He moved, but it took no less than ten seconds for her to consider that having one of their housemaids discover her dilemma via the destruction of their fireplace mantle was preferable to having a gentleman—injured, handsome, andpossibly intoxicated, she realized as he hovered over her—standing so close and speaking in such an intimate, hushed tone. She stared up at him, heart pounding and a wide-eyed expression of fear frozen on her face.

"Well, you were two inches away from my father," she squeaked out, glancing past his shoulder to confirm that the disguised urn was, in fact, still in its place. It was, and it was a good thing to; she could explain away the floo powder and the metal, but she had absolutely zero desire to explain how her father's ashes had scattered across the room. (Not to mention that the prospect itself made her stomach turn!)

"You're hurt. You can't apparate, and my floo powder is lost. We'll go through the door quietly—" Hopefully he was capable in his state; if not she might have to use the muffliato charm and she was very out of practice. "—and you can do whatever you wish from there." Whether that meant apparating away or walking until someone had pity on him, she didn't know. She cringed to think he might do something that led to an injury, but what was she to do?

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