"Why?" Ford asked, and his facade of stoicism broke slightly here; his voice sounded as anxious about this as he felt. "I won't tell anyone you're stealing."

He'd said it as a bargaining chip of sorts, but as soon as he'd voiced it he knew it was a lie. It was going to be obvious to Mr. Brownhill that someone had been stealing, sooner or later. Ford, as a young man who had unfettered access to the house during the period of time in question, would have been the prime suspect. He wasn't going to let himself take the fall for Billy Darrow's thievery. What the hell was he going to do if Mr. Brownhill pressed charges against him? He couldn't go to jail, or Azkaban. He didn't know what Darrow was after exactly, but he'd said it was rare. If it had a high enough of a price tag, the consequences for stealing it could be dire. Or if it was frequently used for something not-super-legal, that would be pretty damning, too.

No, as soon as he got out of this, he was going straight to the authorities to tell them what he'd discovered about Darrow. But he had to get out first, and getting out might be predicated on pacifying Darrow, at least a little bit. At least long enough that he could make it to the exit without getting a spell in the back. Ford took a second to reorient himself in the space, then started slinking towards the door (which he still hadn't realized had been magically locked).

"I'll pretend I didn't see anything," he said. He took a step out from behind a cabinet and saw Darrow at the other end of the room, then hastily stepped back. He wasn't sure if the other man had seen him or not, but his heart was suddenly racing. What was that fucking spell again?