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fandom-puff · 3 years

Text

Worry

Pairing: Arthur Shelby x reader Requested by: anon Prompts: ‘I can’t breathe’ and ‘please don’t cry, I can’t stand to see you cry’ Summary: Arthur learns the hard way that it’s all getting a bit too much for you AN: Okay, you know how i said I couldn’t bring myself to write an angsty Arthur fic… yeahhh, that’s gone straight out of the window with this one...

Warnings: swearing, description of physical symptoms of anxiety, mentions of typical peaky injury

It was all getting too much.

For the fifth night that week, you were pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, jumping at every slight noise; the window panes rattled an hour previously and you had almost put a bullet through them thinking it was an intruder.

You just didn’t feel safe in your house anymore.

When you had first moved into the small cottage after your marriage to Arthur, it had brimmed with warmth and light. There was always something sweet in the oven or something hearty on the stove. But now the pans were dusty, the fireplace crackled with almost burnt-out logs- there was no point in wasting wood on one person.

Sitting down on the couch, you tried to pick up your knitting, but your hands were shaking badly and the stitches ended up wonky. You glared at the clock, whose ticking seemed to get louder and louder by the minute, taunting you.

Casting your knitting aside, you plucked Arthur’s coat from the hook, wrapping it around yourself, giving into your anxiety as you curled up on the couch, trying to calm yourself with the scent of cigarette smoke and his aftershave, tears falling from your eyes as tears soaked your cheeks.

The door banged open and you let out a sob, drawing the coat closer to you.

“YN?” Arthur’s voice reached the sitting room. He stumbled through the door, grinning like a madman, hair dishevelled. His smile quickly fell when he saw you on the couch. “YN, Girl, what’s up? Why’re you crying? Please don’t cry, love, I can’t stand to see you cry,”

You looked up, breathing unevenly, your hands shaking. “Where the fuck have you been?” You managed to hiss, brows drawing into a deep frown. “If you say the pub, Arthur Shelby, so help me god,”

Arthur stared at the floor, wringing his hands. “It was only for a few drinks, Darling,”

“Don’t you ‘darling’ me!” You said, rising to your feet. “It’s gone two in the morning and I’ve been sat here since eleven scared shitless! You said you’d be back at ten tonight, after all this business you and Tommy have been on, fixing races and having tea with Russians! Or did you forget stumbling into bed and soaking the pillows with blood? It’s a bloody good job you didn’t break your nose, because Polly’s busy and I haven’t a clue how to set broken bones!” Arthur opened his mouth to protest but you were in full swing. “I’m your wife, Arthur. I love you with all my heart, but I’m getting fed up of panicking every night, wondering if you’ll make it back safe, or if you’ll be bleeding out in a gutter,”

You crumbled, fresh waves of tears spilling over as you ended your rant, sobbing as you spoke about what had been on your mind for weeks.

Arthur gathered you in his arms, and although you struggled at first, you collapsed into his wiry chest, letting him rub and pat your back, allowing yourself to be walked to the couch to sit on his lap as he murmured comfort in your ear, his moustache tickling ever so slightly.

“You’re too good to me, YN,” he mumbled after a while, pressing you to his chest. “And you’re right, love. I need to be showing you as much care as you show me, because you’re the best bloody thing in my life,”

You smiled up at him, still teary, and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips before he wrapped his arms around you tightly. “Jesus, Arthur, can’t breathe,” you gasped as he squeezed you to him.

“Sorry, Yn,” he mumbled bashfully, and you settled into one another (without suffocating) rubbing each other’s back until you dozed off, right there on the couch.

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narcissusneverknewme · 7 years

Text

Protection Detail Part One: The Emergence of an Alliance

Chapter One: Late Arrivals and Settled Scores

As he approached platform 9 ¾ Harry was nervous. It was like being 11 years old again. This trip had already included so many new and familiar experiences that Harry was sure this next year would prove to be interesting, in the very least.

