A Test of Wills, or Flirting for the Social Inept

A Test of Wills,

Or, Flirting for the Socially Inept

When she stumbled into the sitting room, he was already seated on one end of the sofa. He was reading what appeared to her to be a very old, very boring book.

She hated it when he read.

Not that she had anything against books and reading. Certainly not. In fact, she could think of few things better on a cold winter day than curling up in front of a fire in oversized pajamas with a woolen afghan, a warm Butterbeer, and an engrossing novel.

However, she absolutely hated it when he just sat there reading when he should by all rights be paying attention to her.

It wasn't like he was her husband or boyfriend, therefore entitling her to his unwavering attention. But, with just the two of them stuck in this horrible place awaiting orders from Dumbledore, she felt that he really should be making more of an effort to entertain her.

And, since he was predisposed to brooding and sullenness anyway, it was her humanitarian responsibility to attempt to engage him in some form of interpersonal communication. She could not in good conscience allow him to isolate himself like this. Yes. This was a philanthropic pursuit.

Convincing herself of the purity of her intentions, she decided that direct action was necessary. Staring at his peaceful face from the doorway would obviously not achieve her purpose as he had yet to even acknowledge her presence in the room.

Steeling up all her Gryffindor courage, she crossed the room and flopped herself on the opposite end of the sofa with a dramatic sigh. No response. This could be tougher than she anticipated.

"Ok," she told herself. "Objective 1: Remove subject's eyes from the bloody book."

In the whiniest voice she could muster, she began. "Remus?"

"Mmmm" was the only reply as the man continued to stare at the book in front of him.

"This will not do," she thought. She tried again.

"Re-mus?" she said again, this time in a high-pitched sing-song that annoyed even herself.

"Yes, Tonks?" he said flatly, still refusing to raise his eyes from the book.

"Whatcha reading?" she said exaggeratedly.

"A book," he replied matter-of-factly, without a hint of sarcasm.

"Sounds enthralling," she replied dryly, abandoning the sing-song for the sake of her own sanity. Again receiving no response, she rolled her eyes and sighed.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" she thought.

"Remus?" she inquired, this time adopting more of a nasal whine.

"Yes, Tonks?" he repeated.

"Does that book of yours have a title?" she asked politely.

"Why, yes, in fact it does," he stated simply. He then fell silent again and resumed scanning the pages on his lap.

Sirius had told her once that Remus was the most stubborn creature on the planet, but given his generally calm and sweet demeanor she had assumed that her second cousin had been joking.

"Oh Sirius," she thought. "No, best not think about him or the evening will be lost." Her emotions were still a bit too raw to reminisce properly.

This was her game. She was not about to be out-stubborned, not when she had set a concrete objective for the evening.

"Remus?"

"Yes, Tonks?" he answered automatically.

"What is the title of the book you are reading?" she asked, flashing her sweetest smile.

"Not that he is going to see it, damn it," she thought. He still gazed fixedly at the book.

"The History of Modern Wizard Law, 1740 to 1880," he recited.

"Real page turner, eh?" she quipped. He turned a page and continued to read in silence.

"Oh for the love of Merlin! Enough of the bloody book," she thought. "Time for a new strategy."

"Remus?"

"Yes, Tonks?"

Staring at the clock on the opposite wall she asked, "What time is it?"

The room fell silent for a few seconds before he replied, "It should be about 9:30," never once lifting his head.

"What? Does that book have naked pictures in it or something?" she wondered, as he remained focused on his reading. "Oh well. As Dad used to say, 'If at first you don't succeed...'"

"Remus?"

"Yes, Tonks?"

"Um... what is the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?" she asked. "The weather? Really? That is all you can think of to say him? Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless."

"I'm not sure. Why don't you check the Prophet? It should be on the coffee table," he answered.

"Ok, drastic times call for drastic measures. And apparently a bunch of tired clichés as well," she thought.

"Remus?"

"Yes, Nymphadora?"

She bit her tongue to avoid rising to his bait. She was getting to him. This was good. He was bound to crack sooner or later.

In the most serious tone she could muster, she asked, "Does this hairstyle make me look fat?"

"Yes," he answered automatically without so much as looking at her.

She smiled. He was teasing her back. "Excellent," she answered, studying his expression. "I read in Witch Weekly that chubby is in fashion this year."

She was rewarded with a slight upward twitch in his mouth, indicating a suppressed smile. For some bizarre reason, this made her heart flutter. "That's odd," she thought.

Ignoring the potential implications of this physical response, she pressed on with her mission.

"Remus?"

"Yes, Nymphadora?"

