Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Morning

None in the house have really spoken to each other after the outburst of the previous night. Certainly, the younger ones in the house cracked jokes for a bit, Fred and George regaling everyone hilariously by slamming down items on tables and calling everyone else twats. The fun ended, however, when Ron and Hermione entered the sitting room to explain that their former Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher had tried drowning himself in the backyard carp pond, and that Mad-eye Moody was in the process of trying to perform CPR on the poor fellow. It was a shame, the two had said - they'd thought he was only being melodramatic, and would poke his head up through the stagnant water after a bit to expel goldfish droppings and some old duckweed. The sobriety of the room after that news was such that Fred and George even forgot to comment about whether Ron had gotten off with Hermione.

The sun has risen since, and the sitting room is now occupied by said suicidal man, who seems to have gained some insight and sense now that he's ingested almost a bottle of Johnny Walker. Sure, he is killing his brain-cells and singing more and more off-tune by the minute, but for now he is too buoyant to think of last night's malaise; how he wanted to remain in that pond and be fished out when his heart ceased beating.

He's not alone though. Heavy drinking of such a scale cannot be undertaken on ones' own - you need a capable accomplice who can match you drink for drink.

Mundungus Fletcher gulps down another mouthful of piss and lies back on the couch, eyes screwed up in concentration. "Take me ouuuuut.... toniiiiiiiight..."

"Because I want to see people and I want to see liiiiife..."

"Driving in your caaaaar... oh please don't drop me hooooooome..."

"Because I haven't got ooooone.... anymooooore..."

"No, no, Jobless. Wrong verse."

"Right. Sorry."

"Yeh feelin' better?"

Lupin rolls off his sofa onto the floor, covering his head with a pillow. "No, I'm not. She's going to be awake in a few hours, and she's going to come downstairs and have my bollocks for breakfast."

"I should be so lucky. Cheer up, son. If it's any consolation, I don't fink she much fancies that Mark git. Didn't give him a kiss goodnight or nothin'. See, what I finks is that she brought the twat back to make yeh and do somethin' jealous. Obviously not top yerself, but I imagine he has that effect on lots of people."

"Yeah."

Dung settles back in his sofa, thirsty for another sip of whiskey. "Lupin, yeh're a dumb fooker, you know that? All yeh had to do was be charming and smart and show him up a bit, but no, yeh had to get all righteously indignant and melan-fookin'-cholic, didn't yeh? Didn't yeh?"

"I don't know anymore, Dung. I don't know. He was an arsehole. It's like telling someone if they've got a bit of toilet paper on their shoe - you're a nicer person if you point it out to them than if you don't."

"I always saw it, but, I always knew yeh'd be one of those folk who never complains about nothin' until they explode one day and top themselves."

"Yeah, well, history repeats."

"No it doesn't. Haven't yeh heard that song? Yeh know, 'history never repeats, I tell myself before I go to sleep'?"

"The people who sang that song dressed up like clowns and had a full-time spoons player and makeup artist. I shan't take serious life advice from them."

"Oh." An awkward silence follows. "Right. Yeh know what yeh ought do?"

"Stop singing Morrissey songs, sober up and apologise to Tonks for my atrocious behaviour?"

"No. Keep drinking."

"Even better." To that, he raises his bottle, and lets the amber fluid run down his throat. His eyes water as he chokes on his bounty.

At the window, a massive eagle owl taps on the glass, a note tied around its leg. Dung looks in its direction.

"Oy, Jobless. Yeh get that."

"I got it last time, it's your turn."

"Fine. We'll just leave it peckin' there then, won't we?

The owl keeps tapping the glass, the noise growing louder and louder as the poor creature is ignored, until the glass shatters, and it plummets into the room, not moving from the floor.

"See, now see what yeh've done. Accio owl."

It lands on Dung's chest with a heavy thump, and he momentarily gets the wind knocked out of him. Lupin reaches up from the ground, and unties the note on its leg.

"It's for Tonks."

"From Mark?"

"Yes."

"Go on then, yeh bint, open the fookin' message!"

"No, no, it's none of my business."

"Fine. If yeh won't, I will."

Dung snatches the note and unfurls it. "'Dear Nymphadora--'"

"Heh. I bet she hates being called that."

"Shut up and let me finish. 'Dear Nymphadora. I'm just writin' to let yeh know that I had a lovely time last night, and wanted to know if yeh'd be interested in comin' to dinner with me. Say, seven at the Leaky?' Ooh, Jobless, yeh're goin' to love what this ends on - 'Love, Mark.'"

"'Love, Mark'? Blimey, I'm done for."

"No, see, it's all right, what we're goin' to do is reply to the note ourselves, posin' as Tonks. She'll be none the wiser."

"A most nefarious scheme, Dung, but will it work?"

