A/N: 'Pickled Toad' was originally a one-shot, until I had so much fun writing it that I had to continue. Doing a poem from Harry's POV seemed like a clear next step, but didn't strike me as right. Most of the problem is that we do know his opinions from canon and it'd be difficult to reinterpret them. So I thought, hang on a sec, why not do a number of 'anti-love' poems? A series of unromantic romances?
For while I think love is absolutely amazing, I've always hated the idea of instantly falling heels over head. You can have 'lust at first sight', but love? Love is meaningful in a slow fall from 'best mates' to 'rest of my life', or after a couple overcomes obstacles (and lions and tigers and dragons, oh my!) to get to a happily ever.
Thus, this. Featuring the lovely Nymphadora Tonks.
An enormous "THANK YOU!" to my amazing beta, spellmugwump97!
General Disclaimer: The amazing J.K. Rowling would not have forgotten to make jokes about Tonks' name until the very end. So, nope, I'm unfortunately not her. Shame, that.
She met he by knocking him to the ground.
Though, it wasn't just a stumble:
never let it be said she did anything by half.
If she was going to trip on a troll-leg umbrella stand
she would do it properly and give a man a concussion.
This also wasn't where she 'met' him at all, just the first she could remember.
She could vaguely recall turning Remus' hair blue, and old photos had long assured her
that she'd been a bubblegum pink demon for her cousin and friends to babysit.
From his expression when catching sight of her
(Merlin did he look cute bewildered,
sprawled on 12 Grimmauld Place's floor while she cursed up a storm),
he remembered this as well.
Or maybe that was the bang to the head speaking.
Either one, she supposed.
Or the awkwardness of her Great Aunt shrieking insults from the portrait.
Good ole Mad-Eye plumped in,
"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"d in the poor man's ear,
gave her an exasperated glance,
and plopped on away to the meeting.
Her cousin couldn't stop barking with laughter for hours,
and she was certain the dratted twins had photographic evidence.
He, recovering, had enough tack not to mention
that she was glowing like a ripe tomato
(stupid rainbow colours which had a life of their own),
and asked if she was okay. He actually sounded concerned.
She felt a prickle of relief
that both head wound and blue hair had been forgiven.
It was cute. It was nice.
Then reality set in as they were swept to the meeting
(with half-hidden clues, prophecies, a hidden 'not-really-cold' war,
and Dumbledore's twinkling smile making her instincts stand on high alert).
She stayed late for a cuppa with her cousin
(the relative her mum had bemoaned, cursed at, cried while disowning him;
who had spent twelve years in nightmares for no reason).
'Catching up', he said.
She smiled, didn't disagree, and didn't comment on how
his roguish grin never met his eyes.
She swallowed, for once in her life hating the taste of chai.
Most of her relatives despised her on sight,
so for him to idly ask about 'Andy' gave her a start.
It was a moment before she connected the name with mum.
Words flowed from her about her parents: Yes, they'd love to have you over.
No, mum never believed a thing against you, course not,
don't be daft you silly git. But you? Are you getting treatment?
He waved away her questions.
This should have concerned her, but it reminded her of old Siri too much
(who'd give her piggy back 'flying' lessons,
taught her that gaining an elephant's trunk was great fun,
and would yell at Cousin Cissy for scowling at her 'improper breeding and appearance').
She instead smiled in rememberance.
Her hair turned black.
He swallowed the rest of his drink in a gulp
before surfacing with a grin
(She spotted his flash of pain. Black changed to turquoise).
"You know Harry's coming soon? My godson?"
He asked, pride in place;
she didn't mention it'd been noted half a dozen times
throughout the evening. She nodded.
He loved the boy, that was obvious,
yet he couldn't stop going on about his Quidditch skills and bravery.
Which was all well and good,
but the fact that he didn't seem concerned
for knowing nothing else about him was a bit–startling.
Horrible, actually.
Hell, she likely knew more about the boy-who-lived.
Charlie had been amazed that Harry Potter was so down to earth,
and had told her why on enough of their pub nights
before he escaped back to Romania or who knows where.
Or who, but she didn't dwell on that.
She didn't think about what the nights drinking with her friend often led to,
and exactly why he always rushed off afterwards.
She turned back to the conversation.
He was still regaling her with a blow-by-blow account
of one of his godson's matches,
('Get help. For you or Harry. For me,
for mum so she'll finally forgive you. Please.'
Was at the edge of her lips, words she would never speak).
It was a relief when he changed the topic to tease her.
Normally comments about her clumsiness were taboo
(Whispers swept by her ears, 'How is she an auror?'
Scowls followed her down corridors,
'Slept her way up the ladder. What else?'
She most definitely hexed them and most definitely didn't cry),
but here? Now?
She couldn't bring herself to care.
Just smile, nod, give out the token protest that,
"He's as old as you! Old enough to be my dad."
