At Sybella’s obvious comment, Basil felt his nerves fray. He knew it was a bad idea for Macnair to go anywhere in this condition but to have the healer confirm as much only made him even more anxious. One hand settled on the Slytherin’s arm, pinning him in place, while the other continued to nurse his forehead with a cool towel.

Seconds bled to minutes in this way until Sybella’s soft curse raised the hair on the back of Basil’s neck. He quickly glanced over his shoulder in time to see her snatch something out of the air and come rushing over looking panicked. His heart skipped a tremendous beat as he tried to see whatever it was. “No,” he responded quickly. “No I haven’t touched anything,” he turned back to the patient. “But Macnair certainly must have! Why, what is it?” he demanded to know.

As Macnair coughed again, blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth and Basil’s face twisted into a lovesick agony. He reached to dab gently at the blood, wiping it away, before rounding on Sybella with more ferocity than before. “Can you heal him?!”

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