Harry had spent the last week at the Burrow, playing quidditch with the Weasleys, ignoring Ron and Hermione’s occasional lapses into gooey-eyed staring contests. Harry knew they weren’t edging him out and he took it with good humor but it did sometimes remind him of his own loneliness. With the war over and the constant threat of death gone, Harry had expected the crushing isolation he had sometimes felt at being “the Chosen One” to disappear entirely. What he had not expected, surrounded as he was with the people he loved most in the world, safe for the first time in his life, was for it to be replaced with a painfully mundane and unexceptional kind of loneliness. Sometimes he still dreamed of long hallways and locked doors. He dreamed of graveyards and battle and of death. Sometimes he even heard those familiar voices in his sleep, running through the same old words.

“Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!”

“Stand aside, you silly girl ... stand aside now...”

He always woke from these dreams feeling panicked and completely alone. He had other dreams, too. Warm arms, soft lips, sharp, cold eyes… from those he woke with a ache in his chest, arms outstretched as though he had reached out to someone in his sleep.

It had been a strange summer.

Now, he was standing on the platform, preparing to return once more to his first real home. Here, again, like the first time, everyone was staring. Whispers and shouts of “It’s Harry Potter!” filled the air. Stares, waves, smiles from strangers. Here, again were the Weasleys, jostling one another, arguing and joking, guiding Harry to the train. He craned his neck, searching for Hermione, but he didn’t see her, so he boarded with Ron.

Here, once again, they sat in a compartment together. Almost as if on cue, Hermione came by. She had been saying goodbye to a pair of rather tearful Grangers. Harry half expected her to inform Ron that he had something smudged on his face or demand that he attempt a spell. Of course, she did neither. Instead she sat next to him and took his hand gently into her own.

The journey to the castle was very enjoyable. Ron was not interested in reminiscing the entire way, for which Harry was grateful. During a lull in conversation, Hermione left to speak to the conductor, whom she had befriended years ago. While she was gone, Ron and Harry bought from the trolley and started trying to guess who of their old classmates would be returning to school.

“Naw, I reckon Marietta wanted out by our sixth year, no way is she back for 8. Not unless they figured out a way to remove those things on her face.” Ron said wisely as he bit into a chocolate frog. Harry nodded slowly. The compartment door opened and Hermione re-entered, looking thoughtful.

“What’s up?” Harry asked, noticing her expression.

“You will never guess who is on this train.”

“Celestina Warbeck?” Ron tried wildly. She eyed him with irritation.

“Umbridge?” Harry suggested, “Kingsley?”

“Fudge?”

“Remus is here to teach Defense again?”

“Oh, I’ve got it!” Ron exclaimed, “It’s that old wart Mundungus Fletcher!” The hair on the back of Harry’s head rose in response to the name. Hermione crinkled her nose, “No. Draco Malfoy.” The other two exchanged looks of surprise.

“Surely they aren’t letting that little git back in?” Ron said darkly, “Not after everything?” Hermione just shrugged, looking at Harry. Harry was angry and deeply curious, two emotions he was comfortable feeling towards Malfoy. For a moment Harry considered making up some excuse and going looking for Malfoy’s compartment, but he quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way he could leave without Ron and Hermione realizing what he was up to, they would never be fooled where Draco Malfoy was concerned.

When the train stopped the others kindly ignored the obvious way Harry scanned the crowd, straining to see over the heads of hundreds of students, searching for the familiar head of white-blonde hair. He didn’t see him, so Harry allowed an amused Ron and an irritatingly knowing Hermione to lead him to the carriages.

It wasn’t until they had sung the alma mater, finished the sorting, and begun the feast that the missing pale locks appeared-- and Harry almost didn’t recognize the boy beneath them.

The head of hair was as blonde as as ever, but it was nowhere near the well-kept affair it had been up until now. It was slightly longer than it had ever been and was deeply disheveled. But his disorderly ‘do was not why Harry was staring as his long-time arch nemesis entered the Great Hall. He was covered in blood-- his own blood by the looks of his bruised and broken face. Harry noticed with surprise that Malfoy was limping. More shocking still, the person supporting the majority of Malfoy’s weight was…

“Neville?” Ron’s tone betrayed Harry’s own feelings. If anyone had the right to hate Malfoy, the Death Eater nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange that had bullied him mercilessly since the two of them were 11 years old, it was Neville Longbottom. Yet, there he was, practically carrying his old enemy into the Great Hall.

