Pink is for cuddles
The walls were covered with solid wooden bookshelves, made of pleasantly dark hornbeam, full of books of all sorts: old, new, well-kept, damaged, cheap, valuable…
On the wall facing the only door the bookshelves encased a rather ornate stone fireplace, where a lively fire was crackling. On the mantelpiece stood a small weird silver object, lazily swinging and turning, along with a number of animated pictures, with lots of wizards and witches smiling and waving.
On the left wall there was a tall and narrow window, currently hidden by heavy curtains, whose dark red colour went well with the hornbeam bookshelves.
Before the window, a huge desk was covered in a surprising array of items: books open to pages whose margins had been heavily annotated in a precise yet untidy handwriting; parchments filled to the brim with the same handwriting, and a few diagrams or sketches; samples of magical substances: a vial of blue-black liquid, two phoenix feathers shining against a black cloth, a small box with powdered dragon teeth… on the far side, ink bottles in various colours and a few scattered quills.
The room was filled with comfortable silence, the only noise coming from the crackling fire.
In the middle of the room there was a cosy armchair, where a young man of some-and-twenty was relaxing with the help of a booklet bound in green silk.
The small magical light globe hovering over the page he was reading sketched out his short but athletic build, enveloped in a dark robe, and highlighted white pearly scars on his right hand and a mass of black hair that went every which way.
A barely-heard creaking from the door at his back broke the quiet of the picture: for an instant, the young man went rigid, automatically scanning his surroundings for the source of the noise while well-honed instincts let a holly wand slide discreetly in his hand, ready for use.
His suddenly focused eyes were emerald green and on his forehead was the world-wide known lightning bolt scar.
A moment later Harry Potter relaxed again and put his wand away, a fond and indulgent smile on his face: the door to his study had opened a little and a small figure could be made out, lingering on the doorstep and peering inside.
"Teddy… shouldn't you be in bed, little one?" Try as he might, Harry could never be strict to his little godson – not that he truly tried hard in the first place.
Very slowly, the door was pushed until it revealed a little boy of about five, clad in a soft pyjama and with short curly hair. The soft locks were a beautiful shade of pink.
Harry's smile softened: whenever Teddy chose pink hair, it meant he was in the mood for a cuddle.
The child stood on the doorstep a moment, as if unsure, with his arms behind his back and a serious and shy gaze.
Then, as if gathering his courage, he took a little step towards his godfather, hesitated a moment more, and finally broke into a small run, arms stretched in a universal 'pick-me-up' gesture.
He scrambled to climb the armchair and Harry, putting the booklet down in mid-air, gathered him in his arms, sitting him in his lap and holding him close.
The child's currently grey eyes met his.
"What will Granny Andromeda say when she finds out you're running around when it's bed-time?"
Harry was still smiling lightly, but little Teddy didn't loose his seriousness.
"Uncle Harry… tell me a story!"
Harry's eyebrows rose and Teddy hurriedly continued: "Please, Uncle Harry… pretty please! I promise I'll be good, I'll go to bed and ev'rythin'!"
He was so earnest, grabbing Harry's robe with his small hands, staring at him so full of hope and trust… Harry caved immediately.
"All right… only one, though," he warned.
Teddy nodded eagerly, snuggling in his godfather's chest.
"So… what story shall I tell?" asked Harry in a soft voice, just like he did every time.
And just like he did every time, Teddy answered readily: "A story about my dad!"
"Hmm…" Harry thought for a moment or two, letting the memories of Remus Lupin fill his mind and heart, ignoring with practiced ease the pang of guilt and sadness at the loss of his werewolf friend.
Moony had believed in his fight, had been ready to die, and the reason was right there in Harry's arms, waiting for a story. The time for mourning was long past.
Harry settled on one of his favourite memories of Teddy's father. "Hear then the story of how Professor Lupin came to be the most popular teacher of the year," he started, watching Teddy break into a delighted grin. "Better known as the Tale of Professor Boggart Snape and his Big Red Bag…"