10 Things I Hate About You
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair;
I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.
I hate your big dumb combat boots,
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick;
It even makes me rhyme.
I hate the way you're always right,
I hate it when you lie,
I hate it when you make me laugh;
Even worse when you make me cry.
I hate it that you're not around,
And the fact that you didn't call.
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair
"Good evening, Nymphadora." My stomach muscles stiffen so much it's like having a cramp. I knew the exact second when he had exited the kitchen, counted the moments it would take him to travel from there to here through the hall. Yet still, prepared as I was, just hearing his voice made me tremble. He's here, looking at me, waiting for an answer. So what choice do I have but to reply? I sigh inwardly as I do. I could hear the smile in his voice, the smile I know I will return as I turn and look at his face.
"Wotcher, Wolfie." Just like nobody else calls me Nymphadora every night and lives, I'm the only one who can call him Wolfie and walk away unscathed (mentally, anyway – I can't really imagine him taking a swing at anyone). Except maybe Sirius. But that's all in the past now… Must not think of Sirius, or I'll flood the house again. We share a grin, and the tightness in my stomach suddenly explodes into butterflies. They bump my heart and make it beat faster, erratic and out of control. I think I preferred the stomach cramp, in all honesty. At least it didn't make my face the same shade as my bubblegum hair.
Remus strolled over and sat next to me on an old, plushy couch. Picking up the Prophet which lay on the stand, he unfolded it and started moving his eyes over the place he left off earlier. I say, "moving his eyes", because that's what he's doing. I know the difference. It's not that I'm incredibly smart or anything, it's just that I'm the only one who has spent hours studying his face each evening we're together. Did I just admit that to myself? No, I don't watch him… Really…
All right, so maybe I do. But who wouldn't? Ok, everybody else. But that doesn't count. They've just all managed to miss his sensitive mouth, his light brown, green-flecked eyes, the way his scars shine under the light, the way the lines on his face smooth out when he's reading something involving, and the way his hair tumbles down into his eyes until he brushes it back with an impatient wave of the hand. And why hasn't anybody noticed? Because he was meant for me. Regrettably, he thinks differently. But I'll just have to change that.
I've longed to do that for him, you know. Dreamed of a day when I could sit in his lap and brush his hair back for him. But he would never let me. And I hate him for that. I hate him for denying my pleasure, our pleasure. So I pout, and he looks at me like I've just sprouted horns. He keeps staring at that place where the spikes of my hair have been replaced by… Oh, Merlin. I feel my head. I have sprouted little devil horns. He laughs, and I wonder if I've suddenly sprouted a dragon tail as well. Best not to check.
I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.
"Tonks? Come on." No way, Charlie. I shake my head groggily. I yawn. After 7 hours of work at the Ministry and a just finished night shift, there is no way I am playing Quidditch with Charlie. Besides, what's he doing up at… I check my watch. 6am? This is not the snoozing bear I remember. Maybe he hasn't adjusted for the time difference between England and Romania yet.
But there is somebody who's always up early. Somebody who can't sleep, and won't let me hel- Never mind. Anyway, that somebody pokes his head around the kitchen door as I trip over Charlie's makeshift Quaffle-ball-thing and bang into the wall and bounce off it gracelessly. Ow. There's now a new bruise on my thigh on top of the old one. Damn the stupid side table.
"All right, Dora?" Remus asks. I nod. Charlie laughs at me. I poke my tongue at him. My tongue's normal, except for the yellow and blue stripes running over it. He looks at it in amazement. Remus is now the one who's laughing. Though he stared too, the first time. Why is it that I can have multicolored hair, eyebrows and eyes without raising any eyebrows, but the moment I put color in my skin everyone looks at me like that?
It's not that bad, really. Staring, I mean. I get it a lot, but so does every other woman who has blue and green hair with red eyebrows and blue eyes, or even just pink hair with dark eyes and matching eyebrows. Except when he does it. His eyes are such a light brown they're almost like molten gold, and the moss green flecks in it which reflect the light. When I feel those eyes boring into me, it's like they're looking into my soul. I shudder to think what he might find in there. I'm impure, and I know that… It was always all right before, but somehow… I don't want to be anything less than perfect for him.
