Martha had arrived drunk; she'd been stolen from a moment when she'd held a bottle of firewhiskey that she'd consumed a large part of. One of the better things that Martha'd asked for aboard the Barge was a bottle that never ran dry, which made it more than a bit impossible to judge exactly how much she'd been partaking over the course of the evening she'd spent with her husband.

The timing could have been far worse and Martha knew it: she could have been naked or wearing something really rather inappropriate. And she could have come back into a world where they monsters that they'd been fighting hadn't been beaten back for the most part.

At least her husband was still alive.

Thinking about her friends had sobered her up, wondering if they'd died, wondering how many people had fallen from things they didn't understand. It had sobered her up to such an extent that she'd forgotten about the wand for a moment. Once she'd gotten word that Hermione was on her way, Martha'd packed up the wand and the whiskey and her communicator and begun pacing.

Pacing was how Martha tended to think, and at the moment she was thinking, and she was worrying. Not only about her friends, but also about the fact that her husband was drunk. She wondered if he'd been drunk the entire time.

Mid-walk when the door opened, Martha turned and looked to take in Hermione. Quickly, she moved over and wrapped her arms around her friend in relief.