May 3rd, 1891 — Macnair's Residence, London

Ford was coming directly from his weekly conversation with Cash, which he felt more than a little weird about. He'd been distracted all evening, obviously, and he was worried Lestrange might have noticed, though he hadn't said anything about it. On half a dozen occasions Ford had hesitated during a natural pause in the conversation, wondering if he ought to say something about his plans for the rest of the evening. Lestrange and Macnair were related; he might have been able to give Ford some clue as to what to expect (then again — maybe not, given the hints Macnair had been dropping in his letters — not the sort of thing a cousin was likely to have any experience with). Ultimately, though, he'd decided against it. If he even hinted at where he was heading, there was a chance Lestrange might say something to talk him out of it (intentionally or not), and — well. He wasn't sure he wanted to be talked out of it. He'd come this far, sending letters with lines he regretted immediately after the owl left his window, and now it was… it was inevitable, wasn't it? As inevitable as it had been the first week of April, when they'd been holding each other's gaze in the club and Macnair had said he wasn't afraid of anything.

Ford felt conspicuous going to the floo at Black's instead of out the front door into Hogsmeade, and even more so giving an address that obviously wasn't his. He had a suitable cover story if anyone asked — Macnair needed assistance with something. Not that Ford would be able to say anything more than that. He hadn't asked what Macnair needed assistance with (because wasn't it obvious?) but perhaps he should have, just in case someone did ask. A note for next time.

(Next time?)

If he hesitated any more he was going to lose his nerve. No one was around to notice. He checked his watch — three minutes past eight — and stepped into the green flames.

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