Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Night.

I've tried to dress nicely for tonight. I really have. But as laws of the universe dictate, the sixth son in a family will rarely come into clothes that aren't hand-me-downs. Fortunately, Harry's lent me some stuff, but unfortunately I've got about half a foot on him, so his pants are always going to be too short. If she can overlook the fact that my socks don't match my shoes or my trousers, then I'm sure I've got another shot at it.

Everyone's downstairs already. The bloke Tonks brought along, Mark, is chatting to Kingsley, holding a bottle of beer in his hands and laughing a little too loudly at everything Kingsley is saying. She comes back into the sitting room, and starts laughing at Mark's and Kingsley's jokes as well. Sometimes, to emphasise a point, he'll hit her a little on the arm. She laughs, but she looks weird about it too.

Ginny and Hermione are sitting on the sofas, talking very seriously and frowning about something. Every so often, they shoot looks at me, then turn back and start chatting again. I don't think I'll be joining that little party.

Over in the corner, Lupin's throwing darts with Moody. He's really bad. Mind you, he only has his left hand, but all the same he's throwing worse than he has before. Sometimes they don't even make it as far as the board when they plummet onto the rug. I think it's because his attention is diverted over to watching Tonks and Mark, because he keeps looking at them whenever it's Mad-eye's turn.

Harry, Fred and George are outside with Mundungus, tossing down cards and banging their hands down on top of the pile before they inevitably explode. They're laughing, and Mundungus has set up Dad's see-dee player to listen to some muggle bloke called Roy Orbison. Never heard of him, but he's running circles around the Weird Sisters.

But even with all the primping and preening, I don't feel like joining the fray. Like, I don't want to look stupid or have Fred and George making stupid jokes about me if I go outside. I could go into the kitchen and help Mum and Dad, but I don't think that'd be too exciting, and I hardly think that Tonks would want me tagging about.

I've been wanting to talk to Lupin over the past few days. I dunno why. It's just... well, you don't talk about this with your dad, and you don't mention it to your brothers, who will more than likely tease you for it and pass it on to the other person the information concerns. And I don't want to bother Harry. He's been a bit preoccupied lately, with Sirius and everything. I've only really got the one choice. Well, there's Mundungus... but, well, he's Mundungus.

One option. I cross the room, and pick up a dart to join the game.

"You play, son?"

I shake my head, and take aim. I throw it, and the dart hits the board on its side.

"No, no. See, you have to hold it like... this, see?" He repositions the dart in my hand, pressing it into the knuckle of my middle finger, his creepy blue eye doing little laps around the room. "Now try."

I toss it, and it hits the rim of the board. "Much better."

"Thanks, Mad-eye."

"No problem. Your turn, Lupin."

He passes Lupin a dart, who chucks it and misses entirely.

"Well, the good news is you're shouting, Mad-eye."

That Mark guy's walking over, and nods at me. I shake his hand. He's got sweaty hands. Lupin also shakes his hands, like he's really trying to be super-nice to Mark and impress him.

"Nice to meet you, finally. Tonks says lots about you."

"Oh, really? Hope she hasn't said too much!"

"Well, you know, just the usual stuff, that you work in Control, that you're a Scorpio, that you enjoy long walks along the beach and your Saturday morning ritualistic animal sacrifice."

Mark laughs a bit. "She told you that?"

"Yes. Well, no, I made up the Scorpio bit. You have to excuse me, I'll probably say something else stupid like that later on tonight, so apologies in advance."

"All right then." Mark sips his beer. "You drink?"

"Normally. Not tonight, though, my liver hates me."

"Yeah, well, you die anyway." He points at Lupin's leg. "What happened to you?"

"Got attacked by a werewolf. They're vicious buggers. Mind you, you'd probably know all about that."

"Touche. You seem to be doing pretty all right for yourself though."

"I'd be doing even better if I could get a job."

"Yeah, well, Ministry Policy. Have to take it up with the boys upstairs I'm afraid - I'm just a pencil pusher."

