"Right, a benevolent ghost," Ford said with a grin. "Warn me about the weather and tell me to wear thicker gloves next time I visit Ireland in February." His hands were fine now, of course, but he'd been quite ready to come inside earlier when they'd finished their exploration of the grounds. That, and being inside felt a little safer — both of the occasions where Lestrange had started acting weird and sad and possibly unhinged had happened outside, in the strong wind and under the large white moon. Inside, on the other hand, Lestrange was being fun and curious and enthusiastic, and didn't mind jokes about dying and coming back to haunt people with little morbid pranks for the rest of time. Maybe it had to do with the setting — maybe it was just too big, outside, and too exposed.

That had been an unexpected train of thought, and Ford momentarily felt a little awkward about it. He didn't want Lestrange to know he was still thinking about the moment in the woods, because if it was the sort of thing Lestrange wanted to talk about he'd had ample opportunity to bring it up before. It didn't feel like a thing he had chosen to share; more that Ford had just been in the right (wrong?) place to witness it, so thinking about it now made him feel mildly guilty. Like he was eavesdropping on a conversation he wasn't really supposed to be a part of, or reading a letter that had fallen at his feet but was addressed to someone else.

"You get a kettle on, and I'll look for the tea?" he asked. They'd reached the kitchen, which was good — it meant they had a ready distraction and Ford didn't need to decide whether to say anything about what was on his mind.