It hadn't really been a serious question as much as it was Cash not wanting to make a decision, but he wasn't going to tell Greengrass that when he'd gotten a real answer. "Let's go the other way, then," Cash said, taking steps in the other direction. He wanted to ask Greengrass about ghosts, and what they said, but that brought them close to death again - and maybe he ought to avoid that, because maybe normal twenty-four year olds didn't talk about death. Normal twenty-four year olds probably didn't go to haunted houses for fun, either, so there was a lot going on here.

"Watch your step," Cash said - he assumed that Greengrass was a little less sure of his steps than Cash usually was, because that was true for most people he met. "The ground's a little wet -" his mouth quirked up into a smile "- Must be because of the drowned boy."

This was weird, walking around a manor house in the dark even though they knew ghosts were real and weren't like this - still, Cash felt a creeping sensation going up his spine as he looked at the hundred year old windows, and the ivy creeping up them. If he was going to believe a house would be haunted, it would be this one.

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Ford was paying very close attention to the ground, even before Lestrange had warned him about it, because the last thing he wanted to do was trip and fall on his face and spill this entire bottle of wine all over himself. The cork was back in the manor, and at best he would end up shivering in wet, stained clothes and feeling awkward about having fallen. At worst, he'd end up with half the neck of the wine bottle jammed into his hand, or something, and he'd have to hope Lestrange knew some basic healing spells, or else wasn't particularly squeamish about blood. Honestly, this was kind of a terrible idea, walking around unfamiliar ground in the dark with an open wine bottle, but it was too late to back out now.

"Keep clear of the puddles," he joked, with a wry smirk. "He might pull you under."

There was nothing in this direction that looked even remotely like the sort of water one could drown themselves in, even if they were trying, so puddles would be the best avenue available to a malicious spirit. Even those might have been frozen over, though — Ford wasn't really sure how the weather was in Ireland this time of year.

"I've never really understood why so many Muggle ghost stories involve them trying to kill the living people," he mused, failing to realize how morbid this particular train of thought was until after it had left his mouth. "If they're really so opposed to them they ought to just annoy them until they leave. If everyone dies on the property then they've just got new ghostly lodgers, forever."

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Set by Lady!

"Now, that just sounds like a kelpie," Cash said with a laugh. Maybe the watery ghosts were the muggles' way of explaining kelpies; they were certainly committed to trying to find reason in a world where magic was concealed from them, and it seemed like a logical train of thought to Cash. The magical world was practically full of things that could kill you.

He was almost relieved that Greengrass said the morbid thing; it meant that Cash could respond by being morbid too, without feeling too weird about reintroducing death to their conversation. "Maybe they want the company," he suggested, "Or maybe they're so angry about being dead that they want other people to be dead, too."

That was a little dark, wasn't it? At least it was a hypothetical, but Cash still felt a little itchy about how dark it had been. He made a vague gesture for the bottle.

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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MJ made this!

Ford noticed the ask for the wine bottled and wondered a little self-consciously if he should have already taken a drink and passed it along. That was the trouble with trying to pace yourself on someone else, if you were the one holding the alcohol, he supposed. He took a quick drink and handed it over.

"It's got to be one or the other, though, not both," he replied. "Say I'm a lonely ghost and I wanted company... I'd only try to kill people I liked. People I wouldn't mind having around for a long time." Or forever, ostensibly — since forever hadn't happened yet no one really knew if ghosts could make it that long, but it wasn't as though any of the ones that were here showed much sign of fading away any time soon. "Or they can be angry and hateful and trying to drive everyone out so they can be alone. But so many of these stories have a bunch of angry ghosts who also want to kill all the living people, and that just doesn't make any sense," he argued. "Surrounding yourself with a bunch of people you don't like who are also angry that you murdered them. But I guess it's not really meant to make sense," he concluded with a shrug. Which was true; it was meant to scare people, not provide a cohesive narrative. These were ghost stories, not adventure novels.

  

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Cash took a quick drink, and kept his gloved hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle for a moment. "I think you're right," he said, because probably Greengrass was - certainly he spent more time in the company of ghosts than Cash ever had. "Maybe it makes more sense if things like this are just monsters, like werewolves or sort-of-vampires, or even kelpie. They're not even really trying to kill people. They want something else." And perhaps monsters like that were the shelter of people who didn't have real reasons to be afraid; they had never seen how closely humans could tread to darkness, and Cash couldn't say that, either.

