A/N--This was written for 'The Unsailed Ships' collection of stories Frayed Misfit is putting together for the 'Character Sketches' profile, which you should check out as soon as you finish reading this.

FORBIDDEN FLOWER

BY MATOAKA WILDE

He strained to keep his eyes open as the night progressed into early morning. The muscles around them ached and his eyelids kept fluttering, fighting to override his will to remain awake.

Hermione lay beside him, completely knocked out. It had been a long day. The baby had begun crying at 5:30 AM; the whole family had been up at 6. They'd showered, dressed, packed overnight bags, then Rose's diaper had needed changing, then she needed to eat, and did anyone leave food out for Crookshanks?

Next they'd all gotten into the car, the fuel had been low, they had to stop for some, then they'd driven to Hermione's parent's where they'd had lunch and awkward conversation, Rose's diaper had needed changing again, they'd exchanged gifts, said good-byes, got back in car, driven back home, and the baby hadn't stop crying, so then her diaper had to be changed again, and before they could floo to Harry and Ginny's, Hermione had said she needed to 'fix her hair'.

Ron had to get the bags with their pajamas and tomorrow's clothes together, Hermione had to give Rose a bath, then they had to floo to Harry and Ginny's. They'd visited, had cocktails at Ginny's insistence, and hadn't watched the clock, so then they were all late for the Burrow.

Once at the Burrow they'd all said hello to everyone so no one voice could be made out over the other. Ron then had made his way through clusters of people to reach his mum and dad in order to give them a hug. His mum had seemed really distracted, and almost hadn't noticed him. Then he'd started at least ten unfinished conversations, stepped outside for some air, reflected upon his life, and went back inside for Christmas dinner.

At dinner he'd watched George drink too much wine, Ginny and Hermione laugh at inside jokes, Bill struggle with conversation with mum, James throw up on Harry's shirt, and Percy and Audrey tell everyone boring stories about finding the perfect flat in London. Then dinner was over.

Next they'd all sat around the tree and listened to annoying Christmas music, had eggnog and cookies, opened presents, and then Ron had looked around and wondered, Where's George?

When all the presents had been opened the group had dispersed. Children begun to get sleepy; Ron and Harry had had a personal conversation about their, wives, children, and jobs. Ron had tried to talk to George, but George had only mumbled incoherent replies and stared off into space, next Ron had gone to Charlie and asked him how things were going, but he hadn't listened to Charlie's reply. Then he'd said good-bye to Harry and Ginny and everyone else who wasn't staying the night.

After all who were going to leave had left, and the Burrow had become a bit quieter, Ron had watched his mum cry while she washed the dishes, Fleur at her side, helping her and comforting her. He'd stared at Fleur's arse, her hair; he'd wondered what it would be like to have sex with her.

Then Hermione had walked up to him, told him to come to bed, that Rose was fast asleep. He'd put on his pyjamas and brushed his teeth. Then he'd laid in bed and kissed Hermione, touched her arse. But she'd pulled away, said she was tired, and fell asleep almost immediately. So Ron had just stared at her sleep, then he turned around and stared at Rose sleep. Then he fell asleep.

It had been a peaceful sleep, free of the anxiety of nightmares or dreams. It was a velvety black sleep that he'd been ripped out of by the hysterical crying of his daughter, Rose.

Before he'd 'officially' woke up, he'd waited for Hermione to take care of the crying baby—with no such luck. She remained as deep in sleep as ever. So Ron had gotten up and held Rose, rocking her back and forth, whispering to her dirty jokes and lullabies.

Eventually she'd stopped crying, but hadn't shown any signs of going back to sleep. She'd stared at Ron through the bars of her crib. How could he sleep with her staring at him like that? But he'd been so tired…

Ron's eyes had fallen closed for a moment.

"Gah! Ahhh!" Rose had said smiling.

Ron's eyes had shot open. "Won't let me get a bit of sleep tonight, will you?" Ron had looked at his gurgling daughter with a weary grin. "You think it's funny torturing your ole dad?"

Her mouth opened up, but instead of words, the only thing that had left her lips had been a spit bubble. Ron had laughed. He'd been tired. Anything could be amusing.

Rose had stood up in her crib, her chubby legs barely holding her, her hands grabbing onto the bars.

"Do you want to come out?" Ron had asked Rose, then imitating Percy, adding, "Take a walk about the grounds perhaps?"

