Disclaimer: I own the pretty words that create another tangent of J.K. Rowling's ficticious world.

A/N: Some personal experiences are written below. Some feelings that I don't express. But I feel better writing it down. Enjoy. I may continue depending on what you all think of it. Thanks, Abarraine.

The Rainbow Effect
I don't think I could explain it if I tried. The words themselves would just float above my head, lingering in between existence and passion. If I did bother to evoke the courage to pronounce my fictitious words, would they even fit into a diagrammed sentence? Or would gibberish be created and engage my face in a flaming red?

I've always been embarrassed to speak. I can just feel the heat radiating off my face, sweat droplets threatening to form on the edge of my hairline. My breath becomes a bit forced. Really, why do I have to fear of speaking?

Perhaps if I trusted myself a bit more, I'd find that resolve to overlook my self-conscious aspects and be able to iterate my feelings from thought to reality. It really isn't that big of a deal... really.

If I forgot the tangents and stepped purely into the main focus of what I want to explain, I think I could do it. If I had my coffee to keep my hands warm and my attention set on the swirling black liquid. The stout taste to indulge my senses, I suppose I could tell you.

I suppose I should tell you.

Though, I must forewarn. I'm emotional. I don't like to draw attention to myself. I don't like people knowing my inner feelings, passions... fears. I like the world to see the pretty vase, not the mangled inner weavings of my soul. Forgive me, but I love a bit of solitude in my existence.

I'm not good at starting at the beginning, so I won't.

He was eighteen. Bright blue eyes, teasing grin, rough hands, high cheekbones, powerful arms, and a lovely, deep voice. He wasn't amazingly tall, a trait I never stopped teasing him for. But then, I wasn't really the type to forgo my hypocritical status of also being short also. It was always a topic that both of us knew the insides and outs of, so the conjuring of simple slams to evoke a teasing glance was as easy as tying my shoelaces.

He didn't like fish and chips. Hated them with a passion I haven't yet seen before. He'd amusingly cringe every time I uttered the simple phrase "fish and chipies, mateys". He said he had relevant history with the said food and henceforth considered it disgusting and a disgrace to humanity's taste buds. I think this is why I chose him for my friend. Not because his looks were close to heavenly, not because he had a snazzy flying motorbike. And not because he was affluent.

But because he always had a remark to say. Perhaps a taunt, an observation, an apothegm.

I was the quiet observer. When I spoke it was either ridiculous or extraordinary. At least that's how he classified it. He said I spoke with more passion than all the kings had for their jewels. And that touched my soul, because, as you know, I'm not a very good speaker.

We were convicted, always, for being together. My friends alloted him a troublemaker and a bad influence on my pure soul. They'd never leave me be about how wrong he was for me. They didn't bother to understand him or our relationship either. And that hurt me. Their little faith in my choice of companionship dug into my heart. I told him this and he'd look me in the eyes and tell me that I shouldn't plague my beautiful soul with worries about people who didn't bother to return my love.

This left me with a quizzical expression, I'm sure, because he usually smiled slightly at me, then cuff me over the shoulder before delving further into his confession.

He said that he envied me because I gave everyone my all. How little he knew.

He told me that in my place, he would have chosen a side, marked it, and never would have gone back to those left behind. He told me that my urge to speak to my friends and rectify things made him envious of my strength. I just stared at him and shook my red curls. How little he knew.

Before I met Sirius, I classified myself as a bit of a loner, an empty soul. Nothing to the extent of a pessimist, just merely lost in a world of spiraling views and delicious coffees. I embodied wide eyes absorbing the smallest detail. I had my friends, but I had already begun to fall away from their spell. Their entwined love of eye shadow and tight fitting blouses. They would spend hours fulfilling the womanly duty of gossip and games of 'capture the boy'.

I, not to be mixed with the common Mary Sue, tended to fixate my attention on cooking and the likes. You didn't expect that from me did you? You wanted to read the words, "...I spent all my free time delving into fictional realms of noble stable boys fending off livid and dangerous dragons from the pure and Helen-like princesses... yadda yadda yadda". Well, take this to heart, notice the amount of times I stated 'coffee' in the above literature? Now assemble the train of thought that I had to get my coffee from some—unknown—location.

And to clarify. Coffee was served only on Sunday mornings at breakfast. The professors didn't feel that it was appropriate to entice a caffeine addiction in their pupils. What would the humble pureblood mothers say of this heinous Muggle drink?

I'm an avid baker, cook, chef. My father taught me well. To fulfill my baking desires, I searched for a place to practice and create masterpieces of chocolate wonders and vanilla crepes...

I never found such a place.

However, never is such an absolute word. The thing is, I did find it, but not until my fourth year. Dumbledore slipped the whereabouts in passing, as you know, Dumbledore is psychic and sensed my need to... well... make yummy creations.

This is where he found me. In all my glory, Sirius Black entered into the simple life of Lilea Kensley Evans.

"Poppet, you've got somethin' about 'ere." he had stated, pointing to his cheek. As per usual, my face had flushed and I went to wipe the flour off, but much to my horror, a wonderful dark brown streak of chocolate took the flour's place.

I was a walking mural—perhaps a contradiction of a mural, aren't murals supposed to be wonderful displays of artwork? I clashed, I was horrid. Red hair, bright flaming skin, wide green eyes, and a wonderful display of Hogsmead's finest chocolate rainbowed on my cheekbone.

I didn't know it then, but the next part of my life had begun.

He just grinned at me while devouring one of my brownies.

And there you have it. Another story created to fail in my process of not being a diligent writer. However, to write it takes motivation. so review. love you all.


5 marzo 2006.