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."