December 20th, 1890 - Irvingly Arms

Arthur was drunk in an ugly way, a wait-til-3-A.M. to catch the floo sort of way, where his head spun when he moved it too fast and his face was red. It wasn't as if Dezzie would care if he showed up so late; she hardly cared about anything lately, and when Art wasn't spinning out he was concerned, but he was spinning out more and more frequently. This wasn't an uncommon sight, anymore - he kept turning up in different bars and getting too drunk, had been trying some substances he hadn't used in years, had steered clear of gambling so far but really, honestly, how long could that hold?

He missed his wife. He missed when Quidditch didn't suck. He missed the sunshine they had all summer; now it was dark all the time and what was there to do but down more ales than he should at the Irvingly Arms? He couldn't think of anything else to do, and at least this way he wasn't in the house with Desdemona.

Of course, he wasn't really thinking at all anymore. Art's eyes were sliding out of focus as he decided what drink to get next - and then he heard his own name. "What?" he said, without looking, not friendly.

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Melody didn't often dine out of the relative safety of her and Ben's home. (Relative only because of the hinkypunk incident back in October, from which Melody wasn't yet truly recovered.) For one, they couldn't often afford the expense, but mainly she didn't enjoy being in the public eye with the way their scandal played out. Witch Weekly had only just recently stopped publicizing rumors of her being pregnant (which, if she hadn't taken that potion back in February would have proved true). Any fresh ammunition would only reinspire those rumors.

However, she was desperate to make friends with her neighbors. Irvingly, while pleasant and quiet, was lonely, and Ben had to work most evenings. So when Mrs. Freeman invited her out to the Irvingly Arms, Melody knew she had to take her up on the offer.

The meal went well, two other women had accompanied Mrs. Freeman and Melody hoped to be invited again. But, on her way out she spotted none other than Arthur Pettigrew drunk in the pub. The unexpected loss of their baby was difficult to deal with, she knew, but Desdemona deserved better than a drunk of a husband. "Mr. Pettigrew," she greeted cautiously, only flinching lightly when he spat his greeting in return. "I think Mr. Crouch is in tonight. Why don't you escort me home?"

  

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She kept speaking, and Arthur actually looked at her - Mrs. Pettigrew, formerly known as the princess. He didn't move from his seat. "You don't even like me," he said - not in a mean tone or even the same harsh one. His voice was extremely neutral (if a little slurred) - he was drunk enough that he didn't have a filter, and Mrs. Pettigrew didn't like him. He didn't much like her either, but that wasn't the point re: escorting.

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"No, I don't," she agreed with a noncommittal shrug. That Arthur was Ben's best friend was a non-negotiable fact of life, one she had long since resigned herself to. Ben had made sevwral changes over the past year to accommodate her rash decision, the least she could do is try to shift her opinion somewhat on the man. "But, for some reason that I've yet to understand, Mr. Crouch and Mrs. Pettigrew care for you a great deal. So, please, walk with me?"

  

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His drink was gone. Mrs. Crouch seemed unlikely to leave him alone. The decision was ultimately made for him.

Arthur stood up. "Fine," he said, and pulled his coat on in several clumsy motions.

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Merlin, she hoped Ben was home. She had had her fair share of drunken nights (although hers happened entirely within the confines of her bedroom) but she had never been forced to deal with someone else's. Nevermind that someone being someone she detested.

They began the walk back to the Crouch home, a polite distance between them. She could hardly reprimand him for his actions, much as she'd like to. "You can sleep it off on the sofa if Ben isn't home," she instructed softly instead. "Please try not to vomit on my carpet."

  

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"Not the first time I've slept on Ben's sofa," Arthur admitted, although it had been years. He was an adult, he had been like an adult - grown up and renting a home and mostly responsible. And now -

"Sometimes she can't even look at me."

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The friendship Melody and Desdemona began to form over the summer came to an abrupt halt after the World Cup. Melody brought meals over at times, but she rarely ever stayed for longer than a few minutes. Mourning was complicated, she knew, and forcing her presence on someone was perhaps the worst thing someone could do when mourning.

"Drinking yourself into a stupor isn't going to help her be able to look at you," Melody replied a tad unkindly.

  

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Although it required a level of concentration that was almost beyond him at present, Arthur rolled his eyes at her. "I didn't ask you to get it," he said, "Or for your help."

He wanted Ben, obviously, although really he wanted to be alone to spin out.

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"Shall I leave you to the gutters, then?" Melody retorted. Her pace was obviously slowed to match his, but that could easily be remedied. Arthur was likely too drunk to know the twists and turns required to get to the Crouch home from here. Not that she would seriously abandon him. No, Ben would never forgive her should something happen to Arthur because of her. And, when it came to Ben Crouch, Melody had already fulfilled her quota of unforgivable actions.

  

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"We all end up in the gutters eventually, Princess," Arthur quipped, a drunken prophet.

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   Reuben Crouch

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"Spare me your dramatics, Pettigrew," Melody snarked. The use of her nickname by him left a sour taste in her mouth, a gross reminder of the turbulent history between Ben and she. "Act the part of a husband and she'll be able to look at you. It's simple logic, surely even you're capable of that."

  

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Arthur wanted to say something mean; the bitter taste of it rose in his mouth like bile. It spilled out even as he knew it was a bad idea, too much perhaps: "And has acting like a wife worked out for you so far?"

The pair had married impulsively, apparently in love, and now it was later and Melody Finch did not like Ben's friends and Ben sent Art weird letters. And Arthur was sick of being judged by a girl who had by all accounts thrown away her whole life and was now persistently remaining in Arthur's.

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   Reuben Crouch

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Acting like a wife.

The bitter statement struck Melody like a bag of bricks, so much so that she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at him in shock. Arthur knew?! Ben had given her grief over her telling her dearly departed cousin, meanwhile his friend — the same friend who had always disregarded her — knew of her worst mistakes.

Fuck Arthur bloody fucking Pettigrew.

"Desdemona deserves better than you," she spat. "Stay in the gutters, Pettigrew, and she'll be able to find it."

  

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Arthur didn't get it; of all the things he had said to her tonight, 'acting like a wife' had been mean, but not notably meaner than saying he didn't want her help. Maybe Melody felt more inadequate than he'd expected. She certainly ought to; maybe Ben loved her, but he deserved better.

And, he realized: he did not have to put up with this. There was no reason that he should be here, talking to Mrs. Crouch - he did not like her, did not have an interest in her, did not have to listen to her.

Arthur turned around and began to walk away.

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Too frustrated and reeling from Ben's betrayal, Melody glared as Arthur turned down a different path. Good riddance, then. Desdemona would be better off if Arthur fell into the gutters and rotted in them eternally.

With a huff, she continued on home.

  

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