"Suppose." He chucks another dart. This time, it manages to make it onto the board. I step up beside him, and tug on his sleeve.

"Er, Lupin, can I talk to you about something?"

"Certainly, Ron."

"In private?"

He drops his arm, passing the dart over to Moody.

"I'm not forfeiting my turn either, by the way."

"Yes you are."

"No way, that's not how it works!"

"Well, yes it is. You leave the board, you lose your turn."

Lupin grumbles a bit as I pull him out of the room into the hallway. He sits down on the staircase.

"All right, Ron. What's the matter?"

I gulp a bit, and decide that the first step of action is to take a seat before I faint. "Right. Erm... bloody hell, I've forgotten what I was going to say."

"It's all right. Just slow down, and gather your thoughts for a second. We have all the time in the world, now that I'm out of the game. I mean, I never really had a chance in the first place, but whatever. Now, what would you like to talk about?"

"Well, see, right, I'm having... erm... ."

"Ron, are you asking me for romantic advice?"

"Yeah..."

"All right. Um, I don't think I'm the one you want to be talking to about this..."

"Why not?"

"Probably because I haven't seen any action since 1977. Maybe... um, maybe this is something you'd be better off talking to your dad about."

"Yeah, but you're not going to judge me and get into my business like he would! You know, you're... um, you're an uninterested party."

"You mean a disinterested party?"

"Yeah! That's the one!"

"All right. Go on. I don't know how helpful I'll be, but if you want to talk about it, that's fine, I guess."

"Okay. Right. Um... okay, I know what I'm going to say. Now, say, hypothetically, you tell someone you like them and they knock you back, but at the same time you want to know why and you really want to be with them, and wonder if it's because there's something wrong with me or--"

"Or if she doesn't think you mean it?"

I nod. "Well, yeah. See, I don't get it. I mean, I really, really like her and--"

"Does she know that?"

"Well, I asked her out last week, and she--"

"But does she know that you like her that strongly? Maybe she feels like you're not really interested in her, but that you'd just rather a girlfriend than being alone. You know, the whole hormones cliche and all."

"I... I dunno."

He straightens the cuff of his shirt. He's wearing Dad's suit tonight. Dad's not as tall as he is, and like me, his trousers are hanging a bit too high around his ankles. That, and I think that his coat's too tight around his shoulders, because the material's all strained.

"Well, Ron, you obviously need to tell her properly about how you feel. I mean, maybe the case is that she doesn't know your full intentions. Maybe she's worried that she's not pretty enough for you. Maybe she likes you back, but she's too scared and afraid of being screwed over."

"Yeah, but, she said 'no' when I asked her."

He picks a bit at a scab on his hand. "Ron, there are so many reasons why people do stupid things that they regret. Believe me when I say that you should tell her again. Be honest. Don't be afraid of being knocked back, all right?"

"Right, I suppose."

"Come on. Pretend that I'm her. Now, tell me exactly what you want to tell her."

"I... I don't have to hold your hand or anything do I?"

He's glaring at me. "Don't push my good nature."

"Fine. Erm... Yeah, look, Hermione, I was wanting to tell you that... um... oh, nothing."

"As much as I believe that you're ACTUALLY going to say that to her when the time comes, try again."

"Fine, fine, all right?! Have you ever tried baring your soul?"

"You're asking the wrong person. I'm the one whom people bare their soul to, but then stupidly knocks them back."

"Fair enough. Right. I'll start again." I take a deep breath, and swallow all the excess spit that's forming in my mouth. "Okay. Hermione. Look, I wouldn't have said what I did to you if... um... if I didn't, you know, fancy you. I think you're really tops, and I like you lots, I really do. Um... you know, like, your smart and stuff, and... look, yeah."

He nods. "That'll do in a pinch. If I were her, I might reconsider my original decision."

"That because you knocked Tonks back and you're trying to make yourself feel better by stopping someone else making the same mistakes as you?"

