The lake lays grey and cold, its colour mirrors the late-winter sky, which seems like a moist grey blanket, hanging low and clinging to the hills that rise grey and uninviting at the horizon. The school is grey, too, the castle always is, the granite stones and slate roofs a lighter grey when dry and a darker grey in the rain.
What about this colour makes people most often choose it as their least favourite? One can not even call it a colour being exact about the definition. Dilutions of black it is precisely, and black is not a colour but the sum of all the others.
Her hair is grey now as well, by her own choice. Poppy has raised the question once: why does she not restore it to its former black by using a simple spell. After all she would not need to bath it in obscure chemical lotions like Muggles do. But she likes the streaks of silver and white mixed with the black, resulting in a lively grey. Poppy thinks it makes her look old, but she herself sees the colour as a fitting image of her time and place in the passage of years.