Red: Harry Potter
"Red, the blood of angry men!… Red, a world about to dawn!… Red, I feel my soul on fire!… Red, the color of desire!"
― Les Miserables (musical)
"What is your favorite color?"
Entering into the mind of a five-year-old boy is no easy task. First, one must catch the boys attention. Then, they must keep the attention of the boy long enough to ask a question. While doing so, they must have the appropriate amount of enthusiasm, in order to prompt a response. One can hope for a clear, intelligent reply, but one can also be realistic.
Any who have succeeded in fully entering the mind of such a child would know that inside, they would find a whirl of information swirling around them-in and out-nonstop. Objects would most likely be disassembling, and subsequently, reassembling themselves in the clear space. Colors, shapes, and faces would float through the voids, and the whole place would ring with the sounds of cars, guns, swords clashing, and farts.
Harry's teacher, the only nice person he knew, leaned toward him with a smile and asked him which color he preferred. She had been enthusiastic enough to earn a response, but as for intelligible…
Inside his head, one of the floating faces enlarged and clarified itself. It was his teacher, red locks flowing, in an almost familiar way, her glasses (just like his!) slightly tilted to one side, her pearly white teeth. Before he completely lost himself in her image, he realized she was asking him about colors. Focusing in on that familiar hair, he managed to mumble, "Red," before the hair became a cape around his shoulders, and he found himself saving the cats that Dudley tortured. All in his head, of course.
As for whether the color remained his favorite? Well, next to Harry's name on the wall was a red crayon and a few gold stars. What could make it more official?
It is a part of human nature to have a need to be classified. Whether it be nerd or jock, ugly or attractive, brave or cowardly, every individual, even the ones who vehemently deny it, wishes to belong in some category or other. Many lives are wasted building facades for that exact reason.
"BETTER BE… GRYFFINDOR!"
Harry, exulting, ran into the cheering throng of red and gold. How appropriate, that he would spend the next seven years donned in what he was now certain was the most beautiful color in the world. The cheers that made his ears ring confirmed his theory.
Oliver was sobbing, Alicia and Angelina were laughing hysterically, Katie was squeezing Harry as hard as she could, and Fred and George were whooping and shooting off sparks with their wand.
The exultation of their triumph was so much that it could only be conquered by the Cup itself.
The Cup was placed on the trophy stand, the players started to calm, and the deafening roar of the crowds slowly faded. Still hyped, they ran to the common room and found themselves rolling above the students, dozens of hands eagerly supporting their weight. Surrounded by energy, butterbeer, and his favorite people in the world, Harry knew that he would never feel at home anywhere but a mass of red.
As Arthur walked her down the aisle, Harry made a common mistake. He let his mouth drop open as he gaped at her with awe. When she giggled, he realized his err and corrected it, but he didn't stop staring at her. For a moment, he saw his mother in her place, the interchangable red locks swaying to the tune of the shared hips. Then it was Ginny again, as it was while they listened to the minister and declared their vows.
"You may kiss the bride."
Harry leaned in to do just that; and the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes was the red enveloping her tender curls. He sighed happily.
Christmas at the Burrow was probably everybody's favorite time of year, for practically everyone made it to the Burrow for at least one day during holiday season. But Christmas Day was confined to Weasleys, Potters, one Tonks, and one Lupin only.
Lily jumped from her father's lap, heading for a second helping of mashed potatoes, Harry found himself alone, staring at the swirl of red activity around him. He decided to count them off.
There were Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, although the former was almost completely bald, and the latter was halfway to gray.
The six surviving Weasley children, Bill, Charlie, Percy, George, Ron, and Ginny.
Teddy had adopted red hair today-but no, he must have changed it. It was a dashing blonde shade at the moment.
None of Bill's children had inherited red hair, though Dominic and Louis both had a few streaks of it, and Charlie had never settled down.
Both Molly and Lucy had full carrot-tops, contrasting to the soft golden-brown of their mother.
Roxanne easily matched up with Victoire as the most beautiful Weasley, but her hair was an elegant dark brown. Fred, however, was the palest of all the Weasleys, making his gelled red hair stand out the most.
Rose's hair was as red as her father's, and Hugo's was only a shade less.
Then, of course, there was his own Lily, the miniature of her mother.
Altogether, there was much more red than anything else. Harry stuck out like a sore thumb, as did his sons, but among this mass of red, he had never felt more at home.