So that he'd become indignant and even more shadows would fade.
"Oi! We're young." He whined, sounding dog-like,
and she wished he had trusted her enough to show her his form.
"The transformations just takes a lot out of Remus.
You try going through that every month!"
The statement caught up to her thoughts,
her detective-trained mind quickly connected the dots.
She schooled her expression into a neutral one.
If the 'catch-up cuppa'
(drat Siri and his names)
was over soon after that, what be it.
So what if she later collapsed on her bed
(blocked out the dull ache in her thigh from their collision),
closed her eyes tightly as drifts of muggle London's night
cascaded about her, lurching her form in its crackling mist.
A werewolf.
Damnit.
She let reality come back,
banished away the first bits of thoughts and longing
which had appeared when she first (not really) met him.
His cool chocolate eyes, tranquil smile, slight twitch of a smirk
when she'd exchanged sarcastic remarks with Snape–
not even a crush.
Nope, not at all. Barely a twinge of an idea
that she'd never dated significantly older than her before,
and she was due another rebound from the
on-and-off (off off off)
relationship with the commitment-bewildered Weasley.
A werewolf.
Never mind then.
Too old for her anyway.
Her hair turned to a short, stormy brown.
She sighed, curled into a ball,
told herself she didn't care or give a damn,
and reasoned that she should get to sleep.
She was exhausted the next day.
Mad-Eye was oddly understanding of her fudging an interview,
but Robards was in a right foul mood.
That this had to do with her spilling coffee on him
(blasted Ministry memos getting in her line of sight)
was quite likely, but maybe he was just a git.
She still couldn't believe he'd been in Hufflepuff,
and was positive he managed to slither his way in.
Kingsley slipped her a note at lunch.
She took far too many precautions before reading it,
but was happy to note that, yes, she was correct
that the many James Bond marathons with her dad would eventually
come back to haunt her.
She tucked it within her case file before gaily
streaming towards a free cubicle with security charms pre-attached.
Only then did she take it out,
(glancing over her shoulder,
and why did she feel like a double agent?)
and was severely disappointed at the short message.
"Meet on Tuesday, normal place." Great.
Was it too much to ask to be Agent 007 just once?
Or perhaps the femme fatale. Yes, much more her style.
An exotic, fleeting little whiff of a woman,
with dusty bronze hair, dancer's body, and a seductive smile.
Maybe the classic blonde bombshell;
cleavage bursting from the dress robe, ruby red smile on her lips,
and with a risqué secret just waiting to be discovered.
Not the girl-next-door, the rowdy tomboy who made everyone laugh.
She knew all too well that that never worked.
Shame.
There weren't even any ravenous missions for the Order.
She wasn't sure what she'd expected;
joining a quasi-legal association with a heart of gold
had been too much to resist.
It wasn't that she was bored sick of paperwork. Not at all.
On the second meeting she tripped again.
Only after did Sirius apologetically (while still laughing, that git)
admit that his mum had cursed the thing for every disowned Black.
She wasn't pleased and turned the daft man into a poodle for the rest of the day.
Lupin couldn't stop giggling.
She tried to smile, but couldn't get the idea of a monster
out of her head.
The third time, she side-stepped the cursed leg
and didn't talk to the Marauders the whole night.
Lupin caught her staring and frowned.
She forgot the fourth time
(overtime shifts, unanswered messages to Charlie, and working two jobs was taking its toll)
and trampled on top of little Ginny Weasley, pulling Hermione Granger down with her.
Amidst the apologising on all sides, a quick hexing of laughing stupid boys,
and a celebratory nip of chocolate cake and turning noses into dog snouts,
the three became friends.
Not immediate friends, but the meetings occurred often enough
that by the time June rolled into July,
she was actively matchmaking Ron and Hermione,
hugged Molly like her own mum (who she should really call,
she would, soon, in time),
and trading prank secrets with Ginny to get back at her brothers
(if she threw in something special for Charlie, who was to know).
She'd always wanted sisters,
and between Order missions and new acquaintances
she never had to face the elephant in the room.
For she was many things, but blind was not one of them.
She knew Lupin was as observant as they came
and the thought that he too avoided her with grim resignation crawled at her insides with guilt.
She was, on the other hand, brave and –unlike Gryffindors–
wasn't proud enough not to apologise while facing a problem head-on.
Not when Siri kept sending her looks of anger only seen
when he was kicking Kreacher out of yet another meeting.
For a conversation she'd been dreading, it was rather short.
Lightly tugging Lupin away into the kitchen
(kept her hand on his ragged jacket).
She could hardly meet his eyes.
"I'm sorry." She mumbled out, blinking away her shame.
She didn't know what had come over her,
the girl who'd always been for equal rights,
insisting that society's treatment of so many people and beings was cruel and unusual.
But she'd never met a werewolf before.
