He watched with vague interest as Foxwood unfolded himself from the ground to retrieve the Hufflepuff scarf, and his eyes widened as he made his way toward his bed. Of all the places Gus expected it be, in the bed, curled up next to his head while he slept would have been last on his list. It looked unusually worn in his hands, the colors faded and the holes more evident, almost as if it had known its last days were upon it. He accepted the scarf with an audible thanks, and instead of wrapping it around his neck like he would usually do, the professor draped it across one of his knees next to the teacup  as he dug his fingers into the fabric.

It was amazing how one article of clothing could provide so much relief for Gus; he’d missed the weight around his neck and the softness against his cheek as he drifted off into a fitful night’s sleep; a reminder of better days, when things were much simpler, but then again he’d always be one to cling to the past while simultaneously looking forward to the future. Every single person who mattered to him had worn the scarf at some point, and maybe in a messed up way Gus viewed it as a suit of armor; if he was wearing it, what could happen to him?

(Look what had happened to him in the time when he didn’t have it with him.) The magic of protection had worn off, and now it was just him versus the world.

(It was going to eat him alive.)

That was why he wanted to bury it with his dad, hoping it would provide him with a sense of relief that wherever his dad winded up, he’d get there safely. Fionn Lissington had been a true Gryffindor – loyal, strong, and chivalrous, Gus hadn’t ever met someone who didn’t like him. He was the life of the party and the love of his mam’s life; he was Gus’ hero and the person he strived to become each day of his day. Fionn could be reckless and arrogant, too, just as his children were. People often spoke about how he was similar to his father in almost every way: from his appearance to his mannerisms, very little of Gus was his mam. (Although she'd argue he was kinder than his father, gentler, and wore his heart on his sleeve in ways that Fionn was never able to.)

Not that any of it mattered anymore.

Da was dead and mam didn’t even recognize him anymore.

Gus wasn’t even sure he was going to replace the scarf once it was gone. Maybe it was time to grow up a little and learn how to stand on his own two feet without the need for a security blanket. He was a professor now, and none of the other staff wore clothing meant for students. Plus it wasn’t black (and he inhaled sharply as he blinked back tears at the very thought of having to wear mourning clothing), and wouldn't be allowed around his neck for an entire year. It’d probably look and feel foreign by then.

In that time of contemplation, Foxwood pulled back and Gus whined softly from the back of his throat; he relaxed almost immediately when the hand rested against his knee. He wasn’t sure what he wanted at that moment. A hug? Affection? Just physical touch because it made him feel less alone? Gus had a deep desire to tell Basil just how much he appreciated him – this, now, then, always, and apologizing seemed to be the best way to do. But of course two little words that meant very little was all the man could provide him with, and Gus knew, as his stomach tightened and it became hard to breath, that he wasn’t ever going to be forgiven. He didn’t deserve it, not in the long run, and it became evident as he was told to stop dredging up the past. He was good at that, wasn’t he? Blue eyes closed as his fingers gently curled into his hair, and he sighed with contentment.

Allowing a beat of silence between them, Gus finally gathered the courage to speak. “I know .” He croaked. “The past is all I have now.” It was all he had of his parents, all he had of Fig and all he had of Basil. The man could speak about the foreseeable future all he wanted, but Gus knew, deep in his heart, that it was all going to come crashing down again. He didn’t want to live in the present.

When his eyes opened, Gus saw Basil slightly trembling; he brought the cup back up to his lips and took a deep sip, more to appease the other than for himself, before he sent it to float next to the kettle near the window. Then he stood from the armchair and tugged the other into a tight hug, his face burying into his shoulder. It seemed like tonight, they both needed comfort in each other, although Gus had a sneaking suspicion that Basil's was because of him.

His eyes closed again and he sighed against the man’s robes, suddenly realizing just how exhausted he was; how exhausted he was going to be until this was all over. (How exhausted he was going to be until he came to realize that this was his reality.) “Can we work on being friends again?” He asked quietly. If you want to be. But he didn’t expect him to want to. “Because I’m going to keep you to that promise.”

Then, stepping back, Gus reached forward to entwine his fingers with Basil’s before he tugged him toward the floor. Once there, he sat beside him and gave Basil’s hand a squeeze, offering him a rather pathetic lopsided grin. It fell from his face as he finally sighed and dropped his head against his shoulder, finding he didn’t have much else to say. He wasn’t going to beg Foxwood to be his friend, but at the same time there wasn’t much else he wanted in life right now than knowing he’d have him by his side until he felt okay.

“It’s on Thursday. So I plan on taking this weekend off.” Gus supplied as he closed his eyes again. What he was going to do or where he was going was up in the air – maybe he’d work on figuring out how to pack or the house. Or, even better, he’d steal Fig away for a quick trip somewhere so they could finally catch up.

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