The room watched in relative quiet as Neville helped Malfoy to his usual seat at the Slytherin table, and then bent down to speak softly to him. The final straw came when Neville gave Malfoy a pat on the shoulder as he turned to walk to his own place at the Gryffindor table.

A moment of stunned silence later and the hall erupted into its usual chaos. Ron and Hermione turned to question Neville. Harry was still staring, however, when a pair of miserable-looking gray eyes found Harry’s green ones. A moment later and Harry was sure he had imagined the apology he thought he had seen in those eyes.

“Harry, don’t tell me you feel bad for that blighter.” Ron said loudly next to Harry’s ear.

“Be quiet Ron, he’ll hear you.” Said Hermione.

“From over there?” Asked Ron.

“I just know exactly what that feels like, that’s all,” Harry muttered.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “because he did it to you, mate. Two years ago. Broke your nose. While you were down, by the way, in case you forgot.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, eyes travelling back to Malfoy, who was concentrating rather hard on his fork. Harry thought he could see faint white lines disappearing under the other boy’s collar, “that score at least was settled years ago.” He paused, still looking at that white line, memories of dark blood, shaking hands and Malfoy’s tortured screams flooding back, “more than settled.”

Harry was sure he knew which dream he’d have tonight. A water-logged bathroom on the first floor. White light, white skin, pale hair, pale eyes. And red. Red everywhere. Not one of his favorites. When he turned his eyes back to his own table Ron and Hermione were watching him with identical looks of concern. Harry shifted uncomfortably under their collective gaze.

###

It was nearly a month into the first semester before Malfoy stopped periodically showing up late to things, bleeding and offering no explanation. The teachers had given up asking what had happened except Professor McGonagall, who’d threatened to give Malfoy himself detention for refusing to tell.

“Fine then, Professor. But if you’re assigning punishment for getting injured, some people in this school are going to have years worth of detention to make up.” His eyes flickered to Harry-- it did not escape McGonagall’s attention. Her lips twitched slightly as she told him to take a seat.

These “mysterious” injuries seemed to be getting more and not less frequent as the semester passed. Finally, he was put in the hospital wing and missed a week of lessons because he’d “accidently” been hit with three curses simultaneously between two classes. Harry heard the story from Neville, who’d come to find him during lunch in the first day of Malfoy’s absence.

“Hey, Harry?” Neville called, catching him just before he entered the Great Hall. Harry held back, gesturing to the others to go ahead.

“What’s up, Nev?”

“Have you heard about Draco?”

“No? He wasn’t in potions yesterday…?”

Neville quickly described Malfoy’s condition then he said, “So I was wondering if you could help me? The thing is, even the Slytherins don’t want anything to do with him. The ones that came back feel like he should have made the same choice they did. They don’t understand--”

Harry interrupted, “Well,what do you want me to do about it?”

Neville shifted his weight guiltily. “I was hoping you could help me watch him?” Seeing Harry’s expression Neville started talking faster, “It’s only for two classes and of course he isn’t going to know. I’ve got him covered for most of his day but you have potions with him and I’m supposed to be on the other side of the castle.

“On Mondays the Ravenclaws have Charms with the Slytherins this year so Susan Bone’s is going to meet me halfway between the Herbology class I have with Draco and her arithmancy. If she could meet you outside her Charms and you could watch him for a bit (you both have a free period and then potions together--”

“Okay.” Harry decided to stop Neville before he described the entire week schedule, “I think I get it but you’re going to have to find someone else.”

“Harry, there is no one else. I was trying on my own but I couldn’t… Look, I know you’ve never been--”

“What? Bestest mates with Draco Malfoy? Well, you’re right. I’m not. And I won’t. Maybe he deserves this. Maybe it’s his turn.” Neville seemed to struggle with himself. He reached for Harry and for a moment Harry thought he was about to get slapped. But this was Neville Longbottom. So, instead, he placed his hand gently on Harry’s shoulder.

