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The fact was that Roderick Dearborn grew quickly annoyed with just how focused Grayson Wilkes got on his so-called 'work'. Ignoring outside variables was the number one way to -- well, get yourself knocked out with what looked to be a discarded bedpost. It had taken him far too long to find Caradoc in the mess; it was only seeing the smoke and fire that he realized he might've been missing several members of their little 'party'.

At least his mask kept most of the smoke from his eyes (most of it, not all of it) and made it easier for him to find his nephew -- apparently too late. He gritted his teeth, irritated, and lowered the bedpost to one side, tossing it next to Wilkes. There wouldn't be much time until the man was back on his feet, he knew, so he grabbed his cousin by the front of his shirt and hauled the still-bleeding man up onto his shoulder, still keeping his walk steady and calm. No need to cause a scene.

The burning bushes actually gave quite a convenient cover for his apparation. They were headed to an unmarked, unoccupied building in the Muggle district a good distance from this place. He'd help Caradoc clean up and then ... well, he'd return here to the battle and hope that nobody had done anything irreparably stupid except for him.

Nobody ever needed to know what had happened here today. Nobody.