The Anti-Heroine || A Harry Potter Fanfiction

Chapter LI

CHAPTER LI:

Charlie's POV:

People saw Tonks and they thought "funny, goofy and not too smart". They thought that the only thing that really stood out about her was her hair.

They were wrong.

Charlie had always known there was something different about "Don't Call Me Nymphadora" Tonks. It might be because he'd known her for so long, before she'd mastered that sweet, clumsy, eager young Auror trainee act that she fooled everyone else with; back when she hadn't quite mastered the words and actions she'd needed to fit in with the rest of the Hogwarts student body. Or it could be because he was the only one she felt comfortable enough with to show her true self.

People at Hogwarts had usually overlooked Tonks's oddities– why would they concentrate on her cold eyes or emotionless face, when her hair had just turned into a neon blue Mohawk or a bright orange afro with stripes? It took Charlie some time to figure out she did it on purpose, distracted people with her constantly shifting features when she couldn't quite figure out how she was supposed to react to something. By that point he didn't care– at fourteen years old, Tonks was the best friend he could ever ask for.

And all these years later she still was. By now she'd perfected what she called her "people-skin" in a way that made him pretty sure she wasn't actually joking about it, and nobody seemed to remember the odd Hufflepuff who'd stared just a little bit too long when someone was injured, except to recall her flashy hair-styles and funny noses– an owl's, a cat's, a duck's; even an elephant's trunk once.

Charlie remembered, of course, but he didn't care. Tonks had been such an essential part of his life for so long she was like another limb. She had her issues, sure, but it wasn't like he wasn't messed up in the head too. So what if sometimes she seemed so empty it was like there was no one there; so what if sometimes she'd fly so high it was like she'd never come down again? So what if she stared ravenously at the sharp edges of blades; so what if the sight of blood made her wet? She was Tonks and she was perfect the way she was.

"You're interesting" She would tell him, during the times when fondness softened her jagged edges. Charlie was never quite sure exactly what she meant by that, but he'd always accepted it as the compliment she intended it as; her explanation for why she'd never let go of the bond they'd formed.

Tonks had been the one to give him the courage to admit his biggest secret, the one he could barely admit to even in his own head. Not that he was gay; she'd figured that one out herself. Later, years after she'd terrified him by asking why he pretended to like girls, Tonks had admitted she hadn't realised at the time why she shouldn't confront someone like that, with something they were trying to hide, but she didn't regret doing it to him. Charlie didn't regret her confronting him either. Being gay was a secret he'd probably die before ever telling his family, but it wasn't his biggest secret. No, Charlie's biggest secret was the fact that fire turned him on.

Actually, it did more then that. It completely dominated his sex life; he couldn't even get hard without imagining the flickering flames licking his skin, the glorious, sweltering heat of them. The spell for bluebell flames Tonks had found, portable fire that was cool to touch, and his imagination was usually enough to get him by– though convincing his partners to let him cover whatever surface they were about to fuck on with the bluebell flames tended to be a bit awkward– but sometimes he craved the real thing. Sometimes he'd dress in layers, pour alcohol on the topmost sleeve of the six or seven jumpers he was wearing, and just cast an incendio. Usually he'd put the fire out before it reached the last layer– he might love fire, might love the heat of it, but pain had never been his particular poison of choice. Sometimes, though, he'd be too slow or too lost in the moment and he'd add a new burn to his collection.