The Cottage Garden

The afternoon sun dappled the garden of Andromeda Tonks' cottage, filtering through the apple tree's branches, heavy with unripe fruit. A warm breeze rustled the hydrangeas lining the path, their blossoms swaying like heads nodding in agreement to some secret joke. The scent of freshly cut grass mingled with the earthy tang of damp soil, the remnants of Andromeda's morning gardening.

Teddy Lupin's laughter rang through the air like a charm, bright and unrestrained, as he darted between the flowerbeds. His hair flickered from turquoise to sunflower yellow with each burst of joy. At six years old, he was a storm of energy, his knees perpetually grass-stained, and his pockets filled with pebbles he swore were "Dragon eggs."

"Expelliarmus!" Teddy shouted, brandishing a toy wand at Harry. A harmless spray of silver sparks erupted—one of George Weasley's latest inventions, enchanted for aspiring young Aurors.

Harry staggered backward, clutching his chest in exaggerated agony. "Merlin's beard!" he groaned, collapsing onto the grass. "You've slain me! What dark magic is this?"

Teddy collapsed in laughter, his hair shifting to match the pink hydrangeas blooming nearby. "Not dark! It's George magic!" He flopped beside Harry, breathless. "Can I be an Auror when I grow up? Like you and Mum?"

Harry hesitated. Lately, Teddy's questions about Tonks had become more pointed, a child's curiosity laced with something deeper.

"You can be anything you want," Harry said, ruffling his godson's hair. "But your mum would've told you to practice your Protego first."

Teddy scrunched his nose. "Mum was brilliant, right? Gran says she once arrested a wizard who turned himself into a teapot!"

"A teapot?" Harry grinned. "She never told me that one. But I saw her take down three Snatchers with a single Bat-Bogey Hex. They were sneezing for a week."

Teddy's eyes widened in admiration, his hair shifting to a reverent gold. "Blimey. Did she ever lose?"

"Only to your dad," Harry said softly. "At Exploding Snap."

Teddy frowned. "Dad was good at cards?"

"Very," Harry said. "He said he had to be. A werewolf playing poker? Had to learn how to win without showing his teeth too much."

Teddy giggled, then fell into thoughtful silence.

Andromeda's Kitchen

From the doorway, Andromeda Tonks watched them with arms crossed, a smudge of soil on her cheek from the morning's gardening. Time had softened her, but the sharpness of a Black still lingered in her gaze.

"Lunch!" she called. "Before the nargles steal the sandwiches!"

Teddy shot upright. "Nargles aren't real, Gran! Luna told me!"

"Did she?" Andromeda arched a brow. "Then who's been hiding my trowel?"

The boy sprinted inside, launching into a debate about magical pests as he went.

The kitchen was a living memory. Faded photographs crowded the walls: Tonks mid-transformation during an Auror raid, her hair neon green; Remus—Moony—reading The Tales of Beedle the Bard to a toddler Teddy, his smile hesitant but radiant; Harry, Ron, and Hermione at Teddy's fifth birthday party, their faces still marked by the war's shadows.

On the fridge, held by a snitch-shaped magnet, was Teddy's latest crayon masterpiece—a faceless figure cloaked in swirling black, towering over stick-figure Aurors.

"He calls it The Shadow," Andromeda murmured, setting down a plate of egg sandwiches. "Says it's the villain from his storybook. Though I suspect he overheard Kingsley's last visit."

Harry studied the drawing. The figure's formless menace stirred something uneasy in him—something eerily close to the classified file tucked in his bag. Project Eclipse, stamped in Robards' impatient scrawl.

He forced a smile. "Creative kid."

Andromeda poured tea, her expression unreadable. "He found an old Daily Prophet clipping in the shed last week. The one from when Moony was… exposed at Hogwarts."

The words hung between them.

Harry's gaze flicked to Teddy, now smearing jam on his toast, oblivious.

"What did you tell him?" Harry asked quietly.

"The truth. That Moony was the bravest man I knew, and that the world punished him for secrets he never chose to keep." She stirred her tea, the spoon clinking like a funeral bell. "Truth is a fragile thing these days, isn't it?"

The Ministry Archives

Three floors below ground, Susan Bones knelt in the dim glow of a hovering Lumos, her robes dusted with the fine powder of decaying parchment. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and old ink, the silence punctuated only by the occasional rustle of shifting documents or the skitter of a silverfish escaping the light.

She traced her fingers along the edges of a weathered case file, the name stamped in neat, impersonal script:

Lysander Crake. Trial of 1963. Restricted access.

The file was too pristine. No marginalia, no creases, not a single ink blot. As if the pages had never truly been used.

