Basil listened carefully as his brother spoke, absorbing everything and storing it away for later reflection. If he also looked for errors in Atticus’ handling of the situation, it wasn’t consciously. Instead, Basil rather applauded Atticus’ efforts; it sounded like his elder brother had done everything he himself could have thought to do. He was a little bit surprised his brother had actually bothered to stay up with their mother overnight. Not that Basil doubted his love and loyalty to the woman, it just seemed… uncharacteristically considerate of him. Nodding as the other spoke, the professor ran a hand though his incredibly too long and downright unruly hair. It was an unconscious action, one that he did most when he was enraptured in a new discovery, thinking too hard, or worried. He’d done it quite a bit today and by this point in the evening he was probably looking quite the eccentric. Basil made a mental note to get a haircut while he was back in Hogsmeade in this week, but otherwise dismissed the train of thought altogether.
“I agree, a drought of that might help ease the symptoms,” he said, considering Atticus’ approach. Had he known the difficulty he would have asked at the school for some horklump juice.
“We should see if we can arrange for a nurse to attend her. That way you can get some rest. I can sit up with her tonight, until something can be arranged.” Basil took another sip of his tea. He would read to her; their mother always loved it when he’d read to her growing up and the soothing lull of a familiar, rhythmic voice might help with some of the fever dreams.
Basil worried his bottom lip, thoughtfully. He had so much all of a sudden to think about, both here and at Hogwarts. It was remarkable how in the span of a few weeks his life could be turned so completely upside down. The end of last term had come and gone, taking with it any sense of normalcy in the professor’s life and Basil dreadfully wished things would just right themselves again. He didn’t have time to manage personal relationships when his mother was ailing, he had classes to maintain, his research was wanting and he was in communications with the Flint Institute about potential future alignments. (Which, come to think of it, he had yet to mention to Atticus in the least.)
Scrubbing a hand over his face, the youngest Foxwood let out a tired sigh. “Well,” he continued. “At least she’s resting now.” He said it more for himself than for Atticus. There was nothing else to be done in this moment other than send an owl out for a nurse, and likely they wouldn’t hear from anyone until morning.