Basil followed Gus like he was a life-line. In a way, with his head pounding and his vision half-impaired the way it was, Gus really was his tether to the real world. As real a world as any he knew right here, right now. Basil stepped back through the doorway out of his companions chambers and clutched at his head. It was spinning dangerously now, and the pain was not ebbing away as it had before. He nodded when Gus asked if he could walk and then, before he could be tugged out into the world beyond their small bubble, Basil reached out to latch onto Gus’ robes.

“It’s not your fault,” he said softly, with more meaning behind the words than Gus could even imagine. Basil forced grey eyes to hold blue with all the conviction he could muster at the moment. He needed Gus to know that regardless of what had transpired, regardless of what would undoubtedly occur as a result of this rouge spell, that he - Basil Foxwood, seventeen years old in this place and time - didn’t blame Gus Lissington for any of it. They would work this out between them, the present day Basil and Gus. He knew they would; he had to believe it.

Then Basil nodded gingerly again towards the door. He didn’t want to attract attention as they made their way, and so covered his bloody ear and held his head carefully with one hand. He knew better than to say anything about their encounter when they got to the infirmary. In fact, he likely would let Gus do all the talking to explain what had happened anyway, since he really wasn’t even sure. It was with much reluctance then that he finally let go of Gus’ robes and moved to lean on the other instead. If this was the last thing this version of him would remember, then Basil at least wanted it to be reassuring to the both of them. They’d be fine; they’d survive this — all of this. Together.

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