Ford frowned briefly at Lestrange shrugging it off so soon. It had looked heavy, but who was he to argue with the person who'd actually gotten hit with it? Hopefully he actually thought he was fine, and wasn't just trying to downplay it for some reason. It wasn't as though Ford was going to judge him for getting an injury — particularly not when it had been his own failure to catch the thing that had resulted in it in the first place. But Lestrange hadn't been looking, so maybe he hadn't seen how much Ford had tried and failed to prevent anything from falling on him.

"Alright, if you say so," he relented, moving away from the hutch now that Lestrange was back on his feet. "But if you end up with some lasting head trauma and you get dizzy during a Quidditch match and you fall off your broom and die, you can't blame me, alright? No vengeful hauntings," he teased, turning his back to the other man so that he could start towards the stairs. "And watch out," he cautioned. "They might not be done yet. You never know."