She was conscious, but she wasn’t well—that was apparent enough. She was stumbling over her words, scratched and bloody, and looked utterly exhausted. He frantically dug into his back pocket until he found a handkerchief, and then his other hand slid down her arm to her wrist. He made quick work of wiping the blood away, but it left a crimson stain on her skin that wouldn’t disappear as easily. Magic, he needed magic. But where was his wand?

He dismissed the idea of scouring the room for it, worried that if he left her alone for even a a few seconds that she’d collapse. He stepped closer to he and brought the handkerchief to her cheek, doing his best to clear the blood from the scratch. She was stammering through her explanation, speaking in fragments that he struggled to put together. His free hand found her waist, a gesture meant to steady her while he wiped away the last of the dirt and blood and tears that had begun to crust on her face.

“Who’s Walter? And—a body?” He found her gaze, his eyes wide but not panicked. Not yet. For all that he’d practically begged her to leave her job, he hoped this was something Ministry related. Her clothes suggested otherwise.

“—You need to stop and breathe,” he said, feeling her body jerk and shake under his touch. He needed answers, but he needed her to not collapse on his bedroom floor even more.

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