Cash glanced at the house again, and back at Greengrass. "Or if they think they're right about traumatic deaths making ghosts monstrous," Cash suggested; that let them get away with incoherent narratives, maybe.

And he could believe that the dead were angry.

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"Muggles do tend to get mixed up about things," Ford agreed, at the comments about various types of beings and beasts. They never really had their stories straight, either, from one group of them to the next... but that made sense, he supposed, because it was silly to expect that Muggles might be a monolith just as it was ridiculous to suggest that all of wizardkind was alike. Still, it made for interesting subject matter back in his Muggles Studies course, because the strange things that Muggles believed about everything seemed to have no end.

(He wasn't sure about that line they want something else, though. It might be technically true, because vampires didn't necessarily want to kill people so much as they wanted blood so they could keep on surviving, themselves... but since killing people was a relatively major step in the process, Ford didn't think it did anyone any favors to mince words on technicalities, in this instance. Werewolves and kelpies, too — sure, maybe they wanted something else, but if they killed you it didn't matter much, did it?)

"Good thing it doesn't work like that, huh?" he continued cheerfully, in response to the comment about traumatic deaths. "If anything, I think the people I've talked with who died in awful ways are even more interesting than the normal ones. They've got great stories," he said, though it occurred to him he had never stopped to consider why that was. Maybe the sorts of people who had interesting, dramatic lives — the sorts of lives that made for great stories — often found themselves in the way of violent death. Hm.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Set by Lady!

Cash spent a lot of time thinking about death and not a lot of time thinking about ghosts; or, at least, not a lot of time thinking about ghosts until he was here. He kept his hand on the neck of the wine bottle; his grip was tight. He tried to reel himself back in, and took another quick sip of wine - more of a gulp, really, and Cash worried that the pull of his throat had been more desperate than he wanted to admit.

"Yeah," Cash said. He offered the bottle to Greengrass because he knew that his response was a little lame; there was wine and he was safe here, it would be fine. He added quickly, trying to make up for it: "I'll bet they do. The Grey Lady at Hogwarts was never really chatty, but I know Nearly Headless Nick was, and he was a knight or something, wasn't he?"

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"Yeah," Ford said with a nod; he knew Nearly Headless Nick fairly well, especially considering that he hadn't been in his house at Hogwarts. There was something that seemed sort of off about Lestrange though, all of the sudden. Maybe it was something in his voice, or maybe it was his stance, or the grip he had on the wine bottle when Ford reached out to take it back. He wasn't sure the other man was really interested in hearing much about Nearly Headless Nick, at any rate.

He took a drink and considered whether or not he ought to say anything. He hadn't noticed when Lestrange had started drifting, but it probably hadn't happened all at once. The conversation over the past few minutes contained any number of suitable triggers for it, really — death, ghosts, trauma. Ford was comfortable discussing all of those things in the abstract, since he dealt with them so often, but he didn't expect that everyone would be — and he knew that experiencing someone's actual death, when they left and they didn't come back, was a lot different than talking about death in the abstract when you were chatting with a ghost.

So: it could have been anything, but it was probably personal, and Lestrange hadn't brought it up.

He chewed his lower lip and looked back at the house. They were going to be here all night together. Lestrange had already been a little strange before, on their walk to the manor. If this was the sort of thing that was going to keep coming up, it might help to get it out in the open — then, at least, Ford would know what subjects to avoid so that he didn't force them down into it again.

"You alright?" he asked, looking back at Lestrange. He wasn't sure he expected an answer.

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Set by Lady!

He didn’t know what the trigger was, was the thing; Cash was sort of morbid nearly always, but that didn’t kick him into this vaguely drifting state every time. He was trying to think of a quick and easy way to ground himself when Greengrass asked you alright? and Cash’s eyes flicked upwards at him, too startled by the question to deny it right away like he ought to.

He wanted to say: Yeah, of course, or I’m not crazy or don’t worry about it. He swallowed. He wanted a cigarette but did not know how to articulate this. One of Greengrass’ curls was sticking out at the wrong angle and he wanted to reach up and adjust it, but that was too intimate, and he had left his hands out a little from his side, like he was a bird considering the merits of flying away.

A beat or two passed before Cash’s brain finally caught up and he answered. ”Yeah,” he said, ”Yeah, I will be, can you just -“ he wanted to ask Greengrass to grab his shoulders, a sort of forced grounding exercise that he would have asked Angie for if he’d drifted into her apartment, but they didn’t know each other like that, and he desperately did not want to seem crazier than he was sure he did right now ”- can you talk to me about something? Anything.”