"Course it'll work, yeh daft twat! Here, let me get me brain juices flowin'. Ahem. 'Dear Mark. I hate yer stinkin' guts! Yeh make me vomit! Yeh're scum between me toes. Love, Nymphadora.'"

"How delightfully... derivative of you, Mundungus."

"Thanks. Reckon it'll go down a treat if yeh ask me."

"Uh huh. She ever finds out about this, I had nothing to do with it."

"Yer name won't be mentioned, I swear it on me mum's grave."

Lupin takes a drink. "Your mum's not dead, she's just in Sheffield."

"And may her memory live on forever. Now, where's that owl?"

"I think the owl's dead, Dung."

Dung shakes the bird, and it snaps awake, biting out at him. "No, the daft thing needed a nap." He ties the note to its leg, and pats it. "Right, go on, piss off with yeh."

It flies away, indignant at being told to piss off. From upstairs, a thud shakes the ceiling, and Mundungus and Lupin look at each other warily.

"Oh god. She's awake. Hide me, Dung." Looking around the sitting room, he searches for the smallest of nooks, the most innocuous of locations to hide in. He can find no such sanctuary, so he grabs a pillow and covers his face with it.

"Yeh're on yer own now, Jobless. My advice? Cover yeh're weddin' tackle."

The sound grows ominously louder, its source closer to the current location of our heroes and with every heavy step on the stairs, Lupin cringes, preparing the eulogy, should he be successful in dying this time.

The door opens, and a head pokes into the room. It was a most pitiable sight: Mundungus Fletcher tenderly stroking his bottle of whiskey, and Lupin hiding his face behind a decorative pillow.

"Somebody have a piss-up in here and not invite me?"

"Well, see, we were goin' to, but--"

"But you were afraid that I'd castrate you both after your abominable behaviour last night?"

"Wow, Jobless, yeh're girlfriend's remarkably astute, yeh know."

"I know, Mundungus, but she's not my girlfriend."

"Right. I just came down to kill you both, and have a word with Remus here. Not necessarily in that order, either."

"Lucky yeh, Jobless."

"I know, I know."

"Oh, yeah, Tonks, a wee bit of mail arrived for yeh this mornin'. I was tryin' to stop old Moony here from openin' it, but he was too swift for me, yeh know?"

He hands her the scrap of parchment, and she reads it quietly, scrunching it up after a bit and throwing it to the ground.

"'Nymphadora' my arse. I'm not going out again with that condescending git."

"Good. Lucky yeh responded back to him then, eh Jobless?"

"Kill me now."

Tonks walks in the room, and holds the door open. "Go on, bugger off, Mundungus. Clear off. Go on, I need to have a word with Remus."

"Come on, Tonks, can't I just sit here and not say anyfink? I'll be really quiet, I promise."

"No, just... just leave the room, or something."

Dung stumbles to his feet, knocking over the empty bottle of Johnny's as he makes his way to the hallway. He grabs at the doorframe to support himself and moves in close to Tonks.

"Oh, yeah, meanin' to tell yeh, because Moony here won't, but, see, he fancies yeh. Yeh know. Yeh're a bit of a wank fantasy for him, I reckon, but that's just between yeh and me. Oh, and him, I suppose."

Lupin presses his head further into the pillow, groaning inwardly. If he wouldn't die from suicide or murder, then he definitely would die from embarrassment.

"Oh... thankyou, Mundungus. I'll be sure to discuss that with him."

"Oh... oh shit, I probably shouldn't've mentioned the whole wank bit to yeh!"

"You probably shouldn't have."

"Fookin' hell, reckon I just embarrassed him a wee bit."

Tonks looks over at Lupin, who by now has dragged his crippled body and dwindling bottle of scotch behind the sofa and out of her line of vision. "Only by a little bit, I reckon."

"Oh, well that's good, then. Toodles!"

With that, he pulls the door shut behind him. Tonks sighs and approaches the sofa.

"You don't exist if I can't see you. That's the rule of neo-existentialism."

She rounds the corner. He's still got that stupid pillow pressed to his face.

"Are you drunk?"

"I don't have to sit here and listen to these wild allegations."

She sits down next to him, and pulls the cushion away from his face. It's gone bright red. "You've got duckweed in your hair."

"Oh."

She reaches up, and delicately picks out the offending horticultural villain. "You know, Remus, I can understand trying to kill yourself and all, but you smell like a swamp, do you know that?"

He lifts up his arm, and takes a quick sniff. "Mundungus said it was an alluring musk."

"How much of that bottle have you had?"

He inches his fingers to give an indication. A good 500mL, if you go by the metric standard.

"I think you need to quit drinking."

"Yeah? Well, I think you need to quit... yeah."

"That's not a rebuttal and you know it."

