The Interrogator
by Reiko Katsura


Rating: M+
Genres: Romance, Angst, Drama, Smut, Dark-themes
Pairings: Main: Harry/Scorpius, Harry/Draco
Warnings/Alerts: AU. Misuse of the spell stupefy. Sex, the non-con and dub-con kind. Oh, and multiple shifts in character perspectives.


-Shinjifukishima: You cleaned this fic like nothing else. I always love your beta jobs! Thank you!
-El_Gilliath: Thank you so much for the support! It really helped!
-The Mad Mermaid: You did a amazing job betaing this fic! Your input was invaluable. Thanks so much!
-Big_Bookworm: Lovely, lovely job with this! Your suggestions made this fic much more approachable. Thank you!


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or its respective characters. Believe me, I don't. Ginny would have died in CoS. No copyright infringement intended.

Summary: Scorpius Malfoy is captured in Knockturn Alley, and handed over to Interrogator Harry Potter for questioning. Little did Scorpius know that he would be just the bait to lead his father, ex-death-eater-in-hiding Draco Malfoy, in as well.

A/N: This was my pinch-fic written for HP_Prisonerfest, for GirlofAvalon! I hope you enjoy this fic! See you at the end!

The Prompt:

Recipient: girlofavalon
Desired rating of your gift (G to NC-17): hard R or NC-17
A few pairings you'd like to receive or gen: top!Harry/bottom!Draco,
Lucius/Harry, any DE/Draco, Harry/Scorpius
Situations, genres, things, etc., you would like to see: rape or dub-con,
slavery, kidnapping, punishment, post-war interrogatory, orgasm denial or
forced orgasm, rimming, hair-pulling, crying, BDSM, and I like it when the
top comes all over the bottom's buttocks instead of inside in anal sex. If
you write H/D, you could include unrequired or pseudo-unrequired love, and
a hopeful ending.
Situations, genres, things, etc., you would NOT like to see: Voldemort
winning the war, needle or breath play, piss, watersports, knives, gag,
major character death
Prompts: torches, cellar, chains

The Interrogator

Part: 01

Harry Potter had seen too much at too young an age. He had been spared the trauma of having to witness his parents being murdered, but even that one mercy had been taken away by the Dementors in his third year. Too much had happened to a boy so young: facing Voldemort at eleven and a basilisk at twelve; coming face to face with the man who had been a major cause in his parent's death, only to find out that it had been someone else entirely, in his third year; the Goblet of Fire, the resurrection of Voldemort, the death of Cedric Diggory—all in his fourth year; the dreams and the death of Sirius Black, his godfather who he had come to love so much, in his fifth year; the death of his mentor, Dumbledore, having to uncover the history and secrets of Voldemort in sixth year; and lastly seventh year, when the load of everything became unbearable. Too many deaths, too many battles, too many realizations. Once Harry became aware that he was a part of Lord Voldemort—a Horcrux, and that his death was inevitable if he wished to defeat Voldemort, topped all off by the fact the Dumbledore had known, he had snapped.

The anger, the pain, the betrayal, the loss—it had all piled up to an excruciating weight and seized at his chest and mind like the Cruciatus Curse. Killing Voldemort and efficiently ending the war had been all blur to him. During the celebrations that rocked through the Wizarding world like a gala, he hadn't wanted to smile. He hadn't wanted to cry in relief with his friends, or reminisce about the past and those gone. Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, just wanted to die. That, or lock himself in a house—in any house— and never come out. His friends hadn't allowed the latter, and they certainly didn't know about the former—and if they thought it, they never openly said anything. They pushed him to be an Auror, not understanding how tired Harry was of fighting. His restlessness, however, clashed with his need to be idle, and that's when Harry Potter decided to be an Auror that dealt with interrogation. There was much to clean up after the war: so many Death Eaters had escaped, and there was a heavy fear that a new dark lord would start a new reign from them. Ron and Hermione—anyone left alive, really—disapproved of his career choice. It's too dark a job, they told him constantly. Harry didn't have the skills needed to do well. He was too Gryffindor; his emotions were too strong, he got riled too easily, and he certainly didn't have it in him to possibly become a torturer.

When they told him that, Harry had smiled mysteriously and assured them it would be okay. Voldemort was dead, but the overall threat to the Wizarding world wasn't. He still had a job to do, and his own personal feelings couldn't get in the way of that. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley had cried in pride at his devotion to the light. The Minister had looked at him with barely concealed admiration and awe.

He had been given the job after a week-long crash course by Alastor Moody. No one had bothered to make him enroll in Auror classes. No one made him go back to school and take his N.E.W.T.'s. No one had bothered to doubt his capability. Within two weeks of making his decision, Rodolphus Lestrange had been captured and it was up to Harry to retrieve information from him. No one had bothered to see, let alone notice, just how fractured his mind had become.

And they didn't question him, either, when he came out of the Lestrange's security room one week later, looking the best he had in months.

