She doesn't need time, she needs you, Ben thought, but obviously could not say. For one, it wasn't his place; he didn't know Desdemona well enough to have any opinions on what she wanted or needed, and Art hadn't asked for any advice about his marriage. But he knew how he'd felt, leaving Quidditch after suffering a loss. As the months stretched on his grief and guilt had turned into anger, but the sort of undirected and unproductive anger that couldn't be solved, and then he'd set off adventuring around the continent, then around a whole other continent, trying to bury it in self-destructive behaviors and vague lies to his family. He hadn't really started to process the loss of his parents until years later, when he'd connected with Una and they'd sat around on her farm in the middle of nowhere and had nothing to do but talk about everything that had ever happened to them. Time hadn't helped him. Connection had helped him, and having someone listen, and having someone empathize — but this was not the sort of thing Ben could say to Art.

"Yeah," he said instead, turning his attention to the surface of his drink again. "Maybe."