Hestia knew the woman, more by name, more by voice, especially as she was a listener for the show, the radio tuned into Glenda’s show. The radio on was a constant thing for Hestia’s apartment, especially for a show that made sure to include truth, knew the power a voice could give, the power to speak of smoke and fires and the horrors of war, the hurt battles hold, more than what will be written down in a history book as someone must live it, and must suffer, and the world doesn’t deserve war, not when everyone gets hurt, even those that sit behind a voice or a pen, as Hestia had to experience for herself over time.
( Glenda was a woman Hestia wished to be, though in her own way, her talents more with what could be written, for words were fickle and difficult to control, the doorway to thoughts that didn’t go through her mind in an organized manner, her brain holding a bit of a chaos, everything a bit too quick, restless. Ink took time, made her take her time. Hestia wasn’t a reporter, yet, yet ( she could be writing an article now on the happenings of Diagon Alley, there during the attack, and yet, and yet ). )
In another time, Hestia would have been bursting, a bit of light, a bit of an explosion with Glenda Chittock sitting beside her now, spurting out questions, her thoughts on being a radio host, on being a reporter, how she got there, what she doesn’t say on air, unable to find anything buy beauty in the world of words. Now, however, she was simply staring at the broken napkin, ink dried, her sister’s name written over fragile floral paper. It wasn’t often that Hestia was a silent woman, only in troubling times, when she missed her family. On the way to Hogwarts, she didn’t speak, only cried, and it felt almost as if she was back on a train away from home, not sure how to speak to her parents, not knowing when she’d see them again, off to something unknown, and while Hestia could be up for an adventure, usually being the one wishing to explore, she had to do so on her own terms, in her own way, when she knew how to find her family, not here, when she still couldn’t find a way for them to answer her and the family owl only arrived for her to send letters, not to receive.
There was comfort in the words Glenda gave her, a reminder of another, and Hestia took care as a distraction for the moment, turning to the other, “You look tired, I can make it,” this was accompanied by a motion of moving the pile of napkins from her lap, the books and magazines she used as a board to write on. ( The statement still a distraction from the letters and a care, finding the woman so kind to make sure she was well, appreciated, and she did look tired, perhaps speaking all night, she needed care as well. )
Glenda Let the younger woman, Hestia, take charge, knowing full well the need to do something. “Together,” she decided with a smile. Rising too, she found an out of the way spot for Hestia’s writings. Then it was rummaging through the cabinets. She hoped Arabella wouldn’t mind overly much. Glenda ended up with little over half a dozen mugs (plenty for her and Hestia and anyone else who might join them). Leaving the tea to the other woman, she set about coffee.
It was a bit of luck that she managed to find a tin of grounds in a lower cupboard. Even further back was the maker. But she dug it all out and assembled it quickly. Magic felt odd this morning. Even if it didn’t, her wand was upstairs and the routine calmed her somewhat. Focusing on the scooping of grounds and settings. Furthermore, coffee made through magic always settled wrong in Glenda’s stomach.
It was a long moment, the coffee already gurgling, before Glenda broke the silence. “Who were you writing to? If I can pry a bit?” she wondered who the other woman had waiting to hear from her. There were a handful of friends that Glenda wanted to check in on, of course, but other than those contacts it was really just Llyr. And she had him with her, lucky enough.