"How'd you--"

"What do you think? Harry and Dung told me. They reckon you're a stupid twat for doing it."

"Right."

"And... erm..."

"What?"

"Well, I don't know if I should tell you or not, but everyone's running a pool on you, on whether or not you can get her back or not."

He's laughing. "What are my odds?"

"Seventeen to one."

He pulls himself up, the laughter continuing. "Why that low?"

"Dunno, probably because you'll never work up the guts to directly tell her you fancy her. But see, it's okay, mate, I bet two galleons on you. You've got to try now."

"Well with incentive like that, how can I not be a gambling man? I'll even put down something on myself, God knows I need the extra cash at the moment."

I stand up, and walk out of the hallway with him. "Tell you what. You tell Tonks, and I'll talk to Hermione. Deal?"

"I think this is a vastly different situation. For one thing, there is now another person involved in the scenario, and no matter about the old cliche of 'all's fair in love and war', there is certainly no nobility involved in snatching her while she's seeing someone else. And secondly... I don't know."

"Whatever." I untuck a corner of my shirt, and try and get some of my hair sticking up in the front. "How do I look?"

"Tuck your shirt back in, and wash some of that gel out of your hair."

I trudge into the bathroom, closing the door behind me and turning the tap on. I catch a bit of water in my hand, and run it through my hair, trying to rinse some of the gel out. (The styling was at the suggestion of Mundungus Fletcher, who now fancies himself as a hairdresser. I was too polite to tell him that his job on Lupin looked awful.) It does, coating my hands in stickiness. I turn the tap off, and walk over to the towel with my head hanging down.

The bathroom door opens while I'm towel drying my hair, and whoever it is turns the tap on.

"Oh, sorry Ron, couldn't see you when I opened the door."

Hermione. I pull the towel off my head, and hold it out to her.

"Thanks."

"No worries, yeah."

"Your mum says that dinner is now ready, and for you to wash up."

"Oh, right, thanks."

"Erm... Ron, um..."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, no, it's nothing."

"No, come on, say it."

"You... you look really nice tonight."

If I had any gymnastic talents right about now, I'd probably do a triple back flip ending in a half-pike somersault. But I'm not very athletic, so the best I could manage is rolling about on the floor and getting some nasty carpet burn. The feeling is still there, all the same.

"Oh... thanks, Hermione. You... um, well... you look nice tonight as well."

She blushes, and ducks her head down, making the swiftest exit possible from the bathroom. I turn back and have a look at the Ron Weasley in the mirror. He kinda has a really stupid expression on his face, like a stunned mullet. Harry's walking into the bathroom now, pushing me out of the way to wash his hands. He looks at me for a minute or two.

"Bugger me, Ron. You look like a stunned mullet."

"Piss off, Harry." I flick him with the water on my hands, and head towards the dining room with haste. Just about everyone's taken their seats. Mum's made my favourite tonight: roast lamb. It mostly became my favourite because when we were kids we used to tease Ginny about the poor little baby lambs that died, and she'd cry, and then Mum'd get cranky and tell us all off for stirring her up. That, and it tastes heaps good. I stab at my meat, and shove some into my mouth. That Mark guy's sitting next to me. He smells really strongly of cologne. I think he and Hagrid wear the same aftershave. Opposite us is Lupin, who's trying in vain to cut his meat up with one working hand. He fails, and looks to Mundungus on his right, who simply sighs and takes Lupin's plate, cutting up the meat for him.

"Does the wee bitty baby want his carrots mushed up too?"

"Now there's an idea. I probably shouldn't have partially liquified food after six though, Dung."

Mark swallows the mouthful he has, and sets his fork down. "So, Lupin, do you have a girlfriend at the present?"

"Not unless you're talking about Candy Bottoms, but since she's entirely latex I don't think she can be counted."

"Who?"

"Oh, nothing, just my inheritance from a friend who was otherwise unable to go out to seek the company of real live women."

"Oh, right."

"Yes."