“I understand, Harry.” He said. “I just thought… I just thought I’d ask. I’ll see you ‘round, yeah?” He started to move past Harry, “Oh, and Harry?” He said, turning back. Harry raised his eyebrows. “Good luck with tryouts.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Harry said a second too late, his brain sluggish.

At lunch Harry described the conversation he’d had with Neville.

“Isn’t it just like that guy to expect--” Ron started.

“I don’t think Malfoy knows, Ron.” Hermione interrupted.

“He doesn’t.” Harry said.

“And why’s it got to be Neville? Aren’t Slytherins supposed to be all ‘house pride’ and ‘protect our own’ or whatever?” Ron said, as though he’d not been interrupted.

“The Slytherins dislike him the most, I think,” Hermione said, “He was fairly popular there before the war, most of them knew who he was, at least. The Slytherins that stood against Voldemort (or at least not with him) seem to have little sympathy for their housemates.” She said.

“Yeah, well. So do I.” Said Harry.

“Yes, Harry, but you never had to pick between doing what your family and friends chose and what you knew to be right. Every Slytherin did.”

“There are plenty of muggleborn and half-blood Slytherins!” Harry muttered.

“That’s true.” Added Ron.

“Harry was raised by the Dursleys but they aren’t his family.” Hermione said, “imagine I, all the Weasleys, and nearly every member of the D.A. sided with the Death Eaters. Can you two even imagine what that’s like?” They nodded slowly. “Really?” she said, “Because I can’t.”

“Still,” said Ron, “the Slytherins can…”

“I think many of the Slytherins feel some level of responsibility for the actions of their loved ones, and as a result many of them try very hard to distance themselves from everything the Death Eaters stood for. So much so that they’ve lost the ability to empathize, to forgive.”

“Okay--” said Harry, “But that doesn’t make it my job to play bodyguard and traipse around the school after Malfoy. I have better things to do than stalk him between classes.” Ron was visibly torn between agreement and amusement. Harry knew what he was resisting vocalizing, and silently thanked him when he didn’t take the opportunity to point out that Harry had never had a problem stalking Malfoy before.

Hermione, eyes twinkling with poorly-concealed amusement agreed, “No, it’s not your job.”

Harry secretly sighed in relief. Somehow he’d been afraid for an instant that she was going to say otherwise.

Five days later and Malfoy was out of the hospital wing. People had been saying that he was milking his illness to avoid returning to class (he had a reputation for faking medical issues) but the day he walked into potions it was clear to Harry that this had not been the case.

His hair was as precisely styled as ever, his shoes shiny and his snobby nose as high in the air as always, but his robes didn’t quite fit, his pale skin was sallow, while his eyes look bruised and tired. It reminded Harry horribly of the Malfoy from their sixth year. That Malfoy had been pale, feverish, and skinny, too. That Malfoy had been terrified and frustrated and utterly lost. That Malfoy had cried in bathrooms with Moaning Myrtle for company and kept secrets from his friends.

This Malfoy, though, was not letting his grades slip ever-further like the sixth year version had, this Malfoy had already firmly reestablished his old place as second to Hermione in everything they shared, and first in Alchemy and Muggle Studies (something it had surprised everyone that he’s elected to take, especially as he was behind, meaning that he was taking it at the OWL level).

How he had managed to do all of his coursework while in the hospital wing was anyone’s guess, but Harry was sure Neville had taken it upon himself to collect it for him daily; why, Harry couldn’t fathom.

###

Quidditch tryouts came and went while Malfoy had been out of action. Harry had initially rejected the idea of returning as team captain, since Ginny had served in the position for the last year. Ginny, however had preferred to let Harry take over and had threatened to jinx him if he didn’t take the job.

Given that Harry had thought his fame got in the way of the last tryouts, it was incredible that this time defied even his least optimistic expectations. It took nearly twice as long as last time, but eventually Harry had assembled a strong team which, thankfully, included Ron and Ginny. In fact, Ron seemed to have overcome a good deal of his fears, between the victories of their sixth year and the experiences of the last he’d become a strong player and performed impressively at tryouts.

