Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

There's something distinctly wrong with this scenario. Firstly, it's six pm, and he's not out on the patio waiting for our pre-hors d'oeuvres beer. This is a man who likes his pre-hors d'oeuvres beer, too, and I've not known Jobless to knock back an excuse for self-destructive behaviour.

"Excuse me, Dung, could you come up and give me a hand with something?"

I flinch, thinking that for whatever reason he wants another fully grown man in the bathroom with him must be completely unsavoury, and dutifully trudge up the stairs, opening the door to confront him wrapped in a towel, his face lathered in shaving foam and clutching at an old-fashioned cutthroat razor.

Well, I don't think he's knocking back the self-destructive behaviour now with that motherfucker.

He turns to me, and I gasp. The silly bugger's tried cutting his own hair. With one working hand. The left half of his head looks passable enough (if your surname were Gallagher, anyway), but his right side looks ridiculously long and stupid. He looks like a rejected bassist from Flock of Seagulls.

"Be a dear, even me up." He hands me scissors, and takes a seat on the edge of the bath. The only way for me to do this is to get in the bath itself, which is bloody dangerous considering that it's just been used and is wet, and as sturdy as the hand of Mundungus Rupert Fletcher is, it's naught but mayhem with the flailing arms and sharp scissors.

"You're a fucking twat, you know that Moony?"

He smiles, and raises his left hand, pulling down the razor and observing himself in the mirror on the other side of the bathroom.

"I don't know. A change is as good as a holiday. Plus haircuts are free."

"They shouldn't be, but."

"Yes, but have you ever paid for a haircut, Dung?"

"No. Got mum to do it for me."

"There you go then."

He takes another swipe with the razor, and thumbs his moustache.

"Keep, or lose?"

"Depends whether or not you want to serve our Mother Country in the Subcontinent or not."

"That's hardly a response."

He hesitates, the blade pressed into his upper lip, which he bites. He pulls it up, holding his skin tight below his nose.

"End of an era, eh Moony?"

"Not really sad to see it go. Got food caught in it and everything."

I look down at him. "You know, you've a bloody enormous fucking overbite."

"Thanks, Dung."

"Anytime."

I snip at his fringe, shearing it by at least an inch or more. There are many noble Scottish clans. My family is apparently descended from the noblest - the MacGregors - notable for Robert Roy MacGregor, who apparently was famous for pissing in farmer's tractors and mooning old ladies, and the like. But my particular family just shears sheep. Remus isn't quite a sheep, ironically enough he's a fucking wolf, but the principle is remarkably similar.

"You´re an all right hairdresser, you know that Dung?"

"It´s a particular hobby I learnt during a two month stint in a muggle jail," I quipped sarcastically. "I´m thinking of opening my own salon, maybe, if I think about going straight. I might also branch into fashion, I´m thinking. `Mundungus Couture´."

"'Mundungus Couture'," he snickers, looking down at the ground.

"Going all out tonight, eh? Saw Arthur's good suit hanging up on the back of your door earlier."

"If you're going to do something, you might as well do it properly."

"What's the plan, lad? Challenge the bastard to a duel? Proclaim love over sonnets and lyrics?"

"No."

I straighten his fringe, trying to see whether it's equal on both sides. It's not, but he's not a very fussy person. "Well, how do you intend to win her over?"

"How old are you, Dung?"

"Thirty."

He lifts his head up to shave his neck, and I bend down a bit further to catch the hair at the back of his head. "I'm thirty seven in November."

"Old bastard. And she's what, ten?"

"Twenty-four."

"Close enough."

"Not really, but nonetheless."

"What changed your mind on her, if I might ask?"

He bites his lip. He's nicked himself shaving, so I reach over to the john and grab a square of loo paper. He pinches a bit off, and sticks it on the bleeding cut.

"What you were talking about the other night. Loving the people you have in your life instead of mourning those who aren't."

"I can't fucking remember that far back!"

"Yes, well, the sentiment was lovely anyway. But yeah. That, and something Harry said. I mean, aforementioned I'm a loser. I mean, no job prospects, no further than first base, waking up once a month with a splitting headache and unexplained injuries that you can't blame on getting blindingly drunk? Ladies, form an orderly queue."

"So... you're saying that she should go out with you because you're a loser?"

"No! I'm saying that I shouldn't turn down the one thing that would make my life the slightest bit better, that's all."

I step out of the bath, and examine him from the front. It's short, but it's passable. If you were particularly gullible, you'd believe that he'd stepped into some fancy pants barbers and paid a hundred quid for it, but that's only if you thought that fancy barbers utilised lawn mowers. He stands also, and moves to the sink, where he rinses off his shaving cream.

