Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe is not mine.
Even Rainbows Fade Away
An orange shag carpet. A magenta couch. Neon yellow pillows and electric blue curtains. From the lilac walls to the lime green coffee table, the living room has always been rather blinding to the eye. If walls could talk, these would scream with the vibrancy of those who lived between them. Screech the stories of laughter and mischief. Shriek the memories of a life spent together since the womb.
The bright blue kitchen with counters the color of a fire truck. Cupboards the shade of a poisonous jungle plant. Drawers that garish shade of mauve their mother despised so much. Memories of burnt dinners and broken dishes. Late night takeout and post-hangover coffee. Midnight counseling and early morning strategy. Conversations shared but not spoken.
A grass green bathroom. Turquoise shower curtains. A hot pink bathmat and a lemon-yellow bar of soap. The toilet and bathtub account for the only spots of white in the flat. A cardinal towel rack stands half empty, holding a sole eggplant bath towel and the sense of something missing.
Bedroom walls of citrus orange. A slime green bed frame clashing with an indigo bedspread. Pinstriped suits and cotton T-shirts strewn across the floor. Yesterday's paper sits upon the violet desk, scribbled-on parchment littered on the floor. This room holds stories of its own. Long nights spent inventing, brainstorming. Mornings begun by waking up stiff and cold after falling asleep hunched over a new project. Nightmares and daydreams, victories and pitfalls. A year spent in mourning. Six months of progress. A lifetime of memories.
The last door stands closed at the end of the hallway, shut with a sense of finality. Behind the purple door lies a room of green. A bedspread of orange, a headboard of blue, the colors dulled by a thick layer of dust. A yellow lamp not touched for months. Clothes a bit outdated, crumpled and wrinkled in a pile near the window. Magazines and pamphlets dated nearly two years ago lie in a wide semicircle around an invisible point, opened to various pages. An orange notebook placed to the side, beneath a handful of blue ink pens. Paperwork from countless months ago stands stacked upon the red desk, gathering dust. Faded photos hang on the walls, depicting a group of people no older than 20. An envelope lies on the bedside table, sealed and unopened. Inside the envelope, beneath all the dust, lies an old letter, dated May 1, 1997. Written in a woman's hand is a lifechanging confession. A story that would change everything for the addressee. But this news remains unknown.
For the letter remains unopened.
For the room has not been entered in nearly two years.
For the door has been closed.
Closed on the pain and the memories.
Closed on the grief and the loss.
Closed since May 2, 1997.
Closed since its occupant died.
A/N: So sorry to all my Lessons readers! I know this isn't the chapter 8 you've been waiting for, but I've been quite busy and have been battling with writer's block for months. I was trying to do a scene-sketch in order to get back into the swing of writing, and that sketch turned into this story. A rather unedited story, but there you have it. Newcomers and regulars alike, welcome and thank you for reading!