He throws his pillow vainly, hitting the ground a mere two feet away. "I'm telling you, I'm fine. The only reason I tried to kill myself last night was because I was too sober to think clearly. See? I'm right as rain now. So let's all have a drink, and forget that I was being an immature, jealous toddler last night, and then we can all go down and get breakfast chips. See? A happy ending if there ever was one."

"You're full of shit, do you know that?"

"Sorry, Mum."

"And you're pissed as well."

"And you're... I don't know, I can't follow that one through."

"What's got into you? You're not yourself."

"I'm sorry, all right? I just... I don't know, you try being dignified and cheerful every bloody day of your life and see what toll it takes."

"I'm not saying that I can't imagine how you're feeling, Ijust didn't know it was that bad."

"Yeah, well, I'm all right now."

"Yeah, right you are."

"Something about that guy just rubbed me up the wrong way."

"Who, Mark?"

"Yeah. He was just... he was a snob. And he was a stupid snob, and that's what really riled me up. There wasn't one genuine thing about him. And you know the worst part? That he'll probably get really far in life and be really rich just because he can pretend to know things, whereas the people who really do know things will end up poor and hanging about public libraries just so that they can read the newspaper for free."

She's a bit taken back. "I didn't realise you felt that strongly about him."

"He was a wanker, with all his stupid aftershave and Rod Stewart music. He was an insincere wanker, and I bet nobody's ever called him out about how he just makes shit up to make himself seem smart."

"Finished your spiel?"

He rolls his eyes and offers his bottle to her. She shakes her head, and he shrugs, taking a sip for himself. "Why him, Tonks? Why him?"

"I don't know, Remus, I haven't been out with a man in two years. You hardly helped the situation, you know, and... I don't know. I thought he was nice enough. Simple, but nice enough."

"'Simple' doesn't describe him. Now, 'savant', 'cretinous', 'redneck' - that describes him."

"He wasn't that bad, was he?"

Lupin leans his head back on the sofa. "Yeah... well... I'm sorry I overreacted last night too, I was being a ginormous idiot."

"It's all right, I forgive you. I think you said what a lot of people were thinking anyway. God, did you see how he always laughs at his own jokes? What a tosser. I tell you, if I had any idea that he was so socially inept--"

"You probably would have hit on him like you hit on me?"

"Oh, shush." She squints, as the light coming in through the windows grows hot with the fervent August sun. "So how are you really feeling now?"

"I think I'm going to need a good vomit in the next few hours."

"No, I mean, how are you feeling emotionally, mentally."

"How do you think I'm feeling?"

Tonks touches his uninjured hand lightly. If he weren't three sheets to the wind, he would notice and go all crimson. "Pretty rotten, I'd say. We aren't idiots here, you know, we do understand that you're going through a rough patch at the moment."

"Thanks."

"Can I ask... was there anything that made you do it in particular?"

He shakes his head. "It was the culmination of a million little things that have been pissing me off for some time now. I was... I can't explain it. I was just feeling weak, and numb, and empty, and I think I've realised something else, Tonks, I'm just living out someone elses' life, a life that was entirely shitty when it was their turn and now it's my turn it's not getting any better."

"Have you ever thought about getting help?"

"Help? Help from whom?"

She tucks a bit of greasy blond hair behind her ear. "Well, I don't know. There's always Arthur, or Albus. They'd be able to talk to you, hear you out, lend a bit of advice. And, of course, there's always... well, me, I suppose."

Lupin suddenly becomes aware that a girl he fancies is holding his hand. At this point, he starts to get a pink tinge to his cheeks, which is not an easy feat considering that he's all red and rummy in the face from copious amounts of single malt, and the reaction of any capillaries at this point is to just explode and make him look like a British tourist in the Maldives.

"How could you help me?"

"I don't know. You could... well, I don't know. You can come and talk to me if you have problems, or if there's anyone that's causing you problems, I can guarantee that they'll be at the bottom of the Thames with cement around their feet within twenty four hours."

He laughs a bit. "Thanks, Tonks."

"Do you want to talk about anything now?"

He rubs his hand over his face. Though he only shaved twelve hours ago, there's already considerable stubble formation. Then he nods. "I miss him, Tonks. It was my first time without him."

"Last week?"

He nods again. "I thought I'd be all right, you know, I just... it was so lonely. I hated it. I mean, it's not something fun even if there's someone else with you, but when you're on your own after having him with you for a while--"

She pulls his head down so it's lying on her shoulder. "I think I can understand."

"Yeah?"

"Christmas when I was eight. You know how he always used to buy presents for people way in advance of any special occasion in case he lost all his money in the week preceding?"

Despite himself, he laughs. "Yes, I do. He used to give them to you months in advance as well. We called it 'Christmas in September'."

