The interrogation room itself was actually not designed for interrogation.

It was more of an office, with oak furniture, a bookcase leaned against the wall and dark green drapes that had been chosen with good tastes. The table was cleared, the bookcase had been emptied, but the Persian rug under his feet and the unmistakable scent of leather and richness told Harry exactly what he needed to know.

His arrival wasn’t expected, and this rushed self-made interrogation cell was a last-minute adjustment minutes before they brought him in.
There was a tin jar, filled with hard candy just out of Harry’s reach, next to a tidy line of quills and an inkwell. The tips were sharp, Harry could absolutely use that to deliver some damage to the fool who had forgotten to bind his hands or rather…did not think him intimidating enough to be restrained.

‘Fools,’ that’s what Dad would have said. ‘Bumbling fools, the lot of them,’

“I know Dad,” Harry muttered, slumping back in his chair, fiddling with a small folded parchment in his hands. He spun it with two fingers, traced the folded lines and refolded them, over and over in the eerie silence of the room.

His patience was wearing thin, but Dad had taught him better than that. He couldn’t afford even the smallest amount of frustration. The slightest distraction could easily obliterate this place into tiny chips, killing hundreds if not more with the sheer force.

‘Focus entirely on the paper Harry,’ his dad had told him, the first time they sat together and made origami out of disposable parchments. Harry was seven. ‘The complicated patterns, the order it needs to be folded into, it needs concentration. And concentration doesn’t leave any room for silly things like irritation and annoyance.’

Harry unfolded his parchment and started again.

The door opened and closed with a sharp metallic click, and then locked just as Harry’s file was thrown on the table. It was quite a leafy one, not much to it, from the looks of it. Harry himself suspected that the folder wouldn’t contain more than four or five parchments. Yet, as the doors locked behind the larger wizard, Harry felt as if his deepest and darkest secrets were in there.

Shacklebolt stood for a beat, staring at Harry with narrowed eyes as if he was expecting the boy to start attacking him.

Harry stared back at him.

“So?”

Shacklebolt jostled forward and took a seat across from Harry. His expression carefully blank, and devoid of all emotions. The man leaned back in his seat.

“We have a deal, Mr. Potter.” His voice was deep.

The sixteen-year-old nodded with closed eyes and a small frown, pressing his lips together as the small paper crumpled in his hands. They were silent for almost a full minute, before Harry opened his eyes, following the dark grains that ran along the fine waxed oak.

“Are you paying attention?”

The man nodded, and Harry’s shoulders sagged, his body hitting the back of his chair. “That’s good,” he said faintly, nodding to himself. “This means the whole world to me, Shacklebolt.” His throat tightened as he swallowed. “If you’re not paying attention, you will miss things.”

People always did that. They always missed the bigger picture by obsessing over the smaller, less important details. It infuriated Dad to no end.
“I’m recording us as we speak Mr. Potter,” Shacklebolt said it as an assurance, but it had the opposite effect.

“Then you’re not really paying attention.” Harry snapped. “Look at me in the eyes.” Shacklebolt did so, his eyes unblinking and his expression open. There was a hint of irritation hidden behind that carefully blank structure. Harry was like an itch under his skin. “If you let your thoughts wander to unnecessary details then you’re putting your trust into a recording charm and you will miss things. The most important things.”

“And what are those?”

“I will only say it once, from beginning to the end, where we are now. I will not pause, because I cannot afford to, and you will not interrupt me, because I’m not an idiot. You have to trust me on this.”

“Why should I trust a boy raised by the most notorious man known in the wizarding world? Mr. Potter, I’m afraid you’re under the impression that you hold some sort of power over me, let me reassure you that-”

“It is exactly as you think. Don’t think for a second that just because you’re sitting where you are and I’m sitting where I am, that you are in control. That’s not true, I am the one who’s in control here, and you won’t like it when I lose that control.”

“You need us more than we need you.”

He had a point. Harry needed the ministry people way more than they needed him. Dad’s life depended on whether these people would listen to him, and actually believe him. Harry didn’t care what they wanted from Harry himself as long as he got to save his dad first.

“He wasn’t a notorious monster you know.” He said after a short pause. “You’ve made him sound like a children’s ghost story, and he would have hated that.”

“Let me guess,” the Auror drawled sardonically. “Because you think he isn’t that monster at all?”

Harry smiled, perhaps for the first time in a long time. He huffed a laugh that was more an exhale of relief. “Oh no,” he waved a hand.

“He would have complained that he’s not scary enough. He has an ego to polish after all.” His smile faded to a faint line. “Being the villain in a story that sounds like something straight out of the Tales of Beedle the Bard…well…he’s gonna be pissed.”

Shacklebolt only hummed in response, tapping his quill against the parchment as the silence brought back the tension once again.

