A broken ankle. That had to hurt like hell! Adrenaline spiking and concern creasing his brow, Anthony turned to Ms. Victoire with a severe look of consternation on his features. He ignored her hiss to lay back, instead letting blue hues sweep over her face looking for further injury and settling on the blood dribbling down her porcelain cheek. Before he could stop himself, Anthony lifted a gentle hand and brushed the dribble of blood away with his thumb. His touch was featherlight and barely there but he couldn’t help himself. He ached to hold her close and protect her, even if he had absolutely no right at all.

“I’m fine,” he hummed dismissively again. “My priority right now is you.” If his voice held a little too much affected honesty, he didn’t note it. “We have to get you back to the house and see that ankle mended,” Anthony continued. He turned then to look at the tattered remnants of his wand, only just realizing that the splintering had broken through to his forearm. With a frown, the brunette pulled his ripped sleeve over the worst of it and hoped he might get away with not drawing too much attention. It stung but he could deal with that later. What really bothered him was the fact that they didn’t have a wand between them now. (Or at least he assumed as much, else the lady likely would already have helped herself out of this mess.)

He twisted then and attempted to stand. The ground seemed to lurch away from him and Anthony’s pupils blew wide. Now that was one hell of a headache he had, blooming behind his eyeballs. The brunette managed to stand regardless, blinking away the worst of the nausea that had risen in his gut. He steadied himself against the bank and set his teeth. There would be time for dealing with his own injuries later.

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