March 17th, 1888 — Art's House, Bartonburg

The walk from Excalibur to Art Pettigrew's home was so short that it was almost laughable that the two traded as many owls as they did. Honestly, if Ben thought Desdemona would let him get away with it, he might just stop by whenever he had a Serious Love Life Issue, but he suspected (knew) that her patience would be worn thin rather more quickly than Art's was.

He might not have come at all, had the last letter he'd gotten been different. He was a grown man, and had little patience for being lectured on what he did with his free time. If he wanted to be berated, he could just head home to his brothers on any day of the week. He didn't need his friends to start in, too. The implied threat of actual bodily harm, however, had sobered him considerably. Although he didn't like to admit it, Ben's worst fear was having something tragic and painful befall him physically, leaving him a cripple like Aldous, or worse, a complete invalid. If that sort of retribution from the Scrimgeour family was really on the table, Ben needed a battle plan in place, and Art was the best place to go for that. Reuben Crouch had spent most of his youth cavorting around Europe and America and avoiding all of the stuffy pureblood society types, while Art had been stuck here in England, actively combating them. He was both more knowledgeable about the various families and their various brands of crazy, and more experienced in interacting with them. It was only through Art's stories of his own family that Ben had even known to be wary of the Lestranges in the first place, back when he'd first started messing around with the Princess.

That being said, he was hoping that they could get through the 'you're an idiot' part of the conversation relatively quickly, and move on to the 'what do I do now?' bit. In order to speed things along, he'd brought along a conciliatory bottle of firewhiskey, which he handed off to Art upon entering the house. "I know, I know," he said, putting his hands up in peremptory defense. "It just happened."

  

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Although Arthur had invested a lot of time in Ben and Trouble's relationship - probably he needed a hobby - that was second on his list of concerns after Ben getting himself entwined with yet another fucked up pureblood family. The last time this happened, Ben got sent to Canada and Art had spent several months waffling between loneliness and trying to come up with good ways to ask his wife to have kids. Now that Ben was back, Art was far less consumed with both topics, because he had other things to do. Like hang out with Ben, and also advise him on not getting shitcanned.

Arthur knew a lot about the rich purebloods of Hogsmeade. This was because he was related to so many of them, had at one time owed several of them money, and also liked to know who was likely to kick his ass if rubbed the wrong way. He also, not so secretly, enjoyed society gossip about who was crazy or bad news or crazy bad news. So the whole thing with The Girl was very concerning, given her tendency to show up on way too many of those lists.

Art cupped the firewhiskey to his chest. "How do you accidentally take someone to Ireland, Ben," he said, because Ben had to let him get at least a couple good jabs in. "And girls who agree to meet with bad-news near strangers are almost always bad news," he said, "I would know, remember that one who tried to move into the tent with me?"

Probably should have been a red flag that she was willing to hook up with a stranger who lived in a tent. Art had not thought of this at the time. It was also probably good for Art that Dez wasn't home, because he did not think his wife would much enjoy the tent sex story.

"I think The Girl has crazy eyes," he added, waving Ben into the living room. There were already cups on the table. Art had assumed alcohol would be involved.

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   Reuben Crouch

"Well when I offered to go get drunk with her I was joking," Ben said defensively. He thought Art would know him well enough to know that he was, at least, not stupid enough to openly propose getting shitfaced with high born society types. "But then I started getting all those crazy letters from Trouble accusing me of running around womanizing and replacing her, you know, whatever the hell that means." More than two weeks after Ellory's first letter, Ben was apparently still not over it, because there was real anger in his voice when he recounted the list of sins she had believed him guilty of. "So then when she wrote me back — S, I mean," (Ben was still not entirely sure what her first name was and it seemed like the sort of thing Art might know and would definitely berate him for getting wrong). "I was sort of relieved to have some thing to do that wasn't getting yelled at by a crazy redhead."

He was relieved that Art had put out two glasses; he wasn't sure if the firewhiskey was going to be a sacrificial contribution and his friend was going to take the entire thing for himself. "And — I don't know, she said she'd never been to Ireland. It just happened," he said, throwing his hands up again as he took a seat. "But she doesn't have crazy eyes," he added, quietly and a touch defensively. "They're kind of nice."

  

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"Oh, I wasn't aware you were starting a charitable organization for people who hadn't been to Ireland before," Arthur snarked. He was not amused by the cross-the-Irish-Sea booty call. Besides, what was the point of visiting Ireland? Potatoes, alcohol and poverty porn? He had been to Ireland and privately thought that the same point could be accomplished by visiting any bar on the south side of Hogsmeade.

The crazy eyes comment did not deserve more of a response than a Look, which Art pulled out handily. It was still not as severe as Desdemona's would have been.

"And you proved to Trouble that the Girl isn't a whore by proving that she'd be willing do kissing etcetera at the drop of a hat, and that you're not a replacing womanizer by womanizing," Arthur added, "Great, thanks, I get it now." He unscrewed the top of the bottle of firewhiskey and poured a generous amount into both glasses.

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Art may have had something of a point, Ben realized, but he'd be damned if he was going to admit it. The truth wasn't that he hadn't really laid it all out like that and thought the matter through from start to finish, and now that his friend was stringing things together he couldn't argue that it did seem pretty stupid. This whole thing had started out rather impulsively, however — first in the drunken, angry aftermath of his fight with Ellory, and then in the less-drunken-but-even-angrier aftermath of their continued letters — and once the wheels had been set in motion, it had all seemed rather inevitable. He wasn't exaggerating when he'd said that kissing Miss Scrimgeour had just happened — the part he was leaving out was that he could have seen it just happening from a mile away, and he hadn't taken any particular pains to prevent it.

