His studio

Breathless, he stood outside of Tony's residence. His throat was dry, as he swallowed in the sultry rage bobbing around his apple. He kept flicking his forefingers together. It was the witching hour, and he didn't care.

He broke the door open, scaring himself in the process. He never knew he was able to do that; he never thought that an amiable man such as himself withheld such strong emotion. His hands trembled as he scanned the room.

His eyes dashed two and fro the vibrant colors. The dark contrasting the light and the shadows were as ambiguous as Harry himself. The room was spinning; the colors pained his eyes. He held his face as he took a step back, trying to find solace in only one color. He nearly tripped over something behind him.