"So..."

"So..."

"So... you listen to much muggle music?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely. Much better than the stuff we put out, I think. My dad got me onto it when I was little, whenever we went over to visit his family he'd take me down to the pubs and make me listen to the bands and stuff. Said he wanted me to be cultured."

"Oh, was he a muggle himself?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"No no, nothing. So who do you listen to?"

Lupin picks up his glass of water and takes a long, thirsty sip, swirling it around in his mouth for a second before he swallows. "Couple of the oldies. Don't like many of these new-fangled modern bands. You know. A bit of big-band stuff, Stones, Neil Young. I think Dung and Tonks have nicked off with a couple of my other records."

"Oh yeah. Yeah, I agree, I tend to stick with a lot of the classics, you know. Bit of Michael Bolton, some Rod Stewart."

Mundungus snorts. "That's fookin' shite music!"

"Why? I really like it, it's just... you know, it's so nice, there's no swearing or anything."

"Yeah. But still shite."

Lupin silences Dung with a glance. He's pretty good at that, actually. "Oh well, each their own, I guess. I don't listen to it myself. Not really big into the whole adult contemporary genre, really, find it a bit wishy-washy and insincere."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I don't know. Just not my thing."

"Yeah, I suppose so. I just reckon Rod Stewart's really good."

"I reckon he needs a bloody hair cut, if you ask me."

"Yeah, well, hopefully not by your hairdresser."

Tonks, who's sitting on the other side of Lupin, leans forward, looking a bit glassy-eyed. "I don't know, I think your hair looks nice, Lupin."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it does, shorter hair suits you. And--" She thumbs at where his moustache was up until this afternoon.

"Oh, yeah, well, I don't know about that much, see, Mundungus here thought I had too big an overbite to be able to pull it off."

"No, no, it... it really looks nice, takes years off you."

"Er... thanks, thanks very much."

Mundungus glares over at Mark. "And fer yer information, I'm not an hairdresser either, I'm a men's hair artist."

"Uh huh."

Hermione sits down at the empty space behind me, tucking her chair in quietly and picking up her knife and fork. She does look nice tonight. She's just... I dunno, it's hard to explain it, like she looks... you know, just pretty. I like it.

"Erm, Hermione?"

She leans in close to me. "Yeah, what is it?"

"Um... I was just thinking that, um, later on tonight.... can I have, you know, a quick word with you about something? It's nothing bad or anything--"

"Yeah, sure, fine. After dinner all right?"

"Oh, yeah, I meant after dinner."

"Okay, good. Outside on the patio?"

"Yeah, all right."

"Okay. Good."

I think that across the table, Mundungus and Lupin are listening in on our conversation. "Do you two have anything better to do than eavesdropping?"

They look at each other. "We don't actually. You're on fire tonight, Ron."

I poked at my carrots. "Yeah, well..."

Dung stuck his thumbs up at me, winking broadly. "It's all right, young feller. T'will work out for the best, yeh know. Our odds on yeh're better than Jobless'. Five to one."

"Erm... thanks."

"What's this?" Hermione says, turning away from her conversation with Ginny and Harry, who are sitting at the end of the table.

"Oh, nothing. Just a bet with Mundungus as to whether Lupin will--"

"Mr Weasley, I don't think you want to finish that sentence."

"All right, all right!" Touchy.

"So, Mark, what exactly do you do down in Control of Magical Creatures?"

"Not a lot of much, except filing. Very boring."

"I imagine so. See, that's coming from me as well. All I do is sit about and cut out grocery coupons and read the paper. On occasion, Mundungus and I go down and get a curry lunch, but the majority of my day is spent napping, eating, sleeping, having a kip on the sofa and the afternoon siesta out on the porch."

"How exciting."

"I know. I tell you, unemployment does wonders for your literacy, though, I must've read every single book published in Great Britain."

