Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning.

Afternoon

He's spent three hours already pegging darts up at the board, pulling himself up on his crutches only to hobble over and rip them out to chuck them again.

I think he's a bit bored.

Thunk. A twelve. He misses the next one, driving the dart into the plaster, little bits of white powder raining down onto the parquetry. He can't do it all that well, but it's all right considering that he only has use of his left hand.

"Who's cooking tonight?"

Thunk. Five. I look up from my reheated Indian takeaway. "Mrs Weasley. It was Dung's turn, but apparently there's someone else coming round for tea, and she didn't think it would be very hospitable to serve him Mundungus' cooking."

"Wise move.

We're a bit of a pathetic pair. With the moustache and the limp, he kinda looks like an unsuccessful peeping Tom, or a Kevin Spacey character. Well, Kevin Spacey with daggy hair, that is. And I'm wearing a t-shirt that I had to borrow from Hermione because all of my clothes are in the wash. If you could believe my t-shirt, I am a 'Hottie Diva 69!'

Thunk. One. "And how are you getting on, Harry?"

"I'm okay, I suppose. Bit bored here."

"Yes, there's a bit of ennui setting in, I think."

Thunk. Wall.

"Yeah."

"So... who's been invited over for dinner?"

"Dunno. Some bloke who works in Control of Magical Creatures, knows Tonks... who is it, Max, Mike--"

"Mark?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

He drops his darts to the ground, and sinks into the sofa. A long, deep sigh.

"You right?"

"Pardon?"

"You know this Mark person?"

"No, not personally anyway. So... he's coming tonight as Tonks' date?"

"I dunno, she just said he was coming round for tea."

"Right."

I scrape what remains of a beef vindaloo out of the plastic box, and look round at him. "Just in case, we asked Fred and George round, liven it up a bit."

He grins at me. "Good man, Harry."

He pushes his hair out of his face, holding it back with his hands. It really is getting quite long. I mean, it wasn't as though it was short before, but he hasn't cut his hair since... well, it's been a couple of months now.

"Reckon you need a hair cut?"

"I think it's about time."

"I'll cut it for you."

He smirks. "I think I'll be fine, thankyou anyway."

"Cut it yourself?"

"Yeah, I'll give it a shot, can't hurt."

He's fidgeting with one of the darts. He's biting his upper lip too. He does that a fair bit these days. I notice it happening if he's embarrassed, or if he's thinking about something, or if he's really chuffed. Actually, he always does it when Tonks is really close to him. She did that a lot last week, making any excuse to straighten his shirt or push a bit of hair out of his eyes. But then she stopped, and she's been avoiding him like the plague these last few days. He hasn't bit his lip as much in the past week.

"You right?"

He lies the dart down on his stomach, and looks over at me on my sofa. "Not really."

"Is it because Tonks isn't talking to you much?"

Bites his lip.

"Why? Did you have a tiff with her or something?"

"Harry, say you had pins and needles in your leg, and it was bothering you so much that you were going out of your mind. Do you cut your leg off to ease the pain, only putting yourself in danger as a result of bleeding to death, or do you let it linger on and cause no danger whatsoever?"

"I dunno. I've never had pins and needles that bad before."

"I have. It doesn't happen very often. Actually, this is the second time it's happened."

"So these pins and needles are just figurative then?"

"Yes, Harry. They're just figurative."

I drop the container and my fork to the ground. "Well, if they're that bad then... I dunno, it depends."

"Right. Well, say you were on the cusp of having your leg cut off by a surgeon then, to stop the pins and needles, and then you backed out of it, afraid of getting fearful and hurt and angry at the surgeon, and the--"

"Okay, you lost me at the surgeon part. So you rejected her?"

"In one."

Lupin's a very smart man. He couldn't get a job when he finished school, but he didn't care about that. He went to a muggle university and got a degree in psychology and history. He said that you don't stand out at a muggle university if you're poor and unemployed. But he can be stupid at times.

"Right. So you reject a bird who could theoretically give herself the world's largest knockers?"

"It's the principle, Harry. I mean, I'm some old bugger--"

"Don't you reckon she thinks that's a bit patronising though? The whole age difference thing? I mean, that's not giving her maturity much credit is it?"

He's looking at me intently. "She told you all this?"

"That icecream at the back of the fridge wasn't going to eat itself. So, you think she's a mole?"

"No! I certainly don't!"

"Well? Why not?"

"Because."

I toss one of my pillows at him. "That's a shithouse reason, and you know it."

"You're right. She's just... she'd be better off with someone who's... you know..."

"Not a thirty-seven year old, virginal, unemployed werewolf?"

"Exactly."

"But supposing that's what she's looking for, or that she's completely undiscerning about her choice in a boyfriend."

"Harry, 'undiscerning' isn't a word."

"Yes it is. I'm making it a word. But... whatever. Say she's a decent chick, and she is. She's not into any of that chick-flick rubbish, or romancey crap. She's not going to have the ideals of a perfect bloke, she's going to like someone who she gets along with, and whose company she enjoys most. And it's not like she's doing it as a charity thing either."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

He tosses the pillow back at me. For a man who turns into a superhuman monster once a month, he has very poor gross motor skills and muscle tone. It hits the ground about two feet away from my chair. He pulls himself up, reaching about blindly for his crutches.

"Where you going?"

He's walking out of the room. No, he's hobbling, but at break-neck speed. "Bathroom. This hair isn't impressing anyone, you know."