(An extremely short little piece to pass the time, only here to please - just a little something that popped into my head; I realise this is NOT my best fic, the whole purpose is to entertain so enjoy! :) I don't own Harry Potter as we all know, me dears)
Ron Weasley adored the colour orange.
For Ron, the colour elicited various strange emotions that brought hundreds of memories shooting to the surface;
It was, of course, the colour of his favourite Quidditch team, The Chudley Cannons whom he had supported ever since he could remember. The colour made Ron feel a rush of determination and duty, also reminding him of all of those summer afternoons in which the fiery sun blazed down upon the Gryffindor quidditch team, casting elongated shadows on the quidditch pitch with the blades of grass shimmering in the light breeze.
In fact, the colour was one he was most familiar with, having been raised in a family of red-heads. Love. The colour reminded Ron of each of his family members, each possessing slightly different shades of the colour, as well as the famous Weasley jumpers in which his mother had made for Christmas year after year, each crafted intricately, each holding her love within the very fibres of the jumpers.
Orange was the colour of pumpkins - Ron frequently remembered the time in his third year where himself, Hermione and Harry had hid behind them from the Minister and the executioner; sick. With the orange pumpkins shielding him from view, Ron had felt sick... Dread. But most of all, Ron worried for Hagrid and how he was going to handle Buckbeak's death. Thankfully, relief had replaced the uneasiness as everything had turned out ok. Well, sort of.
Now, Orange was the colour of Hermione's elegant dress; one that she was wearing as she stood beautifully in front of Ron, waiting expectantly for his opinion as a small smile played across her lips. It clung to her flatteringly, exaggerating her small waist and perfectly toned legs. Ron suddenly realised he loved when Hermione wore orange. Desire.
"Blimey..." Ron's throat suddenly felt hoarse. His eyes lingered on her lips as he spoke,"Hermione, I think we're going to be late to the party." Before Hermione could question his words, Ron swiftly stood up and fiercely captured her lips with his. He wrapped his arms around her waist, deepening the kiss, and firmly pulled her against his body as his fingers curled into the orange fabric at the base of her back. Hermione, for once, did not complain: They melted into eachother, allowing their emotions to overwhelm them.
Ron Weasley really did adore the colour orange.