Ford nodded. A lot of these things were situational, or at least they were to start with, he suspected. A combination of an empty manor in mild disrepair and a cold, dark countryside with howling wind and someone who was ready to be scared, expecting it. He glanced at Lestrange out of the corner of his eye as his mind drifted back to that line from the letter. His mind kept sticking on it, because it had been so unexpected. Lestrange didn't seem like the sort of person who would want to be frightened — but then, Ford wasn't really sure he knew exactly what sort of person that was.

It was sort of a sad thing to say, was the thing. I would love to be scared. He couldn't really explain why he thought it was sad, but it struck him that way all the same. And he hadn't thought Lestrange would have anything to be sad about, necessarily. He was from a family so well established he was basically famous for his last name alone, and he played Quidditch, and he got to spend his free time doing whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted and he had no sisters to have to fret about. Sure, he was allowed to be sad if he wanted to be — Ford wasn't trying to police how people were allowed to feel about their lives — but it was perplexing, all the same.

"What sorts of things are you scared of?" he asked suddenly. Under normal circumstances it was far too personal a question, but if there was any time or place to ask something like that, it would have been here. They were on their way to a 'haunted' house, wandering alone on an abandoned country road, and talking about how the wind howled like a werewolf might. And Lestrange had started it, even if it had been days ago that he had written that line and even if Ford was reading far more into it than the other man had ever intended.