"Yeah. Well, before he went to Azkaban, he bought my Christmas present, and gave it to Mum so that she'd look after it, because you know how he was with losing things." She notes with regret that she just spoke of him in the past tense. "Well, of course, he went to Azkaban, and of course we never spoke of him at home. And on Christmas morning, I'd opened all my presents thinking 'where on earth is Sirius' gift?' with all the selfishness of a kid who thinks nothing of Christmas apart from presents and decent food.

"And, of course, being a kid on Christmas, all I wanted to do was play with the stuff I'd got. And that year, I'd received this fantastic pair of enchanted roller skates - you know, the ones where they have an inbuilt impedimenta curse in case you're a clumsy little horror like me. And... well, I was outside on that footpath we have between the backyard and the front yard, and Dad'd just salted it for me so I could try my skates on. And I was skating, and I went past the bin, and there was this package in the rubbish that was all wrapped up in Christmas paper, and I thought that maybe Mum threw something out by mistake, so I opened it up. It was this book by Dumas."

"'The Count of Monte Cristo'?"

She laughs, leaning on his head and forgetting for a minute that he smells like noxious sewer gases. "Kicks you in the arse, it does. It felt really weird, you know, like you've just swallowed a shitload of ice and your insides are numbing up and slowing down."

"I know."

She stares at the nearly empty bottle of scotch , and looks at him. "Can I have a sip?"

"Sure, just a little one, though. I'm saving it for a special occasion, like morning tea."

She untangles their hands and picks up the bottle, bringing it up to her lips and letting every single drop of it run down her throat, coughing when her stomach burns and her lips tingle.

"Bit early for you to be drinking, isn't it?"

"Not really. Felt like catching up with an old friend over breakfast."

"Do you think I'm a complete, utter idiot?"

"Not always. You can't be too much of an idiot if you can still use big words when you're drunk. Well, you're always drunk these days--"

"You just had about nine standard drinks within the space of thirty seconds, Tonks - you are in no position to call me an alcoholic."

"Ah, but there is a difference between us. I drink because I like alcohol. You drink because you like the effects of alcohol."

He scratches his head. "Is that a good thing?"

"No."

"You know what that is? That's prejudice."

"I'm sure it is."

He picks up the empty bottle of whisky, and holds it up to the sunlight. The light scatters and disperses over the undulating bumps in the curved glass, and he sets it on its side, rolling it slowly away.

"I reckon I ought give it up. I don't want to wake up one day and realise that I've grown into Mundungus Fletcher."

"Isn't he younger than you?"

"That's clearly beside the point." He wraps an arm around her. "You're lovely, Tonks. You know that?"

"Am I now?"

"I reckon that you are."

"Thanks." She checks her watch, the numbers starting to blur in front of her eyes. "Shit. Said I'd go pay the olds a visit today. They think I've forgotten all about them."

"All right. You know, I should probably go round and see my mum at some stage. It's not like I have anything better to do either."

"Yeah." She hoists herself to her feet, stretching her back out. "I'll pop round some time this afternoon, maybe, have a game of cards or chess or something."

"Sure. I'll be here. In the sitting room, or out on the porch, or up in my room."

She kisses him on the top of the head. "See you later, Remus." She turns, leaving him behind the sofa.

"Wait, Tonks."

She pauses on her heels, turning back slowly. "Yes?"

"Look, I'm sorry I turned you down, all right? I know I'm really drunk now and all and you probably won't take my word for it, but I really do fancy you. I mean, you're pretty, and you're nice, and you can drink more than a hundred bastards, and I like you to bits and pieces, and I was wondering if, on the odd chance, your proposition from last week still stands, and if maybe you'd like to go out with me. Oh, and it's not like Dung was saying, like, I don't wank over you or anything. Not that I don't like you, because I do, it's just--"

She's laughing at him now, tightening the cords on her dressing gown. "That'd... that'd be really lovely. I'd like to."

"You would?"

"Sure." She walks back over to him again, and kisses the top of his head again. "You take care of yourself today, all right? Go back to bed or something. It might be a bit rumpled up, because I slept in there last night, seeing as you two were down here getting drunk without me. All right? I'll be back later this afternoon."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks."

She walks out of the room, closing the door behind her. He's grinning like a fool now, the thoughts of paternal destiny and fraternal abandonment not disappearing, but fading slightly. He knows that in a couple of hours, his head will start to hurt and his muscles will start to get lax, but for now this doesn't really matter all that much. To commemorate this, he decides, he will make it upstairs to bed before his nausea catches up with him. No, scratch that - a bath, then bed. Then sleep.

Up a dark cedar staircase, an alcoholic werewolf with a terrible haircut, a gimp leg and his expert crooked gait hobbles, pulling himself along by the railings and singing out of key.

"And if a ten tonne truuuuuuck... kills the both of uuuuuus... to die by your siiiide, why, the pleasure, the privilege is miiiiiiiiiine..."