum knits them," mumbled Hermione. "Sorry about your robe. I'll get you a new one."

"Don't worry about the robe," said Malfoy, with a casual wave of his hand. He crouched down next to Hermione on the carpet. "You're that upset about Weasley?"

"I lied to him," she said, tears falling into her lap.

"I lie all the time," said Malfoy, in an attempt to be consoling.

"But I don't. I feel like such a...bad person."

"Telling a lie doesn't make you a bad person," said Malfoy reasonably. "It's not like you had a choice anyway."

"I did have a choice," she said, sniffling. "Lots of choices. I just don't think I made the right one...I mean, look at where it's got me."

"It's got you here, with me," said Malfoy, cradling her in his arms. "Is that so bad?"

She sighed. "I still think I should tell him. He deserves to know. It'll make him hate me forever, but he has to know."

"How are you going to do it?"

"I have absolutely no idea." She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder, wishing the world would go away.