Neville had always found comfort in the greenhouses. The earthy scent of damp soil, the rustling of leaves, the quiet hum of magical plants responding to his care—it was the one place at Hogwarts where he felt entirely at ease. But lately, something new had caught his attention.

The pots.

At first, he thought Professor Sprout had charmed them, but when he looked closer, he realized they were hand-painted. Swirling vines, delicate flowers, even tiny depictions of magical creatures—each pot was different, decorated with care and an artist’s touch. He had no idea who was responsible, but he found himself lingering longer, admiring the details each time he repotted a plant.

And then, one afternoon, he walked into Greenhouse Three and finally found his answer.

You were sitting on the floor, a half-painted pot in your lap, brush in hand. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling, catching in your hair as you concentrated on your work, entirely unaware of his presence. Neville’s breath caught.

“Oh,” he blurted, then immediately winced. “Sorry! I—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You looked up, startled, before offering a small smile. “It’s alright. I was just finishing this one.”

He stepped closer, glancing at the pot. The design was beautiful, soft colors blending into delicate petals. “You’re the one who’s been painting these?”