Harry waltzed into the Ministry of Magic, a bright smile on his face and a hop in his step. He grinned at everyone who greeted him, he flirted with one of the witches at the front desk, and he joked with his co-workers in the elevator. When the lift stopped on the seventh floor—the floor dedicated to the Aurors—he bid his friends farewell and practically skipped to his office.

On the way there he came across Ron, but that wasn't an unusual thing; their offices were only a few meters apart. Ron smiled at Harry as soon as their eyes met, and fell into step with him.

"Hermione's been badgering me to make you come over for dinner," Ron told him as they turned a corner. "She says you've been spending too much time at work and have forgotten her."

Harry laughed, a sound that even then—twenty years after the war— rang almost unfamiliar in his ears.

"Tell Hermione that I'm not. I'm hiding from her. There's a difference."

This time, it was Ron who barked a laugh. He knew just how exasperated Harry had become with his wife ever since she had started playing match maker to him and nearly any woman who showed an interest of dating the Harry Potter—which was a lot. Harry had made it clear that he wasn't looking to be in a relationship, but Hermione, as always, refused to relent and kept pursuing girls for him. She became even more irritated when Harry had stopped meeting the girls when she set up dates, and now turned to giving them his address to Owl to. Of course, Harry burned most of the letters as soon as they came. Hermione would get it one way or another.

"I don't understand, mate," Ron continued as they turned another hall, "why you're not interested in dating. You're 37—little Harry must be sore as fuck by now."

Harry grinned at his friend.

They stopped in front of a large black door with the name H. Potter engraved in thick, gold letters into it.

"Just because I'm not dating doesn't mean I don't have sex," Harry said with a smirk, and disappeared into the room. He heard Ron splutter from the hall, and knew rather than saw him come into the office behind him.

"What? When was this?!" Ron asked loudly as Harry made his way to his desk and plopped into the chair behind it. He looked at the stacks of piling paperwork disdainfully and turned to Ron.

"For about twenty years now, I think," Harry joked.

Ron's mouth dropped open. "Who?" he demanded.

Harry shrugged, nonchalantly. He shrugged his outer robe off from his shoulders, and rotated them backwards. "Various people. No one important. Mostly just one-night stands, the likes. Nothing ever serious."

Ron looked absolutely flabbergasted. "From where?!"

Harry shrugged again. "Around."

His friend shook his head, shocked. "How did I not know about this?"

"It's not really important. And like I said, they're never important people. I make myself clear that I'm not looking for anything long-term. Hell, even short-term."

Ron shook his head again, his shoulder length red hair swishing across his neck. "I can't believe you never told us, Harry. Hermione would have a fit if she knew."

"And that's why I never told her," Harry said, plainly.

Ron looked wounded. "And me?"

"You don't talk about your sex life. I don't see why I have to."

"Blimey, Harry, I would tell you if I had much of one. Ever since Hermione's had Rose and Hugo, she's been holding off sex for the longest. Afraid that any more kids will make her lose her figure. I can't even reassure her with condoms anymore because—well, Hugo. She refuses to take a potion, too. We haven't had sex in almost three weeks."

Harry pulled a sympathetic face. He'd gone for longer, but wasn't about to willingly make Ron feel any better. Not in that area, anyways.

Harry began to flick through the letters at the very top of his desk, using a spell Hermione had taught him to sort through the most recent ones. A particular green envelope, lost within a pile of reports, caught his attention, and he picked it up quickly. At once he noticed the Minister's seal. Harry pointed his wand at the envelope and the top part tore cleanly open. He pulled a white sheet of paper out, unfolded it, and scanned it quickly. By the time he reached the Minister's signature he felt a smirk tugging at his lips and it took near everything he had to prevent it from spilling.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Ron pulled himself from his own ranting long enough to watch Harry open the letter. "What's that?" he asked as Harry stood from his chair.


Ron frowned, but didn't push it. It had taken a lot on both their parts to come across Harry's occupational bridge. He absolutely refused to give out information of his work—both as policy as an interrogator and his personal decision. Ron hadn't liked it at first, but realized that he had no option but tolerate it, since Harry wouldn't budge. For some reason, Ron couldn't differentiate between secrets he had and secrets that came from the job. To him, Harry was just not telling him things, and it was as simple as that. Even Hermione had argued with Ron to get over it, but Ron just couldn't. It had caused a strain in their relationship for the first couple of years since Harry had become an interrogator, and though Ron had calmed down immensely since then, he still hated that Harry couldn't tell him anything.

"What's it say?"

"Just that I need to speak with the Minister as soon as possible."

They both knew that it said more than that, but Ron—thankfully—let it go.

"Right. Well, I'll see you later, Harry. And do stop avoiding 'Mione. She's driving me absolutely nutters."

Harry chuckled as Ron grinned at him and left the office. He waited a few minutes before he grabbed his cloak from the chair and followed suit.

Dear Harry,

We've captured a death eater sympathizer, related to one of Voldemort's top lackeys. He needs to be interrogated.

It's Malfoy.

Meet me at the interrogation dorm as soon as you receive this.


P.S. And do stop avoiding Hermione. She's owled me no less than five times in the last week