Maybe not anything, actually. ”What you think the muggles will do tonight, maybe.”

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MJ made this!

In the beat that passed before Lestrange answered Ford had enough time to regret asking, but also to wonder at half a dozen things that might have happened, or that Lestrange might be thinking, or things he might say in response. When he did reply, though, Ford was caught off- balance by his words. He'd never dealt with a request like that before, but he wasn't going to refuse; there was something desperate and flighty and panicked about his tone that made it clear he needed this, even if it was weird.

"Yeah, okay, sure," Ford agreed quickly. He looked around for a spot to set the wine bottle down and found a level-ish rock to rest it on. He couldn't have really said why he thought he might need his hands free. What was he expecting Lestrange to do, fall over? Well — actually, given the way he looked at the moment, it wasn't impossible. Ford didn't regret ditching the wine, at any rate; clearly neither of them needed it at the moment.

"They've, uhm. They've probably got something set up against the outside walls of the house they can use to make some noises. Sudden bangs, probably, or maybe something else if they're clever, like a howling sound or voices that are almost covered by the wind. They might have a few things set up inside to make noises, too, like a piano that plays itself at midnight or a victrola in a hidden closet. With that whole story they told us about the mother I'm sure they'll have a noose somewhere. Maybe just out, so we can find it, or maybe they'll have it rigged to drop down or swing out into a hallway when we walk by."

Was this what Lestrange wanted? Ford could not really imagine it was helping, but he didn't want to stop in case it was. He wracked his brain for other things he'd seen done or even heard of in the past. He didn't really know what the Muggles were going to do tonight (that was the whole fun of it, wasn't it?) but suspected Lestrange was less interested in practical specifics, given the way he'd asked, and more interested in just hearing a voice to focus on.

"Footprints in the hallway, I bet. Wet ones from the kid who drowned or muddy ones from the wolf killing or maybe blood, but probably not. It's harder to make it look real, if it's blood, and it's harder to clean without magic, too. Here — come this way," he suggested, with a gesture towards the nearest copse of trees. It might help to get out of the wind a bit, he thought, or it might help just to move. He held out a hand for Lestrange, not because the ground was particularly treacherous here but rather because Ford suspected he might need it all the same.

  

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It was less about what Greengrass was actually saying, which Cash was having a hard time latching onto at the beginning even as he listened carefully, and more that he was talking. The lilt of his voice over the sound of the wind and the creek of the manor in darkness served as a reminder - that Cash was here, nowhere else, there wasn't any actual danger, and he had nothing to fear from the dead. Footprints in the hall, a rigged piano, a noose that popped out - this was all so real and practical and far-flung from things he half-remembered. He sort of wished there was more wine in him, but knew that wouldn't really help - might just ground him in all the wrong ways.

He latched onto Greengrass' hand before he could think about it, another real thing he could hold onto. He tried to avoid physical touch with men when he could help it; like there was something in him that would tip them off to his inclinations. And if they were so inclined, then it was dangerous for Cash to be involved - he had the sense that his mind was no longer a comfortable place for a legilimens to go, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk killing anyone else. (There were exceptions, like Felix Prewett, he could still be impulsive and he was so lonely, but he did not want to be responsible and any real feelings were risky.)

He couldn't afford to be picky now, though, kept a firm grip on Greengrass' hand like it was tethering him; still looser than his grip had been on the bottle. He was not sure he trusted himself to say anything; he didn't want to insist that he wasn't crazy until he was more certain he could say it with confidence, so that Greengrass might believe him. He felt like his eyes were too large, like he didn't have any of the disaffected air he sometimes tried to put on - he had spent more time with Greengrass already today than he usually spent with people, and maybe that made it harder to keep up enough walls to stop this from spilling out of him. Maybe it wasn't too late, though, or too terrible - Greengrass had offered a hand, after all.

They stepped into the little copse of trees before Cash trusted himself to speak again. "Thanks," he said. He had not let go of Greengrass' hand.

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"Yeah, of course," Ford answered, as though this was an entirely normal thing to ask someone to do for you, and as though there had been no chance at all of his saying no. Well, one of those sentiments was true. He wouldn't have refused, with Lestrange looking like that, even if he hadn't felt vaguely responsible for triggering... whatever this was. Presumably, Lestrange didn't have these sort of strange, crumble-inside-yourself moments often; if he was known for it Ford really thought he would have heard about it before now.

