Bill felt very weak. He'd hardly eaten in two weeks; food was scarce and evidently his captor didn't class his health as a high priority. He'd been locked in one of the normal, less-lethal vaults up in the offices, grateful for any scraps or drops of water he could get, feeling his strength burn away by the day as he tried to tend to his own wounds.
Once he thought he heard voices, but shouting himself hoarse hadn't done any good. The walls were too thick. He knew he was lucky 'Stephen' had picked one that wasn't airtight. Then after what felt like half a lifetime, the thing that had called itself Voldemort appeared and stunned him again.
It was far too late by the time he came to to do anything even if he'd had any strength. All he could do was stand there, swaying slightly as he tried to keep his feet. His hair, long since come loose from its ponytail, hung down over his face and blew slightly in the wind. He looked over the street, quiet and dark for now. Maybe someone would see the fire, making the bank like a giant torch at the end of the street once it got going. Probably they wouldn't until it was too late. Would anyone even hear him if he called? It didn't seem likely.
If Fleur came, too late... anyone in his family. Maybe it was better if they didn't see him die. "I'm sorry, love," he whispered, closing his eyes. "So sorry."