Ford had no experience at all with old Quidditch injuries, so he wasn't sure whether to take Dorian's answer at face- value or not. The tone implied it was nothing serious, but agitating a previous injury of any origin seemed like something that might require attention, in his opinion. He frowned briefly, but it was hardly his job to worry about Mr. Fisk; he was an adult and could look after himself, and Ford hadn't even had anything to do with the injury at all except for being moderately close at hand when it had happened.

"If by we you mean me," he said, moving towards the top of the picture frame. With both hands on one side and his foot planted on the other to keep it from sliding, he stood it upright. It was a large painting, but not unmanageable for one man to carry by himself, and it didn't seem to be unreasonably heavy. He could manage it without trouble, particularly if it was only a short distance. "You shouldn't be rearranging art galleries with a mortal wound," he joked. "Where should we put it?"