Colours
Teddy's POV
He stares up at the few chinks of sunlight that manage to struggle through the heavy foliage above. The bright spots make patterns on the ground he is lying on, and on him; he can feel the light dancing across his face, playing hide and seek along his arms. The light is orange, and yellow, and white, and green all at once. He wishes it were pink.
He has many favourite colours. Pink is the best. It's so bright, sometimes too bright, and pink can never, ever mean sadness. Except when he looks at the photo. The photo. He sighs in anticipation. Sometimes he spends hours at a time just gazing at their faces, changing his own to match theirs so he can look like their son.
He likes the colour amber too. Not orange; amber. It has so much depth to it, and can sometimes speak of such immeasurable pain he shudders at the thought of it. Amber is a good colour to him. And gold. Gold is good too, but only in small amounts; like flecks in a nicer colour. Amber, usually. Amber with gold flecks. And pink.
He likes the colour aquamarine too. It's strange, really: most boys his age think of it as blue. He is mortified when they say that. How can aqua be blue? Aqua is everything blue is not; happiness, vibrancy, youth. Blue is sad, calm, old and worn. He likes the colour aquamarine because it represents who he is; it means something to him.
Just like pink meant something to her. Meant something to his mother.
They all say he is lucky to have them as his parents. They all say that his parents were wonderful people, and they all rattle off the many great achievements that were accomplished. This and that. Here and there. But what he really is entranced by are their colours.
The way is mother is pink and pale and blue all at once. The way is father is amber and gold and bronzy brown.
Colours mean the world to him. They paint the planet with their vibrant ideals and words and thoughts, splashing across as sadness, grief, anger, ecstasy, envy, purity, love, innocence. He likes all colours. All colours but red. Red is anger, frustration. Red is evil. Red is red eyes that kill. Red is red pupils in snakelike slits that murder the innocent. That murder his parents.
Red is a bad colour.
Pink is a good colour. It is wild, and free, and calm at the same time. It is everything, it is all encompassing. The world is pink, sometimes soft, sometimes brilliantly bright.
And he lies there, staring up at the few chinks of sunlight that manage to struggle through the heavy foliage above. He smiles; he remembers. His mother was pink. His father was amber. He is aqua.
His name is Teddy Lupin.
Author's Note: Pretty abstract, isn't it? I always thought of Teddy to be a thinker, even though he isn't (in my mind) a Ravenclaw. (He's Hufflepuff.) Anyway. I imagine this as the thoughts of a younger Teddy, before he goes to Hogwarts, because it's rather simple, but hopefully deepish and emotional. He's a detached person, isn't he? Plausible? No flames, please. Reveiws are seaweed on a stick to me (that means they're good).