Author's note: This is my first fan fiction story, so I would welcome advice and constructive criticism.
Warning: This story contains slash. That means that it includes the suggestion that a person can be attracted to someone of the same gender. If that offends your delicate sensibilities, don't read the story!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all the terms and ideas related to it (him?) are the property of J.K. Rowling and anyone else she has sold the rights to them to. They are not mine. I am getting nothing but my own enjoyment (and possibly reviews. hint) from this story.
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They say that red is the color of love. Advertisers trumpet it at couples, florists post it next to their roses and, come February, the whole world is suffused with it. Idiots!
I reflect on this as I stalk my way to the front of my classroom. The foolish children are decked out for Valentine's day in every shade of red, pink, magenta, puce, and mauve in their fevered imaginations. I doubt that the ignorant little menaces even know what puce looks like, despite the broad swathes of it several of them are wearing. I purse my lips at my folly. Who cares what they know?
I reach the front of the room and turn to glare at the lot of them. My eyes linger on a head of disorderly black hair bent over his desk. Utter silence falls. I allow a sneer to curve my lips as I survey the room.
"Your instructions are on the board. Why haven't you gotten to work?" I crack out, icily. My Slytherins have already set out knives and ingredients. I award them a slight smile, then turn to glare at the Gryffindor section of the room. As always, that head of messy hair draws my eye. Messy, silky, wonderful hair. Hair that would be perfect to run one's fingers through – I cut that thought off and deepen my scowl. Disapproving experssion firmly in place, I stride in his direction, unable to stop myself.
"Potter." I sneer. His eyes dart up to my face. Perfect emerald eyes that sparkle with irritation. I gasp quietly, then force myself to use that air to criticize his potion. I can barely hear myself speak, much less concentrate on my own words. But I know I must be doing somehing right because the irritation is deepening. Darkening in to pure, passionate anger. As I watch those perfect eyes change, one thought reverberates through my head: red may be the color of love, but the color of obsession is green.