"Ellory Pendergast doesn't get any say in who I spend my time with," he said, both argumentative and defensive. "Or when, or how. We're not seeing each other anymore, so it's not like she gets to care. And you know what the good thing about Muggle Ireland is?" he countered as he took a seat at the table. "She doesn't get to know. And neither do any of those fucks that were gossiping about us in the first place, or that damned magazine."

Somehow, though, it seemed her father had still found out. Hopefully he didn't have any proof, at least; Ben could probably work with a mere suspicion. Hopefully Miss S hadn't done something stupid like admitting to it. That seemed so obviously ill-advised that he had trouble believing she would, but then, he'd never supposed Ellory would go sharing his letters with everyone in her extended family tree and end up getting him shipped off to Canada, either.

  

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Arthur felt like he could feel himself having an aneurysm, so he lifted his whiskey glass to his lips and drank through Ben talking to him. He set it back down on the table with a sizable clink. "You think no one's going to find out? Alright, Trouble aside, consider this, then," he said. "The girl doesn't tell anyone. Her parents or guardian or whomever ask where the fuck she was that night, because she's a rich girl, and people like to know where rich girls go. She cracks and tells them, because her father is a crazy person. He comes to find you. Aldous finds your body in a dumpster. That's one."

Art doubted that this would result in murder. But it was possible.

"The girl got back to her house, she was drunk, someone found her, she drunkenly confesses to kissing etcetera. Father, murder, dumpster. There's two."

"The girl doesn't tell her family, but she tells her friends, because teenagers are dumb, and the rumor spreads that you're some great romantic who's going to marry her and then her father yells at Aldous and you get sent away again. There's three."

Art shrugged his shoulders. "I can keep going if you want. I have a lot of scenarios. And her father might already know, like you said. So."

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Bodies in dumpsters. Damn, things had gotten very real, very quickly. Surely Art was just being melodramatic, though. Surely he couldn't really think that Miss Scrimgeour's father was the type to resort to murder in pursuit of a clean family reputation. And here Ben had been thinking that being strong-armed into a marriage no one wanted was more or less the worst case scenario if he went screwing around with crazy rich girls.

"Fuck's sake, Art, I kissed her," he said, still defensive. He had not yet touched the whiskey glass but reached out now to snatch the bottle off of the center of the table and pour himself a not altogether modest amount of it. "I didn't get her pregnant. Or accidentally kidnap her and spend three days cavorting around Mexico."

Surely one night in Ireland could not possibly having more consequences than his supposed abduction of Miss Pendergast, a year ago? Or the very-public make out session he'd stumbled in to with the Connolly girl, which had been the original sin placing him on Olivia Pendergast's shit-list? By comparison, what had happened last night seemed so tame. Besides, Miss Scrimgeour had seemed very much into it and had known what she was getting into — unlike his past British conquest fiascos in both cases.

Art was right, though; even if she avoided telling her family anything about where she'd been or who she'd been with, there was no telling what she might tell her friends. Shit. He hadn't thought of that, in the heat of the moment.

So what was he supposed to do now? Vanish into the ether somewhere and hope it all blew over? That would involve leaving the country again, he was certain, which he didn't really have the funds for. Ben had never been good at lying low, though, so staying in Britain and hoping for the best didn't seem like the best course of action. Was there a way he could ask Aldous to fund a little overseas jaunt without admitting that he needed to leave because he had gotten himself in trouble with a girl again?

Aldous was going to try and send him to an asylum. He'd already threatened it once, to see Ben 'cured' of his 'perversions.' Brotherly assistance, then, was off the table.

"Maybe I could smuggle myself out of the country on a boat," he mused, taking a long drink of the firewhiskey.

  

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"You didn't kissing et cetera with Trouble that time," Art said with a dramatic wave of his hand, "And didn't I say everything with her was a terrible idea at the start, too?" Although Art still believed that Miss P and Ben were soul mates, he was rather happy to let that balloon drift off as long as Ben didn't get himself in trouble again. Too late for that, he guessed.

Arthur snorted. "If you leave again I'll burn the Scrimgeour house down myself," he said with a dramatic wave of his hand. He took a long drawing sip of his whiskey. Unfortunately, 'just don't be such an idiot in the future' was not a solution that was likely to gain much traction here. Hm.

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   Ophelia Devine

It was sort of touching that Art was fond enough of his company that he'd contemplate arson. Ben didn't really want to flee the country, by any means, but even he had to admit that Canada (or elsewhere) was preferable to death at the hands of a potentially deranged former auror. Even so, Reuben couldn't help but chuckle slightly as he picked up his glass again. "I don't see how that would help. Unless you're planning to frame her father and get him locked up before I get back."

  

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"It wouldn't help but it would make me feel better," Arthur snarked. If he could solve all of his problems with fire, he - probably would have collected on insurance money on the house back when he'd been rich. Damn, had that been possible?

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   Livia Crabbe

"Well, that's the real goal," Ben said sarcastically, albeit with a good-natured grin. It was hard to imagine a situation where he could be seriously frustrated with Art, though he could do some amiable ribbing from time to time. Merlin knew Art gave him plenty of shit on the regular, so it was really just tit for tat. Reaching to refill his whiskey glass, Ben continued with a shrug, "Why solve problems when you can just drink a lot and feel better about having them in the first place?"

  

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