Because he’s been in the hospital wing, Malfoy didn’t have the opportunity to try out for his team, but he hadn’t intended to, at least not according to Blaise Zabini, who had mentioned it in conversation with Ginny.

Blaise had not returned to Hogwarts as a full-time student but came twice a week to meet with Slughorn and to tutor Ginny, Lavender, and a few seventh year Slytherins in potions. Blaise was in some kind of internship at Woodart and Co., a company that created potions, mainly for St. Mungos and other wizarding hospitals, though they were experimenting with home-use products and muggle pharmaceuticals in a lesser capacity.

Blaise, though not close to Malfoy, had stopped by to see him in the hospital wing and to drop off a package from Narcissa that had ended up in Slughorn’s office somehow. Malfoy and Blaise had caught up a bit before Blaise had left to tutor Ginny and the others.

That evening in the common room Ginny and Hermione were discussing the new quidditch line up and that’s what brought Ginny to the topic of Malfoy and Blaise.

“I wonder why he doesn’t want to play this year? I mean,” Hermione looked around then continued in a hushed tone, “he could doubtless have gotten on the team. You and Harry are obviously better than him but he’s a strong player and pretty evenly matched with Cho. No one in the Slytherin house is about to beat him for seeker.”

"Well he’s got a lot of classes,” said Ginny, “Two more than you. And he’s getting the stuffing beat out of him twice a week. Could be he’s just tired of Harry beating him.” Ginny said.

“Maybe he’s seen who's on his team this year” offered Ron, butting in as he looked up from his and Harry’s chess game, “I wouldn’t want to associate with them. Some of them I’m surprised know which direction the broom goes, from the way they ride.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” said Harry, watching his queen decimate Ron’s bishop, “Some of the third years look talented. Between people graduating, Voldemort supporters not returning, and Malfoy out of the running, they’ve had to replace half the team; but just because they’re inexperienced doesn’t mean they aren’t a threat.” Warned Harry. “Yeah, all right.” said Ron, as his rook took out Harry’s queen.

A few weeks after Malfoy had returned from his medically-induced furlough Harry thought that Neville must be fending well enough without him. He noticed that Malfoy was injured less often and never severely. His color was coming back, though he still seemed to be losing weight. Harry did not care.

By the first Hogsmeade weekend Malfoy has gotten so skinny, Harry thought, that Molly Weasley would probably burst out crying at the mere sight of him. Malfoy did not go to the village so Harry, Ron, and Hermione spent their time in Hogsmeade Malfoy-free. When they returned to school it was to find Neville sitting in the common room with a black eye, nursing a large bruise on his arm.

“What happened?” Demanded Ron. “Kathy and Gershwin Spinks.”

“What? Did they mug you? Try to engage you in muggle dueling?” Ron pressed. Neville offered no answer. “Malfoy?” Harry guessed.

Neville nodded, “the Spinks’s tried to curse him from behind just outside their common room. I blocked it but--”

“Left you open.” Finished Ron, nodding wisely.

“I’m lucky Draco’s a dueller, because he took Kathy on immediately. Gershwin only got me at all because Kathy had sent a stinging curse from the side while I still had the shield charm up,” He gestured to his arm, “While I was distracted her brother made my own book fly out of my hand and hit me in the face,” He gestured to his eye sheepishly.

“But you beat him, right, Nev?”

Neville smiled, “Well, Harry taught us to defend against a lot more than some third year’s levitating spell.”

"Is Gershwin ok?” Hermione asked, “you didn’t hurt him did you?”

Neville smiled weakly as Ron said loudly, “‘Course he didn’t hurt him, Hermione, this is Neville.” Hermione looked at Neville, still looking worried.

“He’s not hurt. Kathy got a couple of nasty ones from Draco but she’ll be in class tomorrow.”

Hermione sighed, “Well, Kathy’s a sixth year. She’s really to blame for this. Gershwin’s what? 13? 14?”

