Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, or anything else concerning Harry Potter. Nor do I own the song "I Heard Love is Blind", as that is the property of Amy Winehouse. Fair enough?

Ok, so this fic is a first in many ways; my first "song-fic", although I tried really hard to make sure there was enough substance without the lyrics, so they're more a guideline anchoring the story than the actual bulk of the story. Granted, the fic is still on the smaller side, even for me, but I feel like it could stand without the lyrics if it had to. It's also my first fic for this particular fandom, though I've read a few. Actually, while I'm on this subject, I'm still not sure whether or not to post this as a Charlie/Tonks or Remus/Tonks fic (my subtle attempt at asking for suggestions). And finally, it's the first that I've posted under an M rating, so that's something new for me. Basically what I'm trying to say is that any feedback would be greatly appreciated, and having said that, I hope you enjoy.

You go out now because you can't stay in and so it's only natural that you've found a pub all your own where you can go and get sloshed. Truly sloshed. Enough to make you laugh again, and even though it's harsh and raucous sounding it's something you thought you'd forgotten how to do. Because he is quiet and calm, and his long fingers against your skin made you the same. Now you have no one to subdue you (because he's too goddamn noble and not good enough, young enough, strong enough for you and whatever other rubbish he's been spouting the past few days while he tries to break things off) and the only thing you can feel, twisting and turning around your body, are the loud strands of music pumping through too cheap speakers. It drowns you; the whole place is obscene and noise and just what you need to get away from… everything. Until everything comes and finds you; stocky and well built and the best snog you've had in a good long while, alcohol induced or not. When you both apparate back to his flat –and let's face it, it's a bloody miracle you both made it with all the desired body parts still attached as you can barely stand up and he isn't too far behind- some damned song is floating up from his downstairs neighbor's blaring radio set and you just can't stop humming it. Even as his fingers grip your hips, the pads pressing into your flesh, you can't help but hear it play in your head.

I couldn't resist him. His eyes were like yours, his hair was exactly the shade of brown.

Well, it wasn't, was it, and that was exactly the point. His skin was young and smooth and salty, not stretched and soft and velvet like you're used to, and his touches made you warmer than you can ever remember feeling, but you still can't stop yourself from shivering, and you know he won't hold this against you. He is young and strong and firm, and you can't help but think that for his couple of years and emerging laugh lines, Remus isn't much different, although he tries his damndest to convince you otherwise. But just as you've managed to convince yourself that the hot breaths all but scalding your neck are Remus', you look through heavily lidded eyes –already you want this- to see ginger hair and a scar he told you once in passing was from some rogue Hungarian Horntail. Your breath hitches and you swear ("Fuck!") because you were so sure, so close to believing he was someone else, but he seems to take your outburst as encouragement, and you don't really have the heart nor the time to tell him otherwise because suddenly he is everywhere all at once, body moving against your own.

He's just not as tall, but I couldn't tell. It was dark and I was lying down.

You are pressed now, comfortably, between the old groaning springs of the mattress and the flat, hot skin of his chest against yours, and you close your eyes so tight it almost hurts. But when he dips his head to your chest and his tongue swirls around one nipple, the hurt starts to go away. Almost. Then he pulls back, blowing on your wet skin, and it all comes back; a hurt just bordering on painful but you pay it not mind. You wanted this (you want this) and what's more it's just so deliciously teasing that you-who-never-squirm are squirming beneath him, begging silently -not so silently as you let out a purr- for more. Charlie is only happy, it seems, to oblige.

You are everything – he means nothing to me, I can't even remember his name. Why're you so upset? Baby, you weren't there and I was thinking of you when I came.

You bite down on your lip as his movements become more frantic, and Circe help you but you're moving with him; your back is arched and your hips are bucking, but your teeth are biting so hard into your bottom lip that it breaks the skin because you are close, you're so fucking close, to screaming out the wrong name. Which is -ohwhere did he learn to do that with his tongue, anyways, because now you can barely breathe, let alone...oh, and that's nice, right there- bad. Even though you're both thoroughly pissed and there's a good chance neither of you will remember this night in the startling reality of tomorrow morning, you are able to come to two conclusions. The first is that you need this; your legs wrapped around his waist, ankles pressing into his back, his fingers touching and stroking up and down your sides before slipping somewhere decidedly more personal. The second is that calling out another man's name would probably get in the way of that. You don't really have time to devote to anything besides the way he's making you feel right now, but you at least can draw that conclusion.

What do you expect? You left me here alone; I drank so much and needed to touch. Don't overreact – I pretended he was you. You wouldn't want me to be lonely.

You are drunk enough to pretend he is someone else the entire time; you want someone else, but he as least is here. You only feel him because he won't stop touching your skin.

How can I put it so you understand? I didn't let him hold my hand.

He's still snoring when you wake up, freckles standing out against too-pale skin, and you worry that maybe he had too much to drink last night. But then you realize you have more important things to worry about, like his arm slung securely over you, or his leg nestled comfortably (uncomfortably, you tell yourself) between yours. You are out of his apartment, and more importantly his embrace, in three minutes flat, because just because you wanted the sex didn't mean you wanted the morning after. And if you don't already feel like enough of a slag, you realize later that day that you left your knickers lying somewhere in Charlie's flat. You explain to Remus later, or try to anyways as he's storming about the kitchen after the Order meeting, and after a bitter Charlie hands you back your underwear with a scowl, that you weren't even intending to go back and get them. You wish you could blame him for not listening.

But he looked like you; I guess he looked like you. No he wasn't you. But you can still trust me, this ain't infidelity. It's not cheating; you were on my mind.

Yes he looked like you, but I heard love is blind…