He sat on an armchair in front of the fire at 12 Grimmauld Place, staring at the flames, still wearing his torn and singed clothes from the fight at the Ministry. He knew he had some nasty looking cuts, there was dried blood on his hands and he knew at least some of it was his, and the ringing in his head promised a nice bruise coming. He should have got up, got a shower, changed his clothes at least... But he couldn’t move.