Not a Stupid Girl

I think this is effectively my 'fuck you' to those people who argued that Tonks could turn into Sirius. JKR owns the rights.

She's not a stupid girl. She might be a clumsy girl, and a gauche girl, and an awkward girl and a slightly slutty girl. But stupid she is not. She's been made to feel all of those things in her life by her family and by her peers, but nobody's ever made her feel stupid.

The second she makes the transformation, she feels at once fatigued and out of place in her body. She feels that he thinks of her as worthless in her old skin, and if she thought any less of herself she would remain as him forever, just to keep him. So she lies back on the bed, angry and uncomfortable with the stubble on her chin and the added bulk of muscle on her frame.

She misses the feel of lace and silk against her skin, or even just cotton bedclothes. But she's naked there now on top of the mattress, with him standing over her and inspecting every inch of her, critically appraising.

Maybe he never made an effort to look nice for him: maybe he didn't care like she did, with her perfume and lipstick and underwear. Maybe he never had to make an effort to look nice: maybe he was liked on the basis of his personality alone.

He seemed embarrassed to ask for it, one night as they lay in bed together not saying much of anything. She agreed, because he must want it so badly if he even vocalises the need: he wasn't someone who brought up whimsical fancies, and he rarely complained about his lot.

Now she wishes she didn't, because she's afraid it will hurt for more reasons than one. She doesn't care if the touch excites her or arouses her, she just wants it to be over so she can be herself again, and if push comes to shove she may never want to see him again because of it. She hates him more with every second he stares at her from above the bed, and wants to never set eyes on him again when his face expresses things she's never seen when he touches the male body she's trapped in.

"Do I look all right?" she says, trying to sound eager to hide the challenging tone and the desire to flee. Maybe she can apparate away from him and hide god knows where forever: maybe she can take to the window and plummet to the ground like Icarus.

"It's fine, I guess. He was a little bit taller, though."

And it's those words that draw her ire most, and she turns back into herself and leaps off the bed, pummelling his chest with her fists, her dark eyes welling with tears. "Fuck you!" she shouts, poking him in the chest hard enough to leave an imprint of her fingernail in his skin. "Fuck you for asking me to do this and then having the fucking guts to complain about it! How dare you! How fucking dare you."

He doesn't even move away from her assault, but his face pales and he loses whatever lust was in his eyes. "Oh God..."

She loses steam on her assault and pulls away from him, sinking into the bed with her face in her hands. "How could you ask me to do that? How could you care about me and think I wouldn't be hurt by it?"

He's on his knees in front of her, clinging to her tightly with his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I never should have asked, it's not fair, I shouldn't have done it--"

She's not a silly, stupid girl, or an overly emotional one, but every time she gets angry she cries: not out of offense or tiredness, but out of frustration. And she's crying now. "You know why I loved you before? Because you were better than those other men who asked me to change to suit their fancies, because you knew that would hurt me if you weren't happy with what I chose for myself. What makes you any different from them now? You might as well have asked me to turn into a different woman for you. Do you think I'm stupid?"

He kneels quietly between her knees, shaking and apologetic. '"I care about you, I should never have done it, I'm so sorry."

She pulls away from him and shifts back on the bed, curling into a little ball and lying her head on the pillow. She thinks about leaving again, but realises it's her room and her apartment, and if anyone should leave it's him. She shouldn't have to change for him, and she shouldn't have to leave her home.

She hopes he'll go away, hopes he'll never hurt her again, but he lies up on the bed beside her and pulls her into his chest, though she resists. "You're so pretty."

She ignores it. Pretty never brought that same look into his eyes. She ignores it, as he tells her she's not stupid, never stupid, that if anyone in the room was stupid it would be him for thinking it wouldn't hurt her.

They lie there together, his chin resting on the top of her head and her body turned to his, though she leaves as much distance as she can between the two of them as possible. She thinks she's won something, but she doesn't know what, and that she had to lose so much to win it says to her that another slight victory might not be so forthcoming in the future for her.

Maybe, she thinks, there is always too high a price to pay to get one's kicks. Maybe you should be ashamed for some things, even if only because shame would stop you hurting someone else.

She worries that shame is the only thing preventing him from hurting her.