It had been over a week since he'd last seen Art. Despite having promised just before his friend left to write or visit soon, Ben hadn't. He had been distracted, true, by Aldous' interruption at home, the unanticipated interment at the Crouch home in Bartonburg, and then trying to reconcile things as best he could with Melody when he eventually returned, but that wasn't the whole of it. At least a part of him had been hoping that Art would write him, or even burst into the Irvingly home the way Aldous had done, demanding updates. It was a very in-character thing for Art to do, being pushy when he knew Ben would benefit from a little push. If he'd taken the floo out of their house that day, he would have written by now, Ben was sure of it.

And that was the real heart of the matter, the reason why Ben hadn't written during the entire week since he'd last seen Art. He knew where Art must have gone when he left their parlor, and by extension knew what he had probably gotten up to. He didn't know how bad it was, but it could not have been good. He wanted to ask about it, wanted to berate him for it, wanted to shake some sense into him — but wanted, unrealistically, a way to do so without admitting that he could've stopped it from happening at all. It would have been so easy to have gone after him and told him he was being an idiot and he ought to go home to Dez. It would have taken, at most, an hour of Ben's time. It might have made all the difference to Art. But he hadn't done that; he'd stayed in the parlor with Melody and tried to paddle his way back into her good graces.

He'd owled ahead, which he seldom did, then flooed in after he finished working for the day. Art was already in the front room as he shook the soot from his clothes.

"Hey," Ben said. He was already looking at Art for any telltale sign that he could seize on to segue into this conversation he wanted to have but didn't know how to start, though he wasn't sure what that would even look like.

Arthur Pettigrew Cassius Lestrange