"Of poetry?" Ford asked, surprised by the question. He'd never even considered trying to write poetry, despite how much he enjoyed reading it. It wasn't the sort of skill young men were taught to cultivate, and during the most melancholic part of his life immediately after the death of his father, he'd had much more pressing things to devote his time and energy to. "No, just a fan. I don't write."

His comment about bubbly Quidditch players had stuck in Ford's mind. All through school he'd had one particular idea about what Quidditch players were like, a sort of archetype. Dorian Fisk seemed to fit the archetype, from what Ford knew of him — Lestrange, on the other hand, was an actual Quidditch player and did not.

"Do you think there's something about playing Quidditch itself that makes one incapable of writing like Poe?" he asked with interest. "Or did you mean that you think playing Quidditch makes people generally happy, and only people who are typically unhappy can write good poetry?"