Her quill hovered over her notes:

Connections to current cases: Unclear. No surviving witnesses. Recommend—

A memo soared past her head, edges singed from hasty handling. She ignored it, flipping through Amelia Bones' old case logs. Her aunt's handwriting—crisp, precise, unrelenting—lined the margins.

Crake's testimony altered post-trial. Discrepancy in sentencing logs. Follow up with Magical Records.

Susan turned the page, her breath hitching as she found the Ministry's final entry on Crake:

Transfer to Azkaban, 1963. Cell 12B.

Susan's stomach twisted. There was no Cell 12B in Azkaban. That block didn't exist.

A cough echoed down the aisle, breaking the silence. Susan turned to find Michael Corner standing at the end of the row, arms crossed, his Auror robes still crisp despite the layer of dust coating everything else.

"Robards wants an update," he said.

Susan didn't look up. "Tell him I'm chasing ghosts."

Michael exhaled sharply. "He'll want more than that."

"Then he can come down here and smell the mildew himself."

Michael lingered, his shadow stretching long across her desk. "You're wasting time, Bones. Crake's dead. The trail's cold."

Susan's fingers tightened around her quill, the nib snapping against the parchment. "The trail's buried. There's a difference."

The Shed

After lunch, Teddy dragged Harry to the garden shed, where a child-sized broomstick leaned against a stack of flowerpots.

"Watch me!" he declared, scrambling onto the broom. It wobbled, lifted an inch off the ground, then bucked him into a pile of mulch.

Harry bit back a laugh, pulling him up. "Maybe stick to dueling for now."

Teddy scowled, his hair darkening to storm-cloud gray. "Mum could fly, right? You said she was brilliant."

"The best," Harry said softly. "Taught me the Sloth Grip Roll while we flew over London."

Teddy frowned. "What's a sloth?"

"A… slow creature. With claws."

Teddy considered this, then brightened. "I'll invent a cheetah grip roll! Faster!" He tore off, broom in tow.

Harry turned to the shed wall—where a yellowed Daily Prophet clipping hung, brittle with age.

HOGWARTS PROFESSOR EXPOSED AS WEREWOLF: Parents Demand Resignation

A younger Remus stared back from the moving photo, his eyes hollow. The ink bled at the margins, as if even the paper were trying to forget.

Harry swallowed hard. He'd seen that look before—on the night of the Battle, when Remus had pressed Teddy into his arms and whispered, "Tell him I stayed."

Evening, Ministry Corridors

Harry found Susan still at her desk long after hours, her candle the only light left flickering in the vast archive room. Shadows pooled in the hollows of her cheeks, and her quill moved in quick, angry strokes.

"You missed dinner," he said, holding up a grease-stained paper bag. "Kreacher's meat pies. Possibly cursed, but edible."

Susan didn't look up. "I'm fine."

"Robards pressing you about Crake?"

Her quill hesitated mid-word before continuing. "You've read the files."

"Bits and pieces," Harry admitted. "Missing trial. Missing prisoner. Ministry's favorite magic trick."

Susan set down her quill with deliberate care. "It's not a trick, Potter. It's a cover-up. And if we can't prove it—"

"—then history gets rewritten," he finished for her.

She glanced up, eyes sharp with exhaustion. "You think this is connected to your Project Eclipse case, don't you?"

Harry hesitated, then pulled a crumpled drawing from his pocket—Teddy's sketch, The Shadow. He smoothed it on the desk between them.

"I think I can't afford to assume it's not."

Susan stared at the jagged black figure, its featureless shape towering over the stick-figure Aurors. The likeness to some of the old reports they'd seen in the archives was uncanny. She tapped her finger thoughtfully against the parchment.

"Then we need more than old notes and missing files."

Harry leaned back against the nearest bookshelf. "We need the Wizengamot's sealed trial records. Every amendment. Every erased name. Starting with 1963."

Susan exhaled, rubbing her temples. "That's not exactly a casual request."

"No," Harry agreed. "But I know someone who can make it."

Grimmauld Place

The fireplace roared to life, spitting out a soot-streaked Hermione. "You're late," she said, brushing ash from her robes. "Ron's convinced you've been kidnapped by rogue filing cabinets."

Harry tossed her the meat pie bag—now empty. "Susan's close. Crake's trial was scrubbed, but Amelia left notes. If we cross-reference them with—"

"Harry." Hermione's voice gentled. "You're doing the right thing. For Teddy. For all of them."

He stared at the cold hearth, Teddy's laughter echoing in his mind. The Shadow. The Eclipse. Coincidence was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"We'll need access to the Wizengamot's private logs," he said quietly. "Every trial, every amendment. Starting with 1963."

Hermione's smile was razor-thin. "Consider it done."

Author's Note
A short one this time. I wanted to get a bit of a feel for this again. Hope you enjoy.