Ben wandered over like he'd forgotten something—a spoon, his morals, whatever.
He leaned against the wall, examining the beetle with its too-fancy markings.
"Morning, Rita," he said under his breath.
No reply. Obviously. But the way it froze told him everything he needed to know.
Ben smiled softly, although it might have come across as creepy to the beetle.
"Sorry to say," he went on, reaching into his robes, "I don't give interviews."
SNAP.
A jar clinked shut around the beetle with a satisfying sound.
"Bad day to be a bug."
When he returned to the table, Marianne raised an eyebrow. "What've you got there?"
"Just my latest pet project," Ben said, smiling.
-
Ben's manor on Nirn Island was quiet, cold, and just a bit creepy with occasional creaking.
The fire in the hearth gave off a steady warmth, at the same time, throwing long shadows across the stone floor.
Ben sat in his usual armchair, looking much older than he was, early thirties, maybe—thanks to a bit of transfiguration magic.
He wore a plain black cloak, with dark robes underneath, and a wooden mask on his face, shaped like a Dragon Priest's.
He'd outdone himself with the theatrics this time.
His hand held a small glass jar.
Inside, a beetle tapped lightly against the sides, trying to find a way out.
It had Fancy markings but not-so-fancy behaviour.
"Oh, Rita," Ben said softly, tapping the glass. "You've been a busy little insect."
The beetle, naturally, didn't reply. Just kept twitching like it still had a shot at pretending to be an actual beetle.
"You're clever. I'll give you that. Smart, nosy and very punchable." He smiled faintly. "Let's fix one of those."
Ben pointed his wand at the jar, and the beetle suddenly started quivering.
"Obliviate."
He didn't go overboard this time—just snipped out the last twelve hours.
Handy, the things you could learn after flipping through young Tom Riddle's head like a photo album.
The beetle froze for a bit, then found itself without any memory of how it had ended up in a jar. It started skittering around frantically.
Ben gave the jar a little shake.
Not too hard.
Just enough to rattle some sense into it.
"Eyes front, Skeeter. Time to stop playing insect." His tone was cheerful in the way a storm cloud might be.
She didn't move.
Ben shook it once more.
"In simpler terms, turn back into your ugly human self." She still didn't.
He let out a long and tired sigh.
"Always the hard way, isn't it?"
With a flick of his wand, he cast the Animagus Reversal spell. "Reverto Formam."
There was a sharp crack like knuckles popping.
The beetle twisted and stretched, reshaping into a woman in a crumpled green suit.
Rita Skeeter collapsed onto the cold stone, clutching her sides, breathless and disoriented.
Her glasses were crooked, her hair in a mess, and her usual smugness drained from her face.
For a moment, Ben thought she didn't look too bad. He might've even swiped right — until she opened her mouth.
"This is—this is kidnapping," she snapped, trying to rise, though her legs didn't quite obey. "I'll have the Prophet on you, and the Aurors, and—"
Ben finally realised why her Animagus was a beetle, and it had a lot to do with her screeching.
"Silencio"
With a wave of his wand, her voice disappeared, leaving behind frantically moving lips.
"Merlin's beard, you sound horrendous," he said, half-disgusted.
"Good thing you're a writer. You'd be awful on the Radio."
She blinked up at him, stunned as the fire crackled quietly behind him.
She opened her mouth to speak again, but no sound came out.
"I know," Ben said lightly, pacing a bit. "You're thinking, 'Who the hell are you?'"
He crouched down and put his wand tip gently against Rita's chin, releasing his spell.
"It doesn't matter who I am; what matters is that you've been very rude to my nephew."
"Who—who's your nephew?" she stammered.
Ben didn't answer. Just gripped the mask, tugged it free, and smiled—slow and sharp.
Rita's eyes went wide. That face looked awfully familiar.
"You—"
"Yes," Ben said smoothly, sounding very pleased. "You see the similarities too, don't you?"
"My nephew, Benedict, has inherited both the family looks and the family tolerance for nonsense."
Rita stared at him, speechless.
"That's right. I'm Arthur Brown."
She gasped. "That's impossible. Arthur Brown died. Battle of Dover. I wrote the bloody obit!"
Ben smiled faintly. "You did, didn't you? Declared me dead before the ash settled."
He stood up and walked slowly past her, arms folded behind his back like a remnant from a darker time.
"See, that's the problem, Rita. Always in a rush to print, never pausing to check the facts."
Rita stared at him, unable to speak—this time, not because of a spell.
"Funny how quickly people forget you when they think you're dead," he said, turning back.
"Honestly, you did me a favour." He smiled at her.
"As an Auror, my hands were tied. But as a dead man..." Arthur lifted his fists.
"I could finally give those damned Death Eaters what they deserved," he said with menace in his voice.
Rita stared up at him, trembling slightly but trying to hold onto what was left of her pride.
"You do realise," she said, her voice taut, "faking your own death is a crime. That's prison time—Azkaban. If anyone finds out—"
Ben didn't even blink.
"So is being an unregistered Animagus. Straight to Azkaban, isn't it?"
He leaned forward just enough that his shadow stretched over her.
"And what the Dementors do to you is nothing compared to what some of the people you've been snooping on will do."
"You've made enemies, Rita. Powerful ones. And unlike Dementors, they've got imagination."
She went pale. But somehow rallied, just a bit.
"How about we call it a tie, then?" she offered quickly. "You don't expose me, I don't expose you. Mutually assured destruction—nice and tidy."
Ben tilted his head and chuckled.
"The difference between us, Rita, is that no one's going to believe a word from a journalist who claims she was held captive by a man she publicly declared dead twelve years ago."
"And how exactly do you plan to jail a dead man?"
She opened her mouth, then shut it. Then tried again.
"There will be an inquiry. I'm still a journalist. My word counts—"
"Your word," Ben interrupted, "is all you'll have."
He stepped closer, voice dropping low.
"And I was an Auror. I know all the occupational ins and outs. Nobody's seen me in twelve years. What makes you think they'll be able to now?"
Rita flinched.
"And you?" he added, already turning away. "You're a woman who's cried werewolf....vampire....centaur… and everything else one time too many"
-To be Continued...
Okay, so Ben needs a vest, as the Chinese say. I thought, who better but the dead uncle?
It'll be like an open secret. "Hey there, I'm Ben's uncle—no, not Uncle Ben—anyways, keep it a secret, will ya?" kinda thing.
Know why I've been gone so long and other stuff at Patreon.com/DreamyApe