It had always been a word, a picture on a page,
a being who–in the abstract–you could pity,
while in reality you should scream and run and fly for the hills.
"It's all right."
His sigh and acceptance
(no moral condemnation, no argument, no anger)
was what made her finally meet his eyes.
"What?" The syllable burst from her before she could think it,
knocking Lupin back in surprise at her fiery demeanour.
"No, it's not 'all right'! You should be furious at me!"
"But I–" His expression crinkled with confusion.
She swallowed her guilt and resurfaced with anger.
"But nothing!" She wasn't sure why she was upset,
just knew that his acceptance of her apology was horrible, terrifying,
and so utterly screwed up.
"Why don't you hate me!"
He glanced around the cluttered kitchen,
panic finally etched in his face.
"It's not that big a de–"
"Yes it IS!" She cried, not giving a damn who heard.
"Don't you understand? I thought, I viewed you as a,
a monster! And you just stood there,
accepting every, every..." she dwindled off,
breathing heavily and urging herself not to cry.
He eyed her cautiously,
her words rolling off him from long practice.
"Are you okay?"
She let out a groan. "You daft git.
Don't accept my apology, all right? Just,
just don't. Don't you dare."
"What?"
But she was already nodding, agreeing with her laid out plan.
"Yes, right, from now on you hate me until I properly
make up for ignoring you."
"What?" His question ringing with blatant confusion made her pause.
She properly looked at him for the first time (truly, the first:
every crease, every laugh line, every brown hair sprinkled with grey,
every oddly desirable spot on his worn lips).
It'd been realisation of her horribleness which had fuelled this indignation,
pity rather than friendship, but now?
Drat it, his bewilderment made him look so much like a boy.
And when she properly looked, examined him while the pause grew,
she was disgusted with herself for having ever
(evereverever) seen a monster.
"Tonks?"
She continued to stare in shock.
Not at him, not really, just at her delusions being broken.
For she'd always been proud of her observation,
proud she understood her feelings so well
as compared to the emotion-repressive aurors,
proud to know exactly where she stood.
Then, after all that
–the hexing, arguing she deserved everything she had,
that she was a Black and a Tonks and a good woman–
to find out she was blind?
She shook her head,
her hair cascading into light brown in her denial.
"Never mind. Look, you hate me. Are we clear?"
"No." He frowned. "I don't hate you."
"You're going to." Her frown would send criminals running.
"Not forever, mind you. Just 'til I make it up."
Her expression lightened. "I'm sorry. So so sorry.
I don't, I don't think of you that way Remus.
I was stupid, but I do like you. I'll just prove it,
then you can like me too. Right, perfect.
Glad we agree."
He continued staring, bewildered.
Poor bloke.
She rolled her eyes,
snorted about oblivious Gryffindors,
and went on her way with a new spring in her step.
She didn't trip this time.
The meetings changed.
For the first few she went out of her way
to chat to Remus, sit by him every moment she could,
and become determined to see him laugh.
Siri's scowl lifted, and the indignation from the kids
(that she hadn't even noticed, Merlin)
all but disappeared.
The next batch of meetings was even nicer
for she was no longer trying so hard and all the smiles were genuine.
So nice were they that, at times, she could forget about Charlie,
she actually visited mum, caught up with dad,
and spent some of her boring auror guard work practicing
changing her nose. Robards scowled,
but her friends' laughs were worth it.
They were friends.
All of them, and it was amazing.
She knew that Remus was still guarded around her,
but his defence was even harder around most of the Order
so she took it as a positive.
Her cousin had lost his scowl,
brightening whenever they were over, lifting the cheer from the haunted house.
"Wotcher!"
She finally met Harry Potter.
It was easy to tease the kid, simple to wind him up,
and she was awarded with a nice bright flush for her efforts.
Her amusement was almost enough to banish her unease
from the too-clean Surrey home and his ragged appearance.
Almost.
Back at Headquarters–after the meeting, after the screaming debacles–
Remus, with a tired glint, insisted on calling her 'Nymphadora'.
She was torn between hitting and hugging him.
Sirius, that berk, laughed in the corner
while Mrs. Weasley had a lecture for childish behaviour
at the tips of her lips.
She settled for punching the git for teasing her,
then leaning into his touch for the same.
He was surprised to find a metamorphmagus in his lap
but at least didn't push her off.
Sirius' snorts were cut short; he and the rest made a quick exit.
Remus shifted underneath her. She didn't particularly care
and considered mentioning that he'd make a rather good pillow.
So she did.
Apparently, this was a good way to make a Marauder speechless.
Her hair turned pink.
For maybe all those falls had done something to her head:
she loved the noble, oblivious git.
Blast her luck, forget the danger,
and screw his furry little problem.
A/N: I have a few more ideas of which 'anti-love' poems I'd like to write, but any suggestions would be incredible!
Reviewers are so totally awesome that they don't even need red vines :D