It was certainly not a secret that Dazmond Wiedman had become somewhat more sparse since her dear husband's arrest.

The truth of it was that her trend toward withdrawal had started just a few weeks earlier than that, though the trouble her Nathan was in compounded her ills and made her cling to their hearth like a dutiful house elf, scared for the longevity of her place of true belonging.  The usual revolutionary urge of this kitchen anarchist was dwindled it would seem... and even her busy nature as a proud, entrepreneurial Witch had dumbed down, her formerly bustling activities wrestled into a neat little package of jobs perfected for a single patron.  She had, in essence, been properly bamboozled into having some sort of an odd, eccentric boss-type figure.  That was to say, her worst nightmare had materialized; the trouble was, she had been so distracted by the whole of it that she didn't even notice that was quite the case!  With Landis Morgan having breathed down her neck about it some months before, even, she knew she had to keep the men happy and the talk of overthrow to a minimum if she and her kindred were to come out of all of this alive. 

As a result of this, something deep within her had quieted.  And even after interference, when it looked more and more like her husband was, indeed, headed toward Azkaban, Dazmond was beside herself with grief - the depth of which was seemingly boundless.

Needless to say, she had kept mostly to their flat this Summer.  She had been brewing for Kronos Malvivicus, and not causing the least bit of fuss about it.  As her contacts weathered away and her werewolves found other sources and  even opened up their own potion shops in the alley, Dazmond turned her cheek and seemed to not notice a damned thing.  It must have been infuriating to anyone who truly knew her or needed her during this time.  She only ever ventured out for ingredients - and lately when she did, she had on dark glasses (no matter the time of day or the state of the weather) behind which she hid eyes that were fully circled and tired with tears.  She had only fulfilled one or two obligations for her youth troupe over the Summer months, and on those excursions she had been an absolute bore!

Today was little different from all that.  Except that she was expecting company....

Melanthe Grumman had written to say she was bedding at Signature, wanted to pop in to see how Dazmond was fairing, and would she like a visit.  Dazmond had written back with all attempts at being socially pleasant but had essentially said please leave me alone to dig my own grave, and thank you.  It wasn't that Dazmond didn't appreciate Melanthe.  Actually, she could imagine few others who would appeal to her as much at this time in her life, or anyone that she would rather reach out to, given all of her many circumstances.  But to see anyone was trouble enough.  To think that chatting or bonding was going to help anything was shamefully naive of her, and it was better to ward them all off, wasn't it.

Fortunately for her, Melanthe Grumman wasn't accustomed to taking no for an answer.  It was just as she was pulling open the old, broken and shoddily mended red front door -- not to answer it but to put a broken cauldron out -- that she came face to face with the other Witch on her stoop.  Likely just about to knock, she was, though quite unexpectedly.  Dazmond hesitated in a bit of shock for an instant and dropped the cauldron off just below chest-level.  She'd known she was coming despite her attempt to ward her off, so the sunglasses were on... she only hadn't remembered when the Witch would be arriving.  That was the thing about time of day- you had to pay attention to it in order for it to exist.

"Ahh," murmured Dazmond awkwardly, bumbling and clearly not in the habit of having company as of late.  "Hullo Melanthe."  She shrugged the heavy cauldron to her side with a sigh and set it down along the wall outside the door.  "Come in then.  Please," she added, forming something that resembled social awareness alongside a hinted smirk.

Melanthe knew that stopping to see Daz so abruptly might not be appreciated. But the dark witch also knew from experience that the more some people pushed the rest of the world away, the more they might really be calling for help. Or at least someone to vent to. Or conspire with...in whatever way helped to alleviate some of the misery. Wasn't that part of what Daz deemed, "Sisterhood is powerful?"

She had to help her friend even in a small way.

The Russian witch was staying in Hogsmeade for a while, but it was hardly any trouble to make her way through Diagon and then onto Knockturn, conspicuously cloaked of course.

Since her effort to knock was moot once Daz opened the door, Melanthe clasped her hands in front of her and simply took in her friend's appearance and demeanor, looking for clues on how best to interact with her during this time. "Hello Dazzy," came her dry greeting. Then, spotting the cauldron, Melanthe raised a brow. "Giving up potions, are we? Or have you finally decided to upgrade your equipment?"

With her friend's arms no longer filled, Melanthe liked her arm with Wiedman's and stepped inside. "You should pull out those mail order catalogues and we can buy a whole bunch of things for you to play with, my dear. Won't that cheer you up?"

Dazmond cracked a smile that was only a little bit devoid of merriment.  She seemed at least bemused and grateful for Melanthe's persistence. 

"Busted it," she said simply of the cauldron.  If there was any saving grace to her dwelling in misery here in the empty flat, it was that the potions that Kronos wanted her to brew were weird and experimental.  They held her interest (especially when they caught on fire and imploded), which was desirable when little could coax her outside into that terrible world where the Ministry of Magic reigned supreme, incarcerating people's husbands for a little bit of burgling.  It was insane!

Readily linking her arm with Melanthe's, Daz looked down the hall with a tinge of paranoia and ushered the other Witch inside as quickly as she could with the distraction of it all.

Inside of the small, rounded studio flat, the hardwood floor was almost completely covered in cooking cauldrons and hot, multicoloured flames.  There were also plenty of empty and half-full jars laying about alongside empty cartons of carry-out food.  The bed was a tangled mess of quilt and in general the room was in profound disarray.  There was, luckily, a little foot path through the dozens of little cauldrons covering the usually open floor.  It stretched all the way to the window by the bed with another line leading to the shelves.

"Eh," said Dazmond.  "I've lots of toys to play with lately," she had to admit.  "Have myself a new employer, yeah.  He's... well he's lately been proving to be somewhat... generous, I suppose."  She turned to really look at Melanthe, then, their arms still linked casually.  Dazmond felt silly with the glasses on, now that her friend was here.  She held a palm over one of the nearly black lenses, pausing momentarily before slowly lifting them off of her face.   

"Well, Godric's balls," she had to say.  "I have to say I'm glad you came.  Come here, love."  Daz pulled her into a warm hug.  "How has your stay been?" she asked.