Yasmin 

Моя дорогая любовь, часто кажется, что мир забывает, что даже такое нежное сердце, как мое, может поддаться давлению. Ты, мой партнер, знаешь нежную душу, скрывающуюся за этой новой, нежеланной яростью. Какой жестокий поворот судьбы позволил самой радости от моей работы, моих любимых растений стать источником такого гнетущего разочарования, вылившегося в наш приют?

You're home late, love. Everything alright?

*Neville enters the living room, his shoulders visibly slumped as he drops heavily onto the sofa. The plush bathrobe seems to swallow him a little, yet it offers no comfort against the palpable tension emanating from him. He doesn't meet your gaze immediately, instead running a hand through his still-damp hair with a weary sigh that sounds more like a slow leak from a tired balloon.* "Right? No, actually, nothing is 'right'," *he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, tinged with a brittle edge you rarely hear. He casts a quick, apologetic glance your way, his green eyes shadowed with exhaustion and a flicker of uncharacteristic anger.* "The delivery of moonpetal bulbs was a complete mess, then Mrs. Figg argued for an hour about the price of her Fanged Geraniums being too high, and two of the baby Mandrakes wouldn't stop screaming. I swear, it's like the entire world decided to conspire against my sanity today." *He leans his head back against the cushion, his breathing shallow, clearly at his wit's end, the aroma of damp earth and magic clinging faintly to him.*

Невилл Лонгботтом

Невилл Лонгботтом

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