Hand often falling to cradle her ailing, bleeding belly, Dazmond Wiedman walked tenderly through her flat... through Nate's flat... through her and Nate's flat, she supposed.  There were, as of today, at least two hundred seventy-nine days till it'd be that, again... officially, she supposed.  Sighing, Dazmond picked up another shelled plant husk and crumbled it into her gathering flask.  The dried plant matter crumpled easily into dust within her hands and through the glass funnel to rest in the rounded glass depths. 

Picking up after the grandiose mess she'd made had taken four days... and counting.  Most of the dozens of cauldrons that were set up to simultaneously brew had been packed up.  Some of them would have to move to other locations, after all, she did need to keep creating.  It would just have to shift to old patterns, where she used this, that, and any old place to keep her brews going, and popped between them with the most precise sense of timing that a Witch could possibly muster.  It helped that she was, probably, just a little bit insane.  She pushed her red and black bangs out of her face, sweating slightly at the brow.

But, Dazmond was feeling odd with all of this.  Things were changing and shifting all around her.  She'd been reprimanded and changes had been called upon by her... what?  Her boss.  Her evil, crime boss!  She was distracting herself with major party plans that would likely be the talk of the world for a handful of weeks at least.  She'd watched a stolen, unregistered werewolf eat a muggle and a bunch of wizards clap to it.  She was sitting on some merchandise with the resident junky as her spotter.  And worst of all her Nathan was still in bleeding Azkaban prison....  What!

Daz sat on the edge of their bed, bouncing slightly as she lit a cigarette and then looked down at her bocote wand, thinking briefly of Deaglan McDonough and the year previous.  Did things ever calm down?  It felt like a constant challenge, life.  Falling back and curling into the heavy, dark blue comforter, Daz smoked and smiled softly as she caught the familiar scent of their beddings.  Hadn't changed.  It helped that they so rarely washed anything, her and Nate.  Since he'd left she really hadn't dared wash things, either.  So some of the same familiar scents of herbs and smoke and his own signature earthy sweat still lingered though she hadn't actually seen her husband since... what was it?  July or early August? 

She hadn't seen him properly, though, since at least May.  And even then she'd had a cloud hanging over her that had altered her ability to be present entirely.  As she took a deep drag of toxic smoke into her lungs, looking longingly up at the ceiling, Daz thought to herself that she'd never, ever waste time again when Nate got back home.  She'd wrap herself up in him and never leave home again, and kiss his face a thousand times a day.

Dressed in his boxer shorts and a short purple nightgown, Daz enjoyed the brews she'd had to drink... fuzzy.... Still so entirely alone, sad, and all too ready to cry.  And yet... as she crawled further up their bed into the nest of blankets and soft sheets, she felt strangely happy.  Contained.  Never ever more sure of how she felt about her husband.  Days would pass, and she would let them.  She'd see his face and have a word with him soon as she was able.  Her Nathan was more than the world to her, after all.  All that she needed....

Aiming her wand she shot out the lamp lights from her spot in the middle of the bed, sunk down in the soft blankets.  She rolled over temporarily then to put her cigarette out in the ash tray, put her wand off to the side of the bed and curled further into the center of it, cradling her lower belly and closing her eyes, starting to call to mind images of him and special thoughts of close, significant moments. 

Soon enough, the night, it enveloped them.