Headache didn't begin to cover what was going on in Andrew's head. Migraine was more appropriate. By the time they reached the Atrium, he was relying far too heavily on Sophie to keep his balance. His face had gone white as a sheet, the nausea working hard to overpower him. He took several deep breaths in through his nose, eyes fixed on the exits. They were on firm flooring again and it helped, as did being able to focus on the repetitive motion of Sophie's hand on his back. She was so very kind, and he was doing as she asked. "The sooner the better," he admitted, straightening as some of the discomfort eased. The lift had been the worst of it, he was sure. Logic told him what Sophie had planned for getting him home, and while he wasn't in the mood for dealing with muggles or their confusing money, it was the best option.
He stood back as Sophie hailed a taxi, steady enough to wait and climb in after her. Keeping his eyes squinted against the sun, it was a relief to sink into the relative shade of the car.
When they were settled side by side and moving into traffic, Andrew lay his head back and closed his eyes. They were pressed close enough that their movements would jostle one another. Strangely, it was a comfort to Andrew.