One month and ten days… that was how long it had been since the evening on the cliff face with Lissington. Forty days and forty nights. How poetic, Basil thought ironically. Even still, despite everything that had happened with Atticus (the engagement, the fights, the appearance of courting) and with Ms. Victoire (her support, their agreement, his reliance on her), even Diana (her transformation, their little chat, the pain of being known and loved anyway) — Basil still felt just as empty as he had that evening.

It was like his gut had clenched, wrapping his intestines all up into knots, and had refused to budge since. Eating was impossible, and smoking? Basil hated to admit how daily a habit it had become. He looked more drawn these days than usual, like a walking corpse. One of the first years had commented upon it; she’d cracked a joke when she thought the professor was out of earshot but Basil had heard it. He’d heard it, and sunk into it. The grief wasn’t just Lissington though, he supposed. It was probably a combination of stressors that were starting to overwhelm the brunette what with everything happening all at once.

Out there, in the great wide world, there was someone who knew more than he wanted anyone to know about him and Lissington. Someone he didn’t really know in return and who, at the drop of a sickle, could decide she no longer wanted to keep his— their secret. Diana had, in the palm of her once-paw, every power over Basil that the brunette had never in all his days willed anyone to have. Some nights he was sure she would tell someone - mama maybe, or Atticus - and he couldn’t keep down the bile that rose at the thought and made him wretch. (He’d already had to apologize to the house elves twice.)

All in all, the transfiguration professor was veritably a ghost of who he’d been at the beginning of term. What a lovely summer had come before everything went straight to hell.

Today he was trying his best to keep everything under wraps; to keep the lid on a bubbling, brewing anxiety that threatened at every moment to consume him. As Basil shut the door to his office and tried to escape his thoughts, he wondered idly if the only safe space left was his quarters. He didn’t trust lingering too long in his classroom, or even his office really. It felt… too exposed. At any moment someone could waltz in on him having an episode and Basil wouldn't be able to explain himself if prompted. No. He'd taken to grading in his quarters as of late, and research? He hadn't looked at his work in weeks. (Poor Ida would fret soon if he ignored her much longer.) He barely popped into the Great Hall as it was.

A disservice to the students, surely? You’re a wretched excuse for a professor, putting your own needs before theirs.

Basil grit his teeth.

The walk from his Transfiguration classroom to Ravenclaw Tower was muscle memory by now, instinct even, after the past few weeks. Basil was on autopilot as he rounded the final corner and wholly unprepared for the sight that would greet him. Coming up short and halting abruptly, the brunette started.

There, curled up like an urchin and looking miserably low was the very person he’d been avoiding like the plague. And, to make matters worse, the red-head was camped out in front of his door evidently here with purpose. For a moment, Basil was inclined to think he was imagining things. Had his nerves finally frayed enough that he was cracked? Was this early madness coming to swallow him whole? You’re not that lucky, Foxwood… something nasty whispered in the back of his mind. So this had to be reality then.

Inching forward, confusion scrawled all over weary features, Basil approached the very clear form of Lissington curled up on the ground. He looked… worn too, broken even. Instantly Basil’s frazzled confusion spluttered. Had he done this? Was Gus looking, feeling, and sitting here like this his fault? Guilt touched at the anxiety in Basil’s heart but the brunette shoved it aside as he crouched carefully before the other. No, something had happened. Something more than just their conversation had to have prompted Lissington into this state, that much Basil knew deep in his bones.

“Gus?” He whispered gently, reaching out a hand to brush against the red-head’s sleeve. Touching him after all that had passed felt different, electric maybe even, but Basil ignored the sensation. He had to get to the bottom of whatever this was… and soon, before a wandering Ravenclaw on their way to the common room spotted them. Basil’s fingers curled into the red-head’s sleeve (and held for dear life). “Gus, what’s happened?” His voice was molten with concern, even as Basil bit back an endearment between ‘Gus’ and ‘ what’. Even before it had never been his place to speak in such a way, but now? (Now, knowing what he wanted and how much he couldn’t have it, was hard for Basil to reconcile.) The brunette cleared his throat.

“Come in to my rooms,” Basil murmured gently, tugging on the other’s sleeve. “Let me get you a cup of tea.”

Please.

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