They were just going to move on, apparently. While it might have been nice to believe that this was due to Ford's ability to steer conversations away from awkwardness and in to safer waters, he knew better; they were only talking about something else now because Lestrange didn't want to talk about the first thing he'd said anymore. That added another layer, which made this whole conversation even more complicated than it already had been. Something he wanted to bring up, but didn't want to make out to be a big deal; something he would answer questions about honestly, but wouldn't elaborate on without prompting. Perfectly happy to just move on in the conversation, once again as though it was normal to say those sorts of things.
Surely he would have known if there was something actually wrong with Lestrange, wouldn't he have? He ought to have heard something about it — the other man was hardly an enigma, lurking on the edges of society. He was a Lestrange. He played Quidditch. He hung around at Black's. People who were off did not play Quidditch and hold memberships at gentleman's clubs, did they? On the other hand — accidentally arranging to spend a night alone in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic did sound like the sort of thing that would happen to Ford. He could almost imagine telling the story to Noble, after the fact.
"Yeah," he said, with a smile that was at least half forced. "Yeah, I imagine so."
He waited a beat, wondering if Lestrange would say something else. He was probably overestimating how long it was quiet, due to his sudden anxiety about the conversation, but he waited as long as he felt he reasonably could in silence, then blurted, "I'm afraid of disappointing everyone." His cheeks flushed, though he could probably blame it on the wind if he needed to. Almost sheepishly, he continued, "That's probably not going to feature in the haunted house either."
He didn't really know why he'd said it. The conversation felt unbalanced, maybe, between all these strangely intimate things that Lestrange kept saying, and he felt like he ought to offer something in return. And besides, if Lestrange did turn out to be a little unhinged, it wasn't like he was going to tell anybody.
Set by Lady!
Surely he would have known if there was something actually wrong with Lestrange, wouldn't he have? He ought to have heard something about it — the other man was hardly an enigma, lurking on the edges of society. He was a Lestrange. He played Quidditch. He hung around at Black's. People who were off did not play Quidditch and hold memberships at gentleman's clubs, did they? On the other hand — accidentally arranging to spend a night alone in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic did sound like the sort of thing that would happen to Ford. He could almost imagine telling the story to Noble, after the fact.
"Yeah," he said, with a smile that was at least half forced. "Yeah, I imagine so."
He waited a beat, wondering if Lestrange would say something else. He was probably overestimating how long it was quiet, due to his sudden anxiety about the conversation, but he waited as long as he felt he reasonably could in silence, then blurted, "I'm afraid of disappointing everyone." His cheeks flushed, though he could probably blame it on the wind if he needed to. Almost sheepishly, he continued, "That's probably not going to feature in the haunted house either."
He didn't really know why he'd said it. The conversation felt unbalanced, maybe, between all these strangely intimate things that Lestrange kept saying, and he felt like he ought to offer something in return. And besides, if Lestrange did turn out to be a little unhinged, it wasn't like he was going to tell anybody.
Set by Lady!