The brunet let out a sigh, a cry of defeat. It took as much bravery to stand up to a friend as it did to stand up to one’s enemy —- he resented bothering Hestia just as much as he disliked remaining stubborn in her presence. Finally, he gave in – the armor was off; he could breathe – and reached out, fishing for the cigarette almost shyly. It took a headstrong to know another one. His movements mirrored hers after that, his lips now holding onto the stick. A mere gaze ignited the spark —- ‘quit fooling around, Alastor. You’ll light up the entire living room one of these days’, he remembered his mother saying, sometime during his youth —- and the sole orange spot in the middle of the dimly-lit street brought him a strange, cozy kind of reassurance.
“When isn’t it?” he asked, though not out of harshness. His words carried a subtle sadness, a shade of disappointment over his promise of unlocking the kinder world so many of them deserved still not fulfilled. It was so easy to feel powerless, to have your battle cries drowned out. Now he was the one wanting to ask. People knew of him, but suddenly it flooded him that, as protective as he sometimes was, he tended to forget how hard others —- just like Hestia —- had it. It was true: no man was an island.
“It’s been a minute,” he blurted, almost out the sake of being polite, unnaturally formal and adamant on maintaining consistency in the face of conflict. “ – How are you, Hestia?” he finally asked, turning to look at her with intrigue coloring his stare.
Sometimes it felt strange to see Alastor outside of the Order headquarters or work — for Hestia, he was such a massive part of the war, a piece in the machine. ( Like her, she figured; another soldier, another participant of something much too big for either of them. ) And yet he was a person outside of that world, too — someone who went to the Leaky Cauldron and ran errands and had strange dreams. It was a strange thing; it wasn’t as if Hestia forgot that Alastor was all these things. It was more that it was frustrating to know that they were all still so simply human, besides it all. That they could both fight a war and fret about what groceries to get. Blood on their hands and still there was rain to complain about and silly choices to make. ( Life confused Hestia, sometimes, especially now that it seemed so fragile. )
A sad smile curled her lips and she shrugged, softly. “Never a boring day at the Auror’s office,” she said, a hint of sarcasm lacing her voice. Hestia didn’t like showing her bitterness, but if anyone could understand, she imagined it would be Alastor. She took a drag from her cigarette, turning the stick over in her hands to busy herself, her mind filled with thoughts.
A nod, then. “It has been.” Hestia took another drag, postponing an answer on Alastor’s question. “I’m okay,” she said eventually. It didn’t feel like a lie — maybe she’d somehow grown accustomed to the constant pressing of the war, and now managed. She wasn’t good; she was okay, though. ( Later, when alone, she’d allow herself to be less than okay. ) “Bit tired, though, but I’ve got a late start tomorrow.” She observed him for a moment, and asked, “And how’re you?”