She paused. She couldn't think of another question. She glanced at the previously referenced Daily Prophet on the table in front of them in search of a topic, but quickly dismissed what she saw. She refused to bring up any of the frightening occurrences that dominated the headlines, or their ongoing work for the Order. These topics would most definitely NOT produce the desired results.

"And what exactly are these results you seek?" asked an annoying little voice that sounded remarkably like her mother. "Shut up" was her witty rejoinder.

And then it came to her. "Who do you think would win in a fight: a sexually mature Hungarian Horntail, or.... Molly Weasley after twenty minutes in the kitchen with me?"

This question earned a noise that sounded like it might possibly have been a laugh, which in turn produced a very warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She very quickly chalked this up to a sense of impending victory and looked over at Remus for his response. From the pensive look on his face, he seemed to be giving this question some serious thought.

"Well," he said with a completely straight face, "the smart money is of course on Molly. Add Fred and George to the equation and there would be absolutely no contest."

Tonks laughed aloud at this response and noted a genuine smile forming on Remus' lips. "He is quite handsome when he smiles. And most of the rest of the time, come to think of it," noted the annoying voice. "Bugger off," she helpfully instructed it.

Although the responses he gave were improving, she still had yet to accomplish her primary objective. "I've had Death Eater interrogations that have taken less time than this! Time to fully engage the enemy," she thought.

She slid not so gracefully along the couch until she was sitting right next to him.

"Remus?" she asked, nudging him repeatedly with the left side of her body.

"Yes, Nymphadora?" he replied as before, registering no reaction to the incessant nudging he was receiving.

"Why do you suppose they call the Chaser's ball a 'Quaffle'? I mean, 'Bludger' I get: its purpose is to bludgeon people. Even the 'Snitch' makes some sense, as Seeker's job is to snatch it. But, honestly, what in the hell does 'Quaffle' have to do with anything?" With this, she allowed the nudging to stop.

Still staring at the book, he once again adopted a thoughtful expression. Then, to Tonks' great surprise and amusement, he began to imitate her nudging maneuver.

"Well," nudge, "I suppose," nudge, "you could," nudge, "oh, I don't know," nudge, "find a," nudge, "what do they call them?" nudge, "Oh yes, a BOOK," nudge, "about Quidditch," nudge, "that might explain," nudge, "the logic," nudge, "behind the naming of the balls," nudge.

This time Tonks and Remus laughed together. For one split second, Remus glanced up from his book and caught Tonks' eye. Taken aback and not entirely sure that it had actually happened, she immediately flushed and looked away. Then, realizing her victory, she looked back, only to find that his attention had returned to the book.

She swore out loud and heard an unmistakable chuckle escape her companion. "He is enjoying this way too much!" she thought. Encouraged by his laughter, she summoned her wits to prepare for yet another offensive.

As though sensing her strengthening resolve, Remus launched what she could only characterize as a preemptive strike.

"Nymphadora?" he said quietly, still focusing his eyes on the book in his lap.

"Yes, Remus?" she answered more shyly than she intended.

With a broadening smile on his face, he asked, "Do you intend to continue this interrogation for the rest of the evening?"

She paused, attempting to think of something clever, but instead simply settled for the truth.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

A surprisingly comfortable silence fell between them as Tonks again wracked her brain for a sufficiently obnoxious question.

But, once again she was stopped in her pursuits by his quiet, but oddly powerful, voice.

"Nymphadora?"

"Yes, Remus?" she answered, dropping her eyes to her lap in an attempt to hide the inexplicable blush produced by his use of her name.

"Is there anything that I could do that would dissuade from carrying on with this barrage?" he asked in the most gentle and mirthful voice she could recall ever hearing.

"I could think of a couple of things," said a not so little voice that was most decidedly NOT her mother's.

"You are not helping!" she told the voice and attempted to think of an appropriate response to Remus' question. However, at that very moment she instead became acutely aware of her left knee, which was tingling due to its contact with his right leg.

"See what you have done!" she admonished the wholly inappropriate voice.

She swallowed hard and willed herself to look back at the man seated next to her. To her great surprise, for only the second time that evening, he was not looking at the book in front of him. He was, in fact, watching her instead, his face only a matter of inches from her own.

Despite her better judgment, she allowed her eyes to drift up to his and what she saw in them silenced any witticism lurking on the tip of her tongue.

Slowly, she reached across him and took the book from his hands, shutting it carelessly and dropping it on the other side of the sofa. When she finished this, she took one of his hands in hers, confident that her eyes could never communicate the depths of what she could see in his.

And when he raised his free hand to move a stray, plum-tinged curl from her eyes, she knew that she had most assuredly accomplished her evening's goal.