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What's Your Favorite Color?
By GinnyPotterFan26
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Category: Post-DH/PM
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: Fluff, Romance
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: G
Reviews: 18
Summary: Harry's been asked a lot of questions since the fall of Riddle, one more than any other. This time, his answer is a little...different.
Hitcount: Story Total: 5301
Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work.
Author's Notes: Firstly, thank you to Brittany (BananasForApples), Serena (Rena), and Annie (afterglow745) for beta’ing this story. I also have to thank MagEd, whose writing inspired me to become involved in the world of fanfiction (and whose writing draws me back whenever I've taken too long a break from fanfiction). I'd also like to acknowledge Ginny-Hermione, who wrote “Red” (available at MuggleNet FanFiction, so check it out), a story which lead me to the initial idea for this piece.
This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and though it’s short, please review. I really appreciate your feedback (the good, the bad, and the ugly…and especially the constructive), and I hope you enjoy this short look into one aspect of Harry’s world.
Disclaimer: I am, as should be obvious, NOT J.K. Rowling. I have neither her talent with the pen nor her inspiration for story-writing. I just wanted to play with her characters a little.
**NOTE** I did a little editing to the story recently (6/4/11), just a few small things here and there. Probably the most significant was changing the order in which Harry talks about Ginny's hair. Thanks to one of the readers (cjbaggins), who suggested I make it chronological. I hope you all enjoy this little look into the HP, and again, I'd love to hear from you.
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In all the years since the fall of the darkest wizard of all time, Harry had been forced to sit through innumerable interviews. There was one question that caught him off guard each time. He expected to be asked for tales of how he defeated Tom Riddle, asked what was his hardest Triwizard task, even what was his favorite part about life at Hogwarts. Harry had answered these in much detail, so often that he felt as if he was only regurgitating some sort of recording of his own answers. Yet the one question that tripped him up each time he heard it was, seemingly, a much more basic one:
“What is your favorite color?”
This interview was no different, and as Harry sat in his favorite chair at Grimmauld Place, across from a young Prophet reporter, he once again found himself up against a wall to answer this supposedly simple question. He couldn’t count how many times he’d told Witch Weekly, The Daily Prophet, and other admirers that his favorite color was red, but maybe he hadn’t been clear enough with them. Harry resigned himself to giving this reporter a little more than she may have bargained for in his answer.
“Red,” said Harry, “Red is my favorite color.” He went on, seeming not to notice as the young woman opened her mouth to ask another question, “And I think you could consult any number of back issues of your own paper to find that out.”
The reporter seemed a little taken aback by this, but held her tongue, feeling there was more to his answer than that.
Harry had to respect her sense and tact. “Red has been my favorite color for a long time, and while I can’t pretend to know if this is normal or not, I’ve come to a conclusion why this is.
“I would be remiss if I didn’t start with the Hogwarts Express. When I was eleven, I found out I was a wizard, despite the earnest efforts of my aunt and uncle to keep the magical world a secret from me. When I arrived at King’s Cross on the first of September, I didn’t know what to expect. I grew that much more worried when I couldn’t locate Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters. Believe it or not, I actually asked one of the Muggle conductors; he just laughed at me. But my mother-in-law, whom I didn't even know then, showed me how to get through the barrier. My first glimpse of the magical world, coming through that barrier, was the beautiful scarlet engine of that train. It was in that moment that I knew it was all real, that this magnificent red machine would take me away from my life at the Dursleys to a new life, a better life — a life with people like me.”
Harry paused briefly, remembering that sense of wonder that had filled him upon finally realizing that he was a wizard. “At Hogwarts, I was Sorted into Gryffindor; scarlet and gold were immediately integrated into my wardrobe. But I can’t say that I felt any special connection to the colors until a little later in my first year. After being picked by Professor McGonagall, or Minerva, I suppose — it’s still very strange to refer to the Headmistress by name, after being in trouble with her so often in my youth — after being picked for the Quidditch team, I played my first match against Slytherin. It was a heated match and, though there were probably many closer calls in later years, I still maintain that was my best and most important catch of my Quidditch career. I caught the Snitch in my mouth of all things, but we won! It was then, as I saw the stands full of red and gold-clad Gryffindor supporters and saw my teammates rush towards me, that I really started to be proud to wear our House colors. Of course, it didn’t hurt when I was told years later just how dashing I looked in my Quidditch robes,” Harry said with a chuckle to himself as he recalled the flowery scent of the girl who had first told him that, one day by the lake.
“Of course, there are other memories that bind me to the color as well. Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore’s pet phoenix, was such a welcome sight when he came to support me in the Chamber of Secrets in my second year. To this day, one of my most vivid memories from my days in school is of Fawkes swooping down to deliver me the Sorting Hat and, through it, the sword of Gryffindor. That bird saved my life.” Harry sighed. “Unfortunately, another of those vivid memories is the night I last heard Fawkes’s song on the grounds of Hogwarts and saw him fly away from the castle, the night Dumbledore died.”
Harry pressed on, “But happier memories come to mind when I think of the color red too. In fact, there is a large portion of my life’s happiness that I am reminded of every time I see it. Of course, my family has a lot to do with that, especially my best mate and brother-in-law.” As if on cue, Ginny walked into the room, holding a sleeping, one-year-old Lily to her shoulder and taking a seat next to her husband. “I don’t know how I would have found them in a crowd without that bright red Weasley hair!” he joked. This earned him a playful slap from Ginny, and a slight chuckle from the reporter. Harry turned and looked fondly at the two most important women in his life, and at the fiery red hair that adorned each of their heads. As he gazed contentedly at his wife and daughter, Harry momentarily forgot the reporter sitting across from him on the settee, lost in his memories of special times he had shared with them.
Shaking himself from his reminiscences, Harry continued, “I think back on my life, and the most vivid color in my happiest memories is always the same: red. I remember the way Ginny’s hair seemed to catch fire in the sunset on the night I proposed to her. I remember the way it blazed against her white dress on our wedding day. And I remember the tiny sprouts of crimson I saw on my daughter’s head in the days after she was born. And these are memories I wouldn’t trade the world for.” Harry paused slightly, willing himself not to cry in front of the reporter, before saying with a smile, “I feel I must be clear that, while I'd be lying if I said I didn’t find my wife’s fiery hair attractive, I firmly believe that it is experiences like those I’ve shared with her that have made me appreciate the color red so much, rather than the other way around.”
Ginny looked at Harry over top of their daughter’s sleeping head, which at the moment was perched lightly on her shoulder, and smiled. It was one of the beautiful, knowing, loving smiles that had made Harry fall for her as a teenager, and that had made him fall in love with her all over again each day he woke up beside her.
Startling the young reporter, Harry turned to her and asked, “Any more questions?”
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