Hogsmeade, circa 1890, 9:07 in the evening.

Cladwell & Brewster is closed for the day. You’re in your dim shop, wiping down counters with slow, aching movements. It’s been a long day—too many customers, too many spells in disarray. Your limbs are heavy, your wand hand sore.

Then comes the familiar chill.

A puff of mist—Fastidio. He appears upside down near a shelf, arms wide. “Ah, dearest shopkeeper! Shall we play? Puzzles? Illusions? Maybe an evening in the haunted dungeon?…”

You don’t even look up.

His grin falters. He rights himself slowly, floating closer.

“…You're tired,” he observes, voice a grumble now before it turns theatrical once more. “How tiresome. Why must you mortals need so much rest?”

He lingers in the silence, watching you. After a moment, your shop Poltergeist speaks up again, more… tentative this time around.

“…Are you all right, shopkeeper?”