It seemed as though half of magical Britain had attended the Witch Weekly ball the day before—but balls were for dancing, and dancing was for those who were not lame. As such, Aldous had spent the evening home as he did most that his occupation did not demand of him: quietly, and at home. Thus, he was quite well-rested and catching up on correspondence when his youngest brother appeared in his home.

This in itself was suspect.

It wasn't that the Crouch brothers did not get on, just that they were so...utterly dissimilar from one another. Where Aldous and Roman had Ministry work to keep them occupied, promoting a distillery was the closest thing Reuben had ever had to a proper job. While Aldous, Roman, and even November had spent their years upholding the dignity of the Crouch name, Reuben had had to be shipped to Canada when he had threatened to destroy it. For all that, the brothers did love one another (well, at least, Aldous cared deeply for Reuben; he would not presume to state the opposite was true), even if Ben's I need to talk to you did send a chill through Aldous' body.

(Old habits and all.)

"Nothing dire, I hope," Aldous joked-but-didn't-joke as he set down his quill on the writing desk, gesturing to a nearby armchair.