“Now Harry-”

“Oh, you cannot call me that. Only he can call me by my name,” Harry stared down at the table. “I was fine with ‘Mr. Potter’.” Harry didn’t concurrently act out his words with the obvious air quotes, but he was sure Shacklebolt was smart enough to get it.

And he must have because the Auror raised his eyebrows at the teen and gave him a long look. “Which is your name.” Shacklebolt didn’t phrase the words like a question and Harry didn’t treat it like one.

“Oh sure.”

With an agitated huff, the Auror flipped his file open with unhidden aggression and skimmed through the content. “Mr. Potter, the healers have passed you for your physicals,” he said, business-like. “And the mind healers seem to deem you sane enough for this interrogation, now I want to start with-.”
“No, you didn’t get it.” Harry took a deep breath, folding the corners of his parchment into tiny triangles.

‘Don’t you start losing your temper now Harry,’ his dad had said to him a few times, the first time being when he was six and accidentally broke his toy broom. ‘If you give in to that anger, then you’re letting it win. There’s a little monster inside all of us, and it loves angry little six-year-olds,’ his hand brushed Harry’s hair out of his eyes. ‘You won’t ever let the little monster win, will you?’

No, Dad. Harry exhaled. I won’t let these dimwitted scumbags kill you off for no reason.

Patience was the key.

“I’m the only one who speaks, Mr. Shacklebolt.” He said, as calmly as he could manage. After all, that was the deal they had in the first place. There would be no questions. Harry was there to confess. And a confession didn’t need the humiliation that came with questions.

“It’s like playing a game.” Harry continued. “A judging game. You sit and listen and at the end of the day you’ll decide whether Severus Snape deserves to die or not.”

“Well then, go on.” Shacklebolt squared his shoulders then gestured at him to begin. “Start with the first memory you have of Severus Snape.”

“I’m going further back.” The Auror looked confused. “The night the Potters died. You all think you have that night figured out, don’t you? A classic case of child abduction, probably peppered with some gory details like thoughts of revenge and torment as motivation in his head. Well, you’re wrong.”

***

Severus Snape was drenched in blood, standing in the middle of a ruin that was once someone’s home. If he, himself, hadn’t visited this house before it had been rendered to this state, he would have never believed that people lived in anything that wasn’t part of the rubble.

With his face paled, his eyes uncharacteristically wide, Severus Snape stared at the bloodied fingers encircling his forearm in a death grip, his chest tightening as large hazel eyes stared back at him in terror.

“Please.” The messy-haired man croaked as if each letter pained him to the point of passing out, his chapped lips were moist with blackish blood. His free hand was pressed against his gushing side, where blood flowed out in rushing rivulets. So much blood and Severus was already drenched in it.
He looked so young, Sev was agonizingly aware of that. They were both so young. They were just twenty-one. Basically children.

“Potter,” Severus couldn’t believe the man was still alive. The boy-the man who had bullied him his whole life, tormented him, ridiculed him and stole the girl he loved…the girl who was undoubtedly dead upstairs in the nursery.

There were muffled cries, coming from above, from the nursery, and James Potter seemed more devastated over the cries than his own grave condition. “Please,” he repeated, his eyes screwed shut in immense pain. And Severus pitied him so much in that instant.

There was no coming back from that. James Potter was going to die.

The infant’s cries increased. “Potter,”

Severus wanted to wrench his arm away from the dying man. Leave him to bleed out, and die alone as Severus properly mourned Lily, saw her for the last time, held her in his arms for one last time, before it all ended.

But he couldn’t. Potter was crying, and the image was so odd, so perplexing that Severus couldn’t do anything but stare. It wasn’t pathetic and it wasn’t cowardly or even from the pain. Potter cried in sync with his child. It was heartbreaking to watch.

“Save-.” Potter heaved, his face red and contorted. “My baby.”

Severus unwittingly knelt next to Potter, his own hands shaking. Potions, he must have a few in his robes, somewhere, he should give one to Potter. He numbly started reaching for his pockets but James’ hand tightened, painfully squeezing his wrist, gritting his bones against each other.

“Harry-.” Potter’s head seemed too heavy to be supported by his neck. It lolled against Severus’s bloodied torso for a moment before sliding to the ground, on the debris. “Save him.”

Sev licked his lips, nervously. If only he could give Potter a pain-relieving potion, or something to knock him out long enough that he would pass in his sleep. He couldn’t bear it. He thought that he would rejoice in seeing the great insolent James potter weeping and bleeding to death while he watched and smirked in glee. But he couldn’t. Severus wanted to cry with him because they both knew there was no relief from what had struck Potter. The curse had practically sliced the twenty-one-year-old man to shreds, and it was a wonder that he was still alive. Still breathing, and talking. Asking Severus to save his baby.

