Tonight hadn't really been playing out the way he had expected, on a multitude of levels. There was the weird stuff, from earlier, but Ford had pushed it out of mind as soon as possible and it hadn't come up again, which was good. There was the house itself, which was honestly more well put together than he'd anticipated; a few of the slamming noises had even startled him, and the whispers made the hair on the back of his neck stand up even though he knew it was just a phonograph. The feeling that they weren't alone in the house, though, was very real and very present, and every time they rounded a corner Ford found himself wondering briefly if maybe they would see a ghost, even though of course he knew it was more reasonable to expect they'd stumble upon a Muggle trying to hide behind a grandfather clock, or something.
Which was the subject of his third mismatched expectation: he'd thought at some point they might actually sleep, but he kept getting glances of clocks in the hallways or bedrooms ticking later and later, and Lestrange had shown no interest in slowing down. He didn't mind, really; he was having a lot of fun exploring. But also: he was tired, and the half bottle of wine he'd had earlier wasn't exactly helping with that, and he had to work tomorrow morning. Lestrange, presumably, did not; he was a Quidditch captain and probably set his own hours, and Ford could guess that none of them included early mornings. Well, he'd learned his lesson about scheduling overnight trips on weekdays, at any rate. Tomorrow was only Friday, so it would be fine if he was tired at work, he thought. He could get through this and just not make a habit of it. Certainly, he was not going to be the one to suggest they go to bed, if Lestrange was still having fun.
"They do," he confirmed, stretching his arms up and to one side to try and keep his blood flowing and thereby keep his brain working at full capacity. It wasn't that two in the morning was that late, for someone who occasionally went to parties and balls and things, so it must have been the wine that had him feeling so loopy already. "What do you think they'll do to up the ante? Honestly, I think the whispers are their best move so far."
Set by Lady!
Which was the subject of his third mismatched expectation: he'd thought at some point they might actually sleep, but he kept getting glances of clocks in the hallways or bedrooms ticking later and later, and Lestrange had shown no interest in slowing down. He didn't mind, really; he was having a lot of fun exploring. But also: he was tired, and the half bottle of wine he'd had earlier wasn't exactly helping with that, and he had to work tomorrow morning. Lestrange, presumably, did not; he was a Quidditch captain and probably set his own hours, and Ford could guess that none of them included early mornings. Well, he'd learned his lesson about scheduling overnight trips on weekdays, at any rate. Tomorrow was only Friday, so it would be fine if he was tired at work, he thought. He could get through this and just not make a habit of it. Certainly, he was not going to be the one to suggest they go to bed, if Lestrange was still having fun.
"They do," he confirmed, stretching his arms up and to one side to try and keep his blood flowing and thereby keep his brain working at full capacity. It wasn't that two in the morning was that late, for someone who occasionally went to parties and balls and things, so it must have been the wine that had him feeling so loopy already. "What do you think they'll do to up the ante? Honestly, I think the whispers are their best move so far."
Set by Lady!