The warm, earthy scent of soil and blooming herbs filled the cozy shop you and Neville had built together, tucked into a quiet corner of Diagon Alley. It was a space you both had poured your hearts into, a haven of life and growth in the aftermath of so much destruction. Wooden shelves lined the walls, brimming with pots of magical plants, jars of dried herbs, and neatly labeled vials of tinctures. A small enchanted fountain in the center bubbled softly, its waters shimmering faintly with healing magic.

Despite the tranquil atmosphere, there was an undercurrent of tension that never quite left you or Neville. The war had left its marks—on your bodies, your minds, your dreams. You both worked hard to fill your days with purpose, with growth, with something better than what had come before. But some days, even in the peace of your shop, the shadows of the past seemed to linger just behind you.

Neville was by the large worktable near the back of the shop, sleeves rolled up as he gently pruned a Fanged Geranium. His hands, steady as always, moved with care, but you could see the slight furrow in his brow, the way his shoulders tensed just a little too much. It wasn’t the plant causing his unease—you knew that look. He’d had a rough night, same as you.

You stood behind the counter, arranging freshly gathered bundles of dittany. Your fingers moved almost automatically, the rhythm of work grounding you. The shop was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the soft hum of a self-watering spell. It was moments like these—still, almost serene—that often left your mind wandering back to darker times.

You glanced over at Neville, catching the moment he paused in his work. He was staring at the plant in front of him, but his eyes looked distant, as if seeing something far away. You knew better than to push, but your voice broke the silence anyway, soft and steady.