Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"I'm using your floo," he declared, crossing towards the fireplace without a backwards look at Mrs. Finch. It was an imposition, but he didn't have time to walk anywhere (or to say proper goodbyes) and he certainly did not trust himself with apparition at the moment. Luckily, he highly doubted Mrs. Finch would be familiar enough with the Pettigrew address to catch where he was going.