Basil was silent as Gus moved to retrieve the letters from a trunk under his bed. He still wasn’t sure exactly how to feel about all of this, even as Gus very carefully extracted them and handed a small pile in his direction. Basil felt himself move to accept the pile almost as if he was outside of his own body, as if someone else was steering. Gingerly, he held the worn, tattered parchment between his fingers and marveled at it for a moment. The letters looked older than they likely were, probably long since abused either out of emotion or necessity. Pulling loose the blue ribbon keeping everything together, Basil turned a few of the letters over in his hands. The writing on them was familiar; he could see his own emotions scrawled across the pages as his handwriting morphed from date to date. The first few were the worst; those dated June 20th, June 21st, and September 1st all 1881. Gus’ birthday, his birthday, and what would have been the first day to a new term at Hogwarts if they’d gone for an eighth year. Basil opened the latter of them and skimmed a few sentences. It was very pointedly matter of fact, informational more than sentimental. In it he detailed working with Professor Bart, the research he was undertaking, and very, very vaguely an interaction he’d had with Atticus. It seemed odd to mention Atticus, insignificant even, but Basil knew it couldn’t be. He tried to remember what the interaction had been about but his head only twinged in pain.
Flipping to another letter, Basil felt like he was looking for something. Not something said, not something explicitly outlined, but rather… a missing piece. A letter he’d perhaps meant to send but never did. His brow furrowed in confusion. There were letters here from many dates but none… none sooner than Gus’ birthday. Nothing in late spring, shortly after when he knew graduation to be. Had they quarreled after graduation? His head twinged again, a fresh wave of pain coming forth. Basil winced and shuffled the letters some more, making absolutely sure. That… that didn’t seem right. He thought… he thought there should be something from the day after graduation. He knew it, he could feel it behind the fog somewhere deep down. As Basil forced himself to try and remember, he grit his teeth together. Then, as if something had hit him upside the back of the cranium, a wave of nausea hit the professor.
Spring, 1881 - the day after the last day of term (Basil’s Seventh Year)
Basil was still fuming the next morning when he woke up in his big, cold bed in Wellingtonshire. He hadn’t slept a wink all night and his entire reception home was blurry, as if he’d dreamt it. Instead, the Ravenclaw’s mind was filled with roiling memories of Gus Lissington. Good memories, sweet memories, and then the hell that had rained down upon them yesterday. Basil screwed his eyes shut at the thought. He was in a cold sweat and the sun had yet to rise over the horizon, his room still dark. He knew he couldn’t possibly sleep any more than the tiniest bit he already had. His mind was too involved in the waking nightmare of his new reality. Standing from the bed angrily, Basil frowned into the darkness. He knew his desk was piled with things from Hogwarts he had yet to unpack; quills, parchment, texts. All things he valued once upon a time.
The very sight of them made him sick now.
On a whim, Basil stormed over to his desk and shoved the whole pile into a heap on the floor. It crashed down with a boisterous noise that probably would have awoken his entire house had their rooms not been so spread apart. Basil didn’t care. He plucked the nearest quill and wrinkled piece of parchment from this mess and began to scrawl angrily across it.
Basil felt the letters in his hand drop and scatter across the floor. He bent over and held his head, grimacing again as the pain came to a peak. “Argh, Gus,” he tried. “S-something isn’t right. Something doesn’t feel…” White lights scattered his vision as Basil screwed his eyes shut. This pain was worse than anything he’d felt before. Clutching his head with both hands, Basil grappled against the impulse to cry out. He felt something sticky dribble across his fingers then. Looking at one of his hands as it came away from his ear, he saw blood there and wondered, idly, where it could have come from. A drop or two dripped onto the letters below.
Turning to look at the red-head, the brunette reached out to steady himself and sunk into the nearest chair. “I-I think we should head to the infirmary after all.”