“We didn’t go ‘round hexing people’s backs at 14.” Ron pointed out, “Though, come to think of it, Malfoy did.”

“Yeah, well, he tried.” Harry, who’d not yet spoken finally said. Then, quieter, “he paid for that, too.”

“What were you doing by the dungeons, anyway Neville?” Ron asked.

“I was bringing Draco my notes.” Ron and Hermione gave him looks of deepest judgement. “We’re in Herbology together!” Neville defended. Ron rolled his eyes.

“I hadn’t seen him in awhile,” Neville continued, “and he didn’t go to Hogsmeade so--”

“You were worried about him!” Ron accused, sounding disgusted.

Neville shrugged but didn’t answer.

“Is this the first time?” Harry asked after a silence. Neville looked at him questioningly. “The first time you’ve gotten hurt?” Harry clarified.

Neville looked at his bruised and swollen arm, “I didn’t really get hurt today.”

“Was it the first time?” Harry asked, a steely note creeping into his voice.

“No,” Neville said evenly, meeting Harry’s eyes, “Not the first, not the worst, not the last. Not the first time Draco’s caught me at it, either. I’m not very good at lying. I don’t think he bought the notes excuse, either. He only missed the first half of Herbology and…”

Harry found himself unable to focus on the rest of Neville’s talking. He couldn’t understand. Neville had been forced to hop around the castle like an animated rabbit from a muggle cartoon by Malfoy a number of times. Malfoy had humiliated him, mocked his parents, and openly idolized the people who had tortured them into madness. Sure, he’d only been a stupid kid, but Neville had been a kid too. How could he so easily take on stress and pain to protect Malfoy now? As people trickled off to bed that evening Harry pulled Neville aside, “Neville?”

“Yeah, Harry?”

“Why did you ask me?” He didn’t have to explain.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not--”

“My job, I know. Hermione keeps telling me. It’s no secret Malfoy and I hate each other. So why did you ask me?” Neville hesitated. Harry set his jaw and waited.

“I figured if anyone was going to help it would have been you. It’s what you do, isn’t it? You help people. Even people you don’t like.” Harry blinked. Neville continued, “I’ve watched you do it since we were first years, Harry. It’s… Something I’ve always admired.” Harry was agape at this.

His fuzzy brain conjured confused thoughts. Neville thinks I’ve got a hero complex-- When have I helped anyone I didn’t like? And then, He ‘admired’ it? Harry’s collar started to warm up.

“Look,” Neville said, putting his hand on Harry’s shoulder and smiling, “I got it. You’re rivalry with Draco’s the other thing I’ve seen you carry on since you were eleven. Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.” With that Neville went to bed. Harry realized that Neville truly did not think any less of him for refusing to help. That only made Harry feel worse.

The first week of November came and with it a slew of cold, gray days. The cold gray eyes of Draco Malfoy were haunting Harry, specifically the dark color that stained the pale skin around them. He was visibly tired and over-drawn looking, though that might have been the weight loss.

The day after Harry had dreamt a disturbingly pleasant dream featuring those wintry eyes, which left him feeling out of step and surreal for hours, Malfoy was jinxed between Charms and potions. It did not escape Harry that this was the exact area Neville had hoped for his help in. The guilty feeling in his stomach that had appeared at seeing Neville’s injuries on the night of the Hogsmeade trip, and which had flared up that morning in response to the fleeting memories of his dreams, came ramming into Harry at full force when Malfoy arrived 15 minutes into the lesson, a bump on his shoulder roughly the size and shape of Harry’s alarm clock, muttering some nonsense about an allergic reaction. Slughorn accepted this ridiculous explanation and class resumed.

That night Harry found a moment to talk to Neville alone. Neville seemed more stressed and forgetful than usual. He brightened considerably when Harry said without preamble, “Fine. I’ll do it. But you can’t tell anyone.” Neville shook his head, relieve and excitement plastered on his face. “I’m serious, Neville. Not anyone.”

“Just you, me, and Sue.” Neville promised eagerly.

#Drarry #harry/draco #Harry Potter #hp #fanfiction #harry x draco #fic #maykomakesstuff #protection detail

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