"Eeeiii!" Rose replied gaily.

"Why not?" Ron had said to no one in particular. He'd known he wouldn't be going to sleep if he stayed there anyway. But maybe he could get Rose to sleep.

He'd picked her up and she'd went willingly into his arms.

First they'd visited the garden. Ron had told Rose about all the times he'd been sent out there to de-gnome it with his siblings. He'd walked around the yard describing how it had looked on the day of Bill and Fleur's wedding. While he'd babbled away to Rose he'd begun to think about how beautiful Fleur looked that day.

Rose had rested her head on Ron's shoulder. He'd pushed her knitted cap down on her head, trying to make it fit more snugly. It had been cold outside. Hermione would've been screaming if she known he was wondering around the yard with Rose in the middle of the night.

As he'd walked back into the house with Rose asleep in his arms, he'd noticed snow begin to fall.

Inside he'd been greeted by warmth and familiar smells. He would've been able to fall asleep right there, standing up. He'd planned to go straight to bed—no questions asked. But there'd been a light on in the kitchen. Maybe someone had forgotten about it. He'd gone to darken the room. When he'd reached the doorframe he'd seen Fleur.

She'd been sitting at the table, a mug of tea between her hands. Ron hadn't consider not going to see her. He'd rested Rose on the couch and had gone back to the kitchen door, continuing to stare at Fleur, whose head had been down. He hadn't though she knew he was there. He'd stared at her, consumed by lust.

Fleur finally raised her head. No surprise shows had shown on her face when she saw him.

"'Ave a zeat." She'd said, motioning to one of the chairs.

He'd sat in the one closest to her. From this intimate distance he'd seen the sadness in her face. She hadn't been crying, but she'd looked troubled, depressed. Before he'd been been able to ask her why she'd said:

"Bill es angry with me." Her voice low, "'Eh sayz I do not care about your family…but et es not true!" She'd rubbed her eyes with her hand. She'd seemed frustrated. "Just because I rather go to France for once…" she stopped again, staring into her milky tea. Avoiding Ron's gaze.

His eyes had never left her. She continued:

"I told 'im, et es zad 'ere at Christmas, other times I assured were not, but not at the time of Christmas...I told 'im I 'ated coming." Fleur sounded incredibly guilty. She'd looked at Ron, as if waiting for him to yell at her.

"I know what you mean." He'd said. She'd blinked at the unanticipated remark. Ron had went on, "It's a hard time of year for mum. Sometimes I think she still expects Fred to—"

It had been difficult for Ron to finish the sentence, because part of him hadn't wanted to think about what he'd found himself saying. After a pause he'd said, "She hasn't accepted Fred is gone, forever. She still knits him—and George he just sulks, drinks—dad pretends—"

He'd been too angry, too upset to elaborate any further. His throat had closed. He'd thought he might cry.

Then he'd felt a cool sensation greet his hand. Fleur had put her own hand atop his. She'd looked at him with eyes that craved comfort as much as his own must've.

"Sometimes I don't think it will ever get better." Ron had said to Fleur before he'd felt her lips cover his own.

As soon as the first kiss had ended another had begun. Ron hadn't thought about what he was doing, he'd just done it. He'd felt her breasts beneath her worn jumper; she'd placed her hands by his ears, stroking the back of his head. At that moment nothing had seemed to matter. Everything had seems dismal, beyond hope. At least I can have this kiss, Ron had thought.

He'd felt Fleur's tongue against his own. Their kisses had become longer, deeper, hungrier.

Then suddenly it had been over.

They'd looked at each other with shame and embarrassment. Both had regret about what they'd just done. They'd wanted to pretend it had never happened. Their eyes had locked in agreement; they would do just that.

Fleur had left Ron sitting in the kitchen. He'd still been tired, and somehow is he supposed to go back and sleep next to Hermione.

She will know, he'd chanted in his head, She will know.

But when he had eventually decided to return to bed, Rose in tow, Hermione had still been asleep. And when he'd crawled back into bed, blankets covering him, Hermione had turned over in her sleep, unconsciously snuggling up to him.

He'd thought about how beautiful her face is, how delicate her lips are, how he'd always counted on her, needed her, loved her.

Before he'd closed his eyes he'd taken one of her hands in his and had whispered, "I'm sorry."