Lestrange was playing along, which was great — making jokes about cards, which was probably not going to fool anyone at the dinner table into thinking that Ford was suave or charming or anything, but it was a nice attempt all the same. Ford had been about to chime in again when Grace had spoken, and he knew enough about her typical behavior in the presence of strange men to be shocked by this, as innocuous as the comment was. He watched as she smiled at them all, wondering if he ought to say something to encourage her or to turn this into a whole conversation in and of itself (not that there was much to say about cards, but — if Grace was going to participate surely the rest of the table could make enough of an effort to carry it through?)

Then Mama piped up again, and Ford's stomach did another nervous flip. He hadn't mentioned Lestrange before, had he? He couldn't recall having done so. Would Mama try and make something up so that she felt she had something relevant to say on the subject? The mere thought was mortifying, but it was a little better than the idea that she might actually remember something he'd said while a student at Hogwarts. Lestrange and he hadn't been friends then, and he wouldn't have said anything mean, but how humiliating would it be to have his own words from when he was twelve or fourteen thrown back at him across the table now? Suppose he'd said something like my potions partner seems a little full of himself or something like that?

His hand tightened on the stem of his wine glass. He looked off to one side and coughed lightly, wondering if it would seem too strange to change the subject so soon. He could probably manage it, only the thing that came to mind most readily was so, Lestrange, Verity is a huge fan of Quidditch which — would probably get him murdered shortly after dessert, so. Best not.