HPTD - CH 130 - Bugging Out ( Version 1 )

-This is the original draft, it has been changed a lot in the Ver. 2 -

Ben wandered over like he'd forgotten something — a spoon, his morals, whatever.

He leaned against the wall, eyes on the beetle with its too-fancy markings and uncanny timing.

"Morning, Rita," he said under his breath.

The beetle froze.

Ben smiled softly, although it might have come across 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 finality.

"Bad day to be a bug."

"What you got there?" Marianne asked when he sat back at the table.

"Just my latest pet project," said Ben with a smile.

—

Ben’s manor on Nirn Island was quiet, cold, and just old enough to creak in the right places. The fire in the hearth gave off a steady warmth, throwing long shadows across the stone floor. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt solid—like it had been here forever and wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

He sat in his usual armchair, looking older than he was—early thirties maybe—thanks to a bit of transfiguration. Plain black cloak, dark robes underneath, and a wooden mask shaped like a Dragon Priest’s. Not the most comfortable getup, but it did the job.

In his hand was a small glass jar. Inside, a beetle tapped lightly against the sides. Fancy markings. Not so fancy behaviour.

“Morning, Rita,” Ben said softly, tapping the glass. “You’ve been a busy little insect.”

No reply. Obviously. But the way it froze told him everything he needed to know.

“You’re clever. I’ll give you that. Smart. Nosy. Very punchable.” He smiled faintly. “Let’s fix one of those.”

He pointed his wand at the jar. “Obliviate.”

He didn’t go overboard — just snipped out the bit where she’d seen him, in his real body, catching her. Handy, the things you could learn after flipping through young Tom Riddle’s head like a photo album. 

The beetle froze, then started skittering around like mad.

Ben gave the jar a little shake. Not hard. Just enough to rattle some pride loose.

"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.

“I said, turn back.” She still didn't.

He sighed, long and tired. "Always the hard way, isn't it?"

With a flick of his wand, he cast the Animagus Reversal spell. "Reverto Formam."

There was a crack like knuckles popping. The beetle stretched, twisted, and became a woman in a crumpled green suit. Rita Skeeter stumbled onto her knees on the cold stone, clutching her sides like she’d been winded. Her glasses were askew, her hair in chaos, and her face—normally smug—was pale and stricken.

“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 didn’t so much as blink.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the good part.”

She blinked up at him, stunned. And behind Ben, a massive shape shifted by the fireplace.

Hissy the Basilisk, curled up and still as a statue, lifted her head slightly — just enough to remind Rita that no, she hadn’t imagined the snake the size of a small cottage.

Ben stood slowly, the mask still on, his voice calm.

“Took your time.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off with a small wave of the hand.

“I know,” Ben said lightly, pacing a bit. “You’re thinking, ‘Who the hell are you?’"

He crouched down and put his wand tip against Rita's face. "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 said, trying not to breathe too hard.

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 to the one she'd been drawing on the paper. "You—"

“Yes,” Ben said, voice smooth and far too pleasant. “You see the similarities too, don't you? My nephew, Benedict, has inherited both the family looks as well as family gifts."

Rita stared at him, unable to speak.

"That's right, I’m Arthur Brown. Name ring any bells? Probably not. They said I died years ago. Battle of Dover. Tragic loss. All very moving.”

He stood back up and walked away, arms folded behind his back like some Ministry official out of a darker time.

“You’re bluffing. Arthur Brown is dead. I wrote the bloody obit!”

Ben smiled faintly.

“And you were so sure your sources were solid. See, that’s the problem, Rita—always a rush to print, never a pause to check.”

"I didn’t die. I joined them. The Death Eaters.” He said, turning back. “Funny how people stop asking questions when they think you’re dead.”

He walked slowly past her, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Your articles… rather vicious, don’t you think? All those lies about my nephew. Painting him like some Dark Lord in training. You want to know the truth?”

She didn’t answer. Her hands were trembling.

Ben gave a quiet, bitter laugh.

"I—I was forced to write those!" Rita blurted, suddenly desperate. “It wasn’t my choice. I have to publish what sells—Lucius pushed half of it—he funds the editor!”

Ben arched an eyebrow. "I know. Lucius will get what’s coming to him as well."

Rita looked stunned that he knew.

"But I’m going to deal with you first," he continued.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then: "I can fix it! I can write a retraction. A series, even. Expose the Malfoys. Shine a light on what he’s done. Just—don’t let that thing near me."

“Oh, relax,” he said lightly. “I’m not going to kill you. That would be too kind."

“Here’s how this works,” he said. “You’re under house arrest. This manor? Yours now. You leave, you die. Not by me. I don’t have to lift a wand. Outside these walls… let's just say there are things worse than Basilisks."

Rita glanced at the Basilisk again. Hissy yawned, slowly, showing all her terrible teeth. She swallowed hard, turning to look at him and the door behind him.

“You can’t—This is illegal—you can’t just disappear people!” she said, voice rising. “People will notice!”

Ben raised an eyebrow.

“I can. And I have. Nobody knows you’re here. You vanish all the time. Animagus tricks. One day too many and nobody blinks.”

Then he snapped his fingers.

A white-furred stoat hopped onto the side table. It blinked slowly at her, as if sizing her up.

“This is Silvaticus. He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t sleep. But he sees everything. Try to transform? He’ll know. Try to write? He’ll know. Try to leave?”

Ben tilted his head.

“Well. You get the idea.”

Ben turned, stepping towards the heavy oak door.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Keep quiet. Behave. And maybe, maybe, you get to leave one day.”

“Enjoy the place,” he said cheerfully over his shoulder. “Tea’s on the shelf. Bathroom’s down the hall. Don’t touch anything glowing.”

He turned the doorknob.

"Oh — and if you're thinking of turning back into a beetle again?"

He looked back over his shoulder.

"I've changed the wards. You'll get stuck. Forever. Might be poetic, actually."

He opened the door, let the cold air creep in, and stepped out without another word.

“Wait—!” Rita called out, her voice sharp with panic. “Listen, I’ll do anything, we can—negotiate, I swear! Just don’t leave me here alone with that—”

The door clicked shut behind him like the lid of a coffin.

To be Continued…

I'm thinking we let Rita simmer with hissy for a while, and then we can offer her a job, as an editor, in our very own newspaper. The Magical Voice. What do you guys think?

Also, Rest in Peace, Arthur Brown. Your name will be dragged through the mud.