Now Charlie's appealing to him. I try to suppress laughter, but it comes out anyway as an unladylike, amused snort as I try to imagine Remus on a broom. Seems like he's imperfect somewhere, too, judging by the look of horror. But the little peek my imagination has tempted me with isn't enough. Surprising him, I join Charlie's arguments. He'll love the fresh air. It's great exercise. He'll have fun.
They don't seem to work, so it's up to me. Charlie owes me for this. I step forward, trying to drill a hole through his mind with my eyes, the way his do to mine. Catching hold of his waving hands, I squeeze them and look up at him with my best impression of puppy eyes. "For me? Pleeeease?" It's working. He looks down at me, his resolve fading after meeting my eyes. I change their color as fast as I can, again and again, just because I can. Well, ok. I'll be honest. Because he's looking at them. Into them. He sighs. I smile. He sighs again. I giggle. He glares. I pout. He gives in. On one condition…
"What? Oh… I suppose." I sigh as I agree. Seeing him fly had better be fun. Scrunching my nose, I imagine a pair of floppy puppy ears on top of my violet, spiked hair. And from the looks on their faces and the new warm weight on my head, I know they're there. Puppy ears to match my puppy eyes… I turn around to face Charlie again, and he works furiously to keep his face straight. It doesn't work. I swing my fist at him.
Suddenly, the smell of earth and chocolate and books and something so Remus-y invades my nose. It had been there before, in the background, but now it was magnified a hundred times as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me back from Charlie. Looking up into his almost-gold eyes was heaven. Until Charlie laughed. When my fist heads towards his jaw again, the arms around my waist tighten and I'm dragged backwards slightly.
I might be a bit below average in terms of weight, but even my bear of a father has trouble restraining me when I have a mind to be free. Remus is long and lanky, and though not quite scrawny, could definitely use a bit of weight. So how is it that he could pull me back? Maybe it's because when he does, I nestle closer to him. Maybe.
"Are we going to play or not?" Charlie's grown bored of the lengthening seconds as I try to give Remus subtle looks. Which he duly ignores, as I expected. Oh well. Nobody gets between me and what I want. In the end, I'll win. But now, it's time to see the wolf on a broomstick, so I follow them out into the garden.
We're standing on the grass before we realize the problem. Charlie is the one who vocalizes it, though. "You don't have a broom, Remus." You don't say. Trust him to state the obvious. Remus is looking shiftily towards the back door. No such luck, wolfie. I don't grow puppy ears for nothing. "It's all right," I say to the crestfallen Charlie and he brightens, "my broom should still be here. Though I used it last so long ago that it may just have fallen apart by now." I get the response I expected.
"No, no, that's fine. I can fix up a broom as easy as that." He snaps his oversized, blistered fingers. Remus looks a little deflated. I bet he had thought we didn't have another broom lying around. Sly wolfie. Grinning, I run back inside and up the stairs to my room. By some miracle, I don't trip, even though my elephantine footsteps have probably woken up everybody. After a short hunt, I find the dilapidated Comet Two-Sixty in the back of my wardrobe under a pair of patched jeans, a lilac and orange T-shirt and a cloak.
Can I be bothered going all the way down again? Nah… Besides, in return for the accident-free going up, I'll probably break my neck on the way down. After some wrangling, the window opens, creaking its protest loudly at me. The broom just fits in the small gap I've managed, and sails down gracefully to the grass. Or that was the plan, anyway. Instead, as I wave my wand to send it down, my arm catches on the floor lamp beside my bed and knocks it over. Jerking my hand back reflexively, it tangles in the lacy curtain. The broom mimics my wand's movements faithfully.
Remus and Charlie stare openmouthed at the wildly spinning broom and my flailing arms. It ends when I fall over onto the bed and the wand flies out of my grasp. The broom abandons its gravity defying acrobatic feats, and lands with a dull thud on the grass. I stand again. Let the fun begin.
