"Oh," commented Ford, because this had not actually occurred to him. He didn't think of Quidditch as a dangerous sort of occupation. The last Quidditch match he'd been to had been in school (honestly, Lestrange might have even been playing), so in his head it was sort of bound up in the same realm as potion brewing competitions and gobstones and wizard's chess. Some of Ford's coworkers talked to vampires and hunted werewolves. That sort of stuff was dangerous; Quidditch was a game.

It really ought to have occurred to him, though, because of course he knew what had happened at the Quidditch World Cup. Lestrange had been on that team, too, hadn't he? So it was probably at the forefront of his mind, even, which made Ford feel self- conscious and thoughtless for not having anticipated that response.

"Of course. Sorry," he said, turning his attention back to the food. "Well. I hope you don't." He probably should have specified — get hurt? die? quit Quidditch? — but failed to do so.