"Sorry. My fault," he said. Lestrange was still holding his hand, although they'd stopped walking, and Ford thought he ought to let go, but didn't. He didn't want Lestrange to think he was pulling back, particularly if he hadn't entirely finished coming down from whatever this was. It was a small thing, letting the other man hang on to him a moment longer than was socially acceptable, so why deny it if it was helping? "I guess I can get a little weird about this stuff sometimes. When I'm just talking about it, it's easy to forget that it's... real, you know? But I'm sorry," he said again. After a slight pause, he asked, "Are you, uhm, okay now? Or do you want me to keep speculating about what the Muggles are up to?"

  

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"It wasn't you, really, it's -" Cash broke off. He didn't know a way to explain what had happened, to convince Greengrass that he was cool and fine and it wouldn't happen again, without making it sound like he was simply a few steps away from a madhouse. Certainly he couldn't tell the truth, or at least not all of it, and he was not sure how to explain what had happened when he did not entirely know where to begin. He pushed his free hand through his hair and, with a vague twinge of reluctance, let go of Greengrass' hand.

"It wasn't anything you said, really - I just had this thought that popped into my head. That maybe it's lucky that the dead don't stick around to blame us for things," Cash said. He looked at one of the trees behind Greengrass, instead of directly at him - he couldn't think of a less honest way to explain this, and ensuring that Greengrass did not think him utterly mad was the most important thing, at the moment. "And it stuck. But I'm fine now, really."

Well, probably. He felt embarrassed, but back in his own body; no longer liable to float away.

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Lucky that the dead don't stick around to blame us for things. Wow, that was a hell of a thing to say. It was, especially, a hell of a thing to say to someone who was by all rights little more than a friendly acquaintance; despite being in school together, he couldn't claim to know Lestrange very well at all except for reconnecting with him last month at the club. Ford was no stranger to having a lot on your mind you couldn't say — it happened especially often with his sisters — so if that was the out loud version he could only imagine what else was going on, underneath. No wonder Lestrange had looked so stricken.

"We don't have to stay here, if it's too much," he offered, tone soft. He didn't know what was going on and didn't feel it was his place to ask, but if he had to guess he'd say Lestrange wasn't having much fun at the moment, and this whole outing was supposed to have been a fun break from their daily lives, not a chance to confront their inner demons. Maybe if they believed in this stuff, a haunted house would be a fitting place for an existential crisis, but not when they both knew better.

"There's probably a few rooms at the inn back in town. Or we could floo home. I could just tell the Muggles you got too scared," he teased lightly, though as soon as it was out of his mouth he wondered if it was a little too soon to be teasing (surely this was not what Lestrange had in mind when he'd said he was hoping to be scared).

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   Cassius Lestrange

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Cash was feeling more exposed than he'd like to admit; it was almost worse that Greengrass was using that soft tone instead of being a dick about it. It wasn't like he was a victim, or anything - just that sometimes his brain wrapped itself onto unpleasant things and didn't let go, and The teasing felt better, and he grinned crookedly at it, recovering some of the general attitude he liked to have. It was all well and good to be maudlin as long as no one caught on.

"Nah," Cash said, "I'm fine now. Besides, I'm sort of curious as to see what the muggles have concocted for us, right?"

If the muggles were guaranteed to do anything it was keep him grounded; they might manage to startle him, but not in the way that other things would. Besides, he didn't want Greengrass to think he was boring or couldn't handle things - Greengrass officially knew too much about him for them to not become friends after this.

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"Alright," Ford said hesitantly. A part of him was relieved, because he hadn't budgeted for the inn and if he came home early he'd have to explain to his siblings (or at least to Noble) where he'd been and what had happened, which he didn't think would be fun. And he was having fun with Lestrange, aside from the past two minutes or so,  so he was glad that they wouldn't need to end their outing on such a weird, negative note. He was hesitant, though, because he wasn't sure Lestrange really was as alright as he said he was. Being on the outside of that moment looking in had been unsettling and a little frightening (though nothing, he was sure, like being inside it), and he was hoping they could get through the rest of the night without a repeat performance.

"I'll go grab the wine," he offered, because he didn't know what else to say. It seemed like they were at a transition point, between that and back to normal, and historically speaking he wasn't great at conversational transitions.

  

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Set by Lady!