Dumbledore would be here soon, he would tend to the baby. Severus, he needed to get to Lily. One last time. He needed to grieve for the woman he loved. His best friend, and Potter, as always, was ruining this for him.

That was too cruel, he thought in shame, even for Severus.

“Potter let me give you something,” he hated how weak he sounded and how desperate, even to his own ears. He couldn’t believe the amount of blood that was still gushing out of Potter, tainting everything in its wake.

“No,” Potter whimpered, gritting his teeth. “My son. Harry.”

“He’s crying,” Severus said, quite dumbly. He didn’t know what Potter wanted from him. The man seemed almost delirious in his urgency. He was incoherent. Against Potter’s vehement pulling-with surprising strength- Severus managed to reach a hand in his robes and blindly fumble for a vial.

“Potter stop squirming.” He snapped but Potter wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to the ceiling, glazed with pain and anguish, staring directly at the nursery through the roof it seemed. As if he could distinguish his son and dead wife through the plaster.

“Harry,”

“Here Potter,” Severus had to force the bitter liquid down Potter’s throat, and most of it dribbled down the man’s chin, Severus doubted he had even swallowed a drop, but James’s eyes suddenly darted to him with more awareness.

“Take him,” he said. “Take Harry. You owe me.” Every word seemed to take a toll on him, and Severus had the strongest urge to press his hands against his ears to block out the sound of blood gurgling in the man’s throat as he spoke, and the distressed wheezing that wrecked his chest with each pant.

“Potter quit rambling,” Severus snapped, irritated and disturbed. “Dumbledore-”

“No!” Potter recoiled as if struck. Baby Harry wailed louder and Potter’s hold tightened more. His other hand slipped from his side and Severus jumped, urgently pressing his own hand to Potter’s stomach to slow the bleeding.

“Alright! Alright!” he snapped. “Not Dumbledore then. Pettigrew will be here soon for the baby and the wolf too.”

He couldn’t understand what the big deal was, Potter might have lost Sirius Black to the Dark Lord, but he still had Lupin and Pettigrew at his beck and call, not to mention Dumbledore and his Order. Surely, they would come for the boy and sort things out.

James Potter, however, didn’t seem to think the same. The man shook his head, frantically, his eyes still shut. His glasses were nowhere to be seen. Did he even know that he was holding onto Severus Snape of all people? Or was he so gone from the pain and grief, that he couldn’t even recognize Severus’s voice?

“No, no, no.”

“Potter.” Severus really needed to stop Potter’s babbling.

“Take him, please. Run away, no one,” Potter panted. “-can find him. Love him. Hide him. No one can,”

“No one can have my baby.”

This was James Potter. The same man who once hung Severus upside down and pulled off his pants. The same man, who cursed his hair to drip oil for days, and charmed all of his clothes red, the one who put nasty things in his food, and made his life a living hell. All that name-calling, slurs-on both sides- because he gave as much as he got…and then him at sixteen, saving Severus from a werewolf.

This same man, who was now begging Severus with his eyes, desperate and suffering, worried to death for his infant son. His eyes wide with unsheathed love and absolute terror, even though he was weak, and dying in the rubble that he once called home.

“You’re delirious with pain,” Severus muttered, his eyes cast down. The look in potter’s eyes was driving him insane. How could an arrogant, immature man-child, change so much in a span of three years?

“You have to.” Potter’s voice was almost inaudible, and Severus could barely hear the man. He tried pulling his hand away from Potter once more. He could help that twit if only he could give him something, or reach his wand to put him out of his misery.

“Just let me give you something, I have a few vials with me there should be-”

“Listen to me!” Potter exclaimed. Severus stopped.

“Tell him I love him alright?” James’ eyes traveled back to the roof. “I love him so much, tell him that.”

Snape loudly exhaled, cursing under his breath. “Potter I’m not taking your son.”

“Lily’s baby.” James corrected with a weak grin. “You’ll love him,” he vowed, patting Severus’ hand. “Promise me.” Severus nodded, not in agreement, but out of obligation. James Potter still didn’t look convinced. “He’s in danger.” He repeated, with herculean effort. “Hide him, please. Save him.”

“I will,” he said and felt guilty for not meaning it. “Calm down. You’re going to be-”

“Dead.” The other man interrupted with a grin, looking impossibly smug, almost sheepish.

Severus winced and Potter’s smile faded into a severe grimace.

“I’m sorry,” James said as his eyelids started drooping. Severus stared down at him, feeling the weight of his apology. It wasn’t a simple one. It carried years and years of burden with it, years of bullying and misery and heartbreak, and here Potter was, apologizing for everything on his deathbed.

“Me too,” Severus said because he didn’t know what else to say in response.

Potter’s grasp finally loosened.