Ford sighed rather hopelessly at that. “It’s not that kind of meeting,” he said, swirling his wine in his glass listlessly. He hadn’t had much to drink, yet; it was more of a prop at this point. His stomach still hadn’t entirely recovered from Friday night yet — or, it probably had, but Ford didn’t feel like it had and the idea of drinking too much on a nearly empty stomach made him preemptively queasy. He’d hardly had anything to eat at dinner, because he’d been distracted by the whole thing with Macnair and his letter and whether or not he would write back. Not an ideal night for drinking, really, but people didn’t come to the club and just sit around with nothing in their hands. Ford would rather have had a glass of wine he was barely touching than one of Lestrange’s cigarettes, at any rate.

“I already know how it ends,” he continued, tone tense. “So it’s a pointless meeting, is what it is. Just so someone can tell me what I already know.”

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