A/N: I have recently taken up a Harry/Ron 50 word prompt table at the LiveJournal community, 100quills. The prompt for this story was "Colorful", hence the title. This is story 4 from the prompt table, which may be found in its entirety, if you go to my profile and follow the link to my website; that will take you to my LJ profile page. From there, you can access all of my LJ memories. Here, I'll just post each story individually since each is a one-shot. Stories may not be posted in numerical order, but I promise that EVERY story will eventually be posted. In the meantime, I hope you all enjoy this little scribble. :)

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Our lives are filled with so much color. Sometimes it's as literal as the red of my hair or the green of Harry's eyes; sometimes it's as figurative as the gray of the aftermath of an argument.

We are forever swathed in color, and each color can mean so many things.

Red is probably the most obvious (damn my Weasley traits!) because of my hair. Harry will sit and stroke my hair for hours, but he's been known to give it a good yank when he thought I wasn't paying attention, or when in the throes of passion.

Red is most certainly passionate. It's the color of blood, and nothing gets my blood pumping faster than Harry. The various shades of red that go along with making love --- everything from the pink of our lips to the purple marks we leave on each other's skin --- only serve to remind me that Harry is mine and I am his.

But aside from love-making, a person can have a red-hot temper too. And I am known for mine. Red hair, red temper. Passion is passion, whatever form it comes in, and blood is still red even when it's boiling.

Harry's temper tends to be black, which can be scary. Black hair, black temper, I suppose. I know, really, that it's a hold over from when he was a kid and had to work so hard to hold everything in.

When he just had to work so hard.

When we argue, I scream and stomp around and he usually sits quiet. The pupils of his eyes blacken until all of the green is nearly eclipsed, and I can practically see storm clouds gather around him. I go off and pout for a bit and my red temper eventually fades. He sits and stews and his black temper becomes gray and rains down on him; draws around him like a chilly mist rolling in off a bay.

It doesn't matter if the argument was originally his fault or mine, I have to be the white light that finds him and guides him back out of the gray mist and clouds. He doesn't know which way to go until he sees that white light (even if I do have red hair!). According to Harry, white is also the color of a clean slate (I'm not sure what that means, some Muggle term, I'm sure.). So after all of the apologies and "I love you"s have been said, Harry says we have a clean slate again, a white slate.

From white we can slide anywhere along the color spectrum.

If it was a passionate fight, we go back to the reds, pinks and purples of love-making, of marking each other with lips, tongue and teeth. If it was a serious fight, we sit on the sofa and try to find our basics again, try to find our Earth tones. We sit, sometimes in silence, sometimes quietly talking, but always we are aware of our colors slowly shifting back to compliment one another. My angry red slowly fades and shifts into mellow oranges, yellows and browns once again. Harry has always said that I look best in autumn. Harry's hard gray eventually morphs into slate blue, then a murky forest green, and eventually settles on a kind of grass green, much like that of his own eyes. He's always looked best in summer.

If the argument has been upsetting or sad, a color that Harry and I will share is blue. I can be a white light and pull Harry out of the gray, misty clouds, but if he's sad, he gets stuck in that slate blue color. Depending on what else has happened that hour, day, week, or month, that can happen whether we've had an argument or not. I absolutely hate it when Harry is blue.

Furthermore, I know Harry hates it when I'm blue, too. I'm not quite sure what shade of blue my sadness is, but Harry says that it's not the same shade as my eyes at all. Harry says my eyes are a bright, almost sky blue. I think my sad blue must be darker; not like the water on the surface of the ocean, but the water that's a few leagues underneath that, the water that becomes dark and cold, and swirls with the power of typhoons.

When one of us is blue the other will do anything and everything within his power to make that color go away. I'll purposely crack jokes just to make Harry laugh so it brings back his natural grass green; and he'll purposely bumble around so it brings back my natural orange (despite my red hair color, I am a tad bit more mellow than that most times).

But always, always, we find a way to bring it back around to red again. When we kiss each other good-morning or good-night, when we kiss each other to make up after having an argument, when we kiss or embrace each other just for the sake of being close to one another --- we are in the red again.

The good, passionate red, even if it's only for a moment or two before one of us has to dash off for work, is what keeps us together and alive. Red is the color of passion, of blood.

Blood beats through the heart --- red, solid and strong.

And so long as I hold Harry's heart and he holds mine, we'll proudly work until the end of our days to share the rest of the rainbow.