Basil felt more than heard rustling movements from Macnair’s general orientation. The hair on the back of his neck pricked to attention and he cast a worried gaze at the ill Slytherin, fully expecting him to try and lurch upright with the way he cried out.

Abandoning the investigation, Basil made to tuck his wand into his trouser pockets as he crossed the room in three long sides and reached to press the other back. “Don’t you dare,” he muttered, under his breath. (He didn’t hold it long; he knew Macnair would dare, and soon.)

“What were you doing when I arrived?” he demanded less patiently. “What do you think could have caused this sudden bout?!” Basil pressed his palm against Agrimony’s sweaty brow again. He was ever warmer than before and looked about to puke. Basil cast a desperate look at Sybella. Instead of attending to the patient however, his friend seemed to have her attention caught on something.

Basil was torn between aiding her in the discovery of a cause and refusing to peel himself away from Macnair’s side again in case the stubborn blonde decided to run off. In the end he huffed and summoned a damp rag into existence then pressed it to the other’s face. He’d play nurse as long as needed to keep this from escalating, but damn if he wasn’t increasingly worried.

“Sybella, please,” Basil prodded urgently.

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