Warmth

Warmth. It is, to me, the color orange, with a soft red core and yellow radiation. It is playing my violin and the library at home and smelling Daphne's freshly baked cookies as they cool down the hall. It is falling into my wide open, beyond comfortable bed after a long day.
Warmth. It is not the scent of the dry, bitter scones they offer at Watford, nor the feeling of uncomfortably tailored school clothes. The sound of silence is not fitting, as it murders my delectation and paints me until I'm feeling melancholy. And blue, it could never be a sign of hospitality.
Well, it was, and it was not, would be the more truthful way of putting things. These days, at least.