Ron had always hated maroon. He stared down at the sleeves of his sweater, just a few inches too short. He wore the sweaters because his mum would probably cry herself to sleep if he didn't, but every year, she made them too short, and they were always maroon.

He should be outside, there was a snowball fight going on. The sun was peeking through the window, the wool casting a halo of light. But, then, the halo shone maroon.

He sat musing, and started when Harry's hand touched his shoulder.

"I like the sweater."

Ron had always loved maroon.