Ford didn't want to wait, particularly, but he thought it would make him look a little ridiculous if he said so. Fisk might have noticed that he already had a stack of folded and sealed letters in one hand; there was not anywhere else he could be going with them aside from the post office.

He eyed the counter, across the room. He ought to make his way over, so that he could do his business as quickly as possible once the postmaster returned and then leave, but he wasn't sure how steady the floor was between him and the counter. And — another thought occurred suddenly — if Fisk was going to be here when the gentleman came back, he might overhear Ford sending letters to half the shops in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, and ask what he was doing, and then Ford would have to lie about it. The prospect of trying to come up with a feasible lie for Fisk was even more nerve-wracking than the prospect of trying to carry on a normal, simple conversation with him.

"Maybe I'll try my luck later," he said, with a frown. "If you can't make it from one end of the room to the next without falling, I'm not sure I like my chances. I didn't play Quidditch," he said, then balked. Why had he said anything about Quidditch?

He wanted to look away, so that hopefully Fisk wouldn't notice his cheeks getting a shade lighter, but he was too morbidly curious how Fisk would take that to tear his eyes away.