Maroon
The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me
And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet it was maroon
Once upon a time, scarlet meant lions and courage, scarves and ties and uniforms, banners and a common room, Quidditch uniforms and friends.
Once upon a time, maroon meant handmade jumpers with his initial on them, dark blushes thinking about him, satin petals on a flutterby bush at his home.
Once upon a time, burgundy was laughter over wine late at night, dress robes at a wedding, her fingernails as her hand rested on his shoulder during a dance.
Once upon a time, red was a boy with flaming hair who made her heart pound.
Hiding in Grimmauld Place, the boy with his flaming hair slept on cushions on the floor next to the sofa she was sleeping on, so she wouldn’t be afraid at night all alone. His hand held hers, their fingers slowly falling from each other’s touch as they finally drifted off. There should have been late night talks during the weeks of hiding in the old house with its burgundy wallpapers and draperies, but there was so much to say that nothing needed to be said, only staring into each other’s eyes. Her heart didn’t pound at every noise when he was beside her.
Red was the color of solace, of a boy with flaming hair who made her feel safe.
But they weren’t safe, and now he was on the ground in front of her, and his blood was on her hands, and her heart was pounding from the terror of his pain. Her hands were shaking so badly she was terrified of hurting him more with a miscast spell. The dittany did what it could, advancing the healing process in a short burst of healing energy, searing the torn flesh and sealing the wound with new skin.
Burgundy was the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights.
Maroon was the first autumn leaves speckling them with dappled sunlight in the woods as she tried to heal him.
Scarlet was his blood smeared across his pale, freckled skin, covering her hands, splattering the ground where once red banners flew for a Quidditch team he supported.
There were no freckles on the new skin.
Red was a color that had comforted her once. Today red was horror and pain and fear.
That night she sat beside him while he slept in the narrow bunk. Harry, asleep in the bunk above them, had helped Ron into a handmade jumper with his initial on it, since Ron was shivery and cold from blood loss despite the comfortable temperature of the tent. She felt a little shivery herself from delayed shock. The jumper was maroon, like so many other jumpers his mother had made for him.
The blanket covering him was undyed wool, a pale grayish color that almost seemed entirely colorless in the dim light, a relief after the reds of today. Nothing could wash away the shock of red in the sunlight as his life seeped into the hungry earth. She reached out hesitantly to touch his arm, needing to feel him. The soft wool of his jumper shifted under her hand, and his eyes opened as he turned to her.
“Are you okay?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Think I’m supposed to ask you that,” she said, trying to muster a smile that wouldn’t come.
There was so much to say that she couldn’t manage a word. He only looked up at her, and his fingers reached for hers, drawing her hand to his chest.
She looked at their hands on the maroon wool of his jumper, pale flesh against the red knit like his blood on his skin and on her hands.
“It was so red,” she whispered without thinking.
“What was?”
It hurt to get the words out. “Your blood. Oh, Ron.”
He looked down at the jumper he was wearing, the red so dark it was maroon, and then let her go. He pulled the jumper over his head, wincing as he did, and tossed it behind her where she couldn’t see the red any more, so the only red was his hair, flaming and alive in the dark night.
“I never liked maroon anyway,” he said, drawing her hand back to him.