"Oh yeah? I read a bit myself too, when I'm not busy at work. I've read a bit, actually, love the classics. You know, like 'Pride and Prejudice', 'Wuthering Heights'. 'Ulysses' is probably my favourite book of all time, though. Really made me think about my life. Homer certainly had a knack for writing about the human condition. It's so relevant, even after two thousand years."

"I think you're confused. I don't think that Homer wrote 'Ulysses'. Maybe you're confusing it with 'The Iliad'."

"No, he wrote it. I'm certain of that much."

"No, he didn't."

"He did. You want me to prove it to you? 'Ulysses', by Homer, set in ancient Greece."

"It's not. Honestly."

"Look, I think I'd know, all right? I did, after all, study literature in Muggle Studies."

"Right." Lupin slams his fork down, and stands up, reaching about blindly for his crutch. "Right." And then he limps out of the room. Everyone's sort of watching him. I mean, they've been watching him all night. Mum's got a galleon on him getting with Tonks. Fred and George have pooled a good ten galleons each. As you can tell, the stakes are fairly high here. He returns a few minutes later with a tatty old paperback, slapping it down on the table.

"'Ulysses'. By James Joyce. Set in Dublin. You're a twat."

He sits down, hair ruffled in his victory. We're all kind of sitting here a bit dumbly. I don't think we've ever seen childish, jealous Lupin before. I don't think we believed that it existed. Mark's jaw drops slightly. He sits there like a twit who can't close his mouth. "Erm... yeah. Must've gotten it confused with 'The Iliad'."

Tonks coughs quietly, clearing her throat. "Right. Well... erm, thanks for the display of machismo there, Lupin."

"Yeah, well."

Mum holds out a gravy boat. "Mint sauce, anyone?"

Dad nods quietly, and takes it off her. Fred and George look at each other, silently hysterical with laughter. Lupin drops his fork again, and tries pulling his chair out.

"Look, I'm sorry, everyone. Mark, I completely overreacted, all right?"

He pulls himself around the table, leaning on chairs and hopping, and holds his hand out to Mark when he makes his way around.

"It's--"

"No, I was being an idiot. Look. Um, Molly, I'm really sorry, I'm just going to have to excuse myself now, go out and calm down a bit. Everyone else, I'm really sorry, I--"

At this point, he trips over his own crutch trying to make a hasty exit from the dining room. Mundungus jumps up, and helps him to his feet. Lupin pulls away from him, and makes it out into the kitchen. As the not-quite majestic saloon doors swing after him, Dung turns back to the rest of us, looking intently at Tonks. She looks away from Mundungus, blushing furiously. She's turned her hair peroxide blond tonight. It looks a bit odd on her, because she's got such pale skin anyway, but she's put on some bright red lipstick. Odd, but pretty all the same. She picks up her glass of wine, and downs it all in one go. Mum's looking rather pityingly at Mark, as though she's trying to sympathise with him over the outburst. Moody and Kingsley are staring at each other, communicating their shock non-verbally.

"You'll have to excuse him, Mark," Tonks says as she wipes a drop of wine from her cheek, "he's been through a fair bit lately. Just have to give him a wide berth whenever he's like this."

"Yeah," emphasises Mundungus, "he's usually less belligerent and offensive when he's drunk."

"Yeah, well, that was a bit rude, really. Typical, I suppose, for what he is."

It might be the lighting, but suddenly Mum doesn't look as sympathetic towards him as she was before. Beside me, Hermione lays her knife and fork neatly across the plate, and stands up.

"I'm really sorry, Mrs Weasley, but I don't think I can finish the rest of this, it was lovely anyway."

"But Hermione, dear, you've hardly touched your food!"

"I know, I'm sorry, I just had so much to eat this afternoon, I--"

"That's fine, dear."

"Thankyou anyway, it was lovely."

She walks out of the dining room carrying her plate. I grab mine, and jump up.

"And where do you think you're going, Ronald Bilius?"

"Erm... stomach complaint. Top lamb, Mum, thanks."