"I don't know if I like this side of you, Moony. This... fucking... sober side of you..."

He reaches for a towel, and dries his face.

"You know how old my dad was when he died? Thirty-seven. He had way more than I did. He was married, he had a kid, he had a job. He was fucking miserable too, though. I don't want to end up at the bottom of some dirty storm water drain like he did with rocks in my pockets and water in my lungs. I need to start acting with a bit of dignity. Fuck, I need to start acting my age."

"What you fucking need is a good whisky sour."

"Not tonight. I can't say anything stupid around her or this Mark fellow. I mean, I'm trying to impress."

"What if you don't get through? I mean, what if this other fellow completely sweeps her off her feet?"

He's looking at me. He looks a bit sad, really. Here's a bloke smart as hell, really fucking nice, with his arm all bandaged, hopping about on his good leg, body covered in bruises and healing cuts with thin frizzy red hair and an overbite.

"I can at least say I've tried." He opens the bathroom door. "Can you give me a hand? I can't put on clothes with one working leg and arm."

I follow him out as he hops to his bedroom, stopping and leaning against the wall sporadically. I open the door for him, and pull down his suit, and he hops in after me, slamming the door shut. He sits on his bed, and picks up a pair of drawers left out, sliding them on underneath his towel. He kicks the towel off, and tries dragging an undershirt on, getting it stuck in his teeth. A pair of black socks - not so black as grey through getting washed a million times - follow, and he pulls them up as far as they'll go.

"Damn. Dung, you wouldn't have any garters to hold these up would you?"

"Fuck off!"

"I thought not."

I pull the trousers off the rack, and hand them to him, pulling him up with his good arm and holding him steady. Watching a partially crippled man pulling on trousers if he only has the use of one side of his body is a hard experience to endure: I mean, it's fucking funny, particularly if it's Moony, but you feel like shit for doing it. He manages all right, sitting down again and threading a black leather belt through the holes.

"Could you pass me my shoes, Dung? Careful; they might still have a bit of polish on them."

They're dire, dead looking shoes really. He's tried a sticking charm, to get the sole to bond to the leather, but they're on their last limbs. Not that you'd be able to tell from the state of the leather, though: he's probably spit polished them every single day of his life, and it looks it. I undo the laces, and tie them onto his feet.

"Fuck me, you've got massive fucking feet."

"Yes. It's a bit hard finding shoes that fit them, sometimes."

"I'll say."

I hand him a white shirt, and he threads his arms through the sleeves. Shaking his arms out, he tilts his head back, and I lean forward to do up his buttons.

"You staying for dinner tonight, Dung?"

"Agh, I dunno. It might be a bit of a crack, if you ask me. I'll stick about, stir a bit of shit."

"Good."

"Hey, you know something, Jobless? You don't reek of beer tonight."

"Thankyou, Mundungus."

He tucks his shirt in, and runs his hand through his hair. He's biting on his lip again, and he flops back desperately on the bed.

"Matter, sport?"

He's staring up at the ceiling. I take a seat beside him on the bed, and look down at him. He's doing that lip bitey thing again. I never realised he had such a huge bloody nose as well. He looks up at me, and musters the most pathetic smile I've ever seen.

"Suicide time soon. You know, it probably won't work out. I'll probably be outshone by some shiny young man with working limbs and a perfect bite, not to mention that he won't use that bite on her. Oh god, he better not use that bite on her. I think I'm having palpitations, Dung. Fetch the smelling salts? Or the brandy? Oh god, I need a drink."

I slap him, and grab his face, turning it towards mine.

"You're a fucking quitter, Remus John Lupin. All you fucking micks and your stupid alcoholic dependency. She's just a bloody woman, you know! She's not this vile creature who rips your heart out and eats it in front of your still-breathing body! She's Tonks, for fucks' sake! Tonks! A person who gets into fights with vacuum cleaners and hall stands!"

He sits up a bit, rubbing his face with his good hand."

"But what if it doesn't work out, Dung? What if I make a fool by being all cheery and nice too her and she just sees through it?"

"Well, I can expect to see you at this time tomorrow out on the patio then, can't I? Now, stop moping about like a pansy, and get some fucking balls in you! An hour, and she gets here, and you're going to walk tall and strong down those stairs, look that daft bastard she's with square in the eye and say 'fucked your mum'."

"You're right, I am. Apart from the oedipally-charged derogatory comments, that is."

"Fuck you and your big words."