Lucky that the dead don't stick around to blame us for things. Wow, that was a hell of a thing to say. It was, especially, a hell of a thing to say to someone who was by all rights little more than a friendly acquaintance; despite being in school together, he couldn't claim to know Lestrange very well at all except for reconnecting with him last month at the club. Ford was no stranger to having a lot on your mind you couldn't say — it happened especially often with his sisters — so if that was the out loud version he could only imagine what else was going on, underneath. No wonder Lestrange had looked so stricken.

"We don't have to stay here, if it's too much," he offered, tone soft. He didn't know what was going on and didn't feel it was his place to ask, but if he had to guess he'd say Lestrange wasn't having much fun at the moment, and this whole outing was supposed to have been a fun break from their daily lives, not a chance to confront their inner demons. Maybe if they believed in this stuff, a haunted house would be a fitting place for an existential crisis, but not when they both knew better.

"There's probably a few rooms at the inn back in town. Or we could floo home. I could just tell the Muggles you got too scared," he teased lightly, though as soon as it was out of his mouth he wondered if it was a little too soon to be teasing (surely this was not what Lestrange had in mind when he'd said he was hoping to be scared).