I race out after her, trying to shovel the rest of my potatoes into my mouth. I catch her at the sink, where she rinses off her plate.

"Erm... you want to go outside, have this talk?"

"Yeah, sure, if you'd like."

"Because I just thought that, you know, everyone's still in there finishing dinner."

"Yeah, okay, that's fine."

She makes her way to the patio, and I follow her, carefully shutting the glass door behind us to kill our noise. I sit down in a chair, balling my hands into fists so I don't fidget with anything. She sits down beside me, clutching on the arms of her chair with her knuckles going white.

I realise, however, that we're not alone out here. The backyard, though wildly overrun with weeds and kudzu, ends about twenty yards away with a dirty old pond, choking up with water lilies and papyrus reeds. And sitting in front of the pond, knees up and smoking, is Lupin. I don't think he can hear us, though, not that it matters."

"So, Ron... what's... you know, what did you want to tell me before?"

"Right. Um..."

And it happens again. My mouth fills with saliva, the veins in my ears suddenly swell and my heartbeat is amplified a millionfold. And my hands are now all sweaty.

"You right, Ron?"

"What? Yeah, I'm okay."

"Well? What did you want to say?"

I cough a bit, and press my hands into my trousers to try and straighten the creases out. "Hermione, there's something I need to say to you, because the other night I think... um... look, I don't know if you, you know, got what I was trying to tell you."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. See, thing is, I don't know if I said it right--"

"You didn't. All you did was say 'go out with me', then run into your room and slam the door. I was a bit shocked. What was I supposed to say? I had no idea what you were really thinking of."

"Oh... sorry..."

"That's all right, Ron."

"Well, see... bugger, I wish I could remember what I wanted to say to you... oh, yeah, now I do. Hermione. I want you to know that I really do like you heaps, and stuff, and that, you know, I think you're really nice, and that... I dunno... see, I think you just thought I was being an idiot the other night."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Can you say anything else apart from 'oh'?"

"Yeah." She's looking at me now, and her face is all red. "Do you mean it? Do you actually like me, or... I dunno... I'm confused, Ron."

"About what?"

"I mean... why me?"

She's chewing on a bit of her hair. It's been getting a bit thin these last few weeks. She's seemed really stressed and toey, like she's in exam block or something, but she's not.

"I dunno, 'cause I do, I suppose."

"Like, what about me?"

"You know... you're smart, and stuff. Smarter than me, anyway."

She laughs a bit. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. And I think you're, like, heaps pretty."

She pulls the strand of hair out of her mouth. "Thanks."

"So... um... yeah, that's all I really wanted to say. Look, I better go back in and--"

"No, no, you're right. Thanks, Ron."

"That's all right."

"Look, I'm really sorry for being an idiot last week. I haven't been thinking things through properly. I just..."

"What?"

"I don't know."

About two minutes ago, there was too much saliva in my mouth. Right about now, there's not enough. I swallow a bit, to start up my system, and look at her. She does look pretty, even if her hair's thinner, and her face is all bony, and her eyes are less fiery. I do something stupid on impulse. I grab her hand in mine.

"Your hand's really sweaty, Ron."

"Sorry."

"No, it's all right, I don't mind."

I lick my lips, and lean in towards her. She doesn't notice me till I'm halfway between where I was and where she is. She turns her head.

And a loud splashing sound comes from the end of the yard. The usually still waters of the old carp pond are now rippling, tiny waves breaking over the grassy bank, and there's a bit of jacket poking through the surface, a head lolling above it.

Hermione jumps up, running over to the pond and kneeling down in front of it. I make it there shortly after her, and stare down at Lupin. He's lying face down in the water, air bubbling up from his head every so often.

"Do you think something grabbed him and pulled him in?"

"Nah, reckon he did it himself."

She reaches out, grabbing at his jacket. "Ron, he's not moving!"

"He'll be right, the water's not too deep. Don't reckon he'll go through with it. Mum's going to pitch a fit, but."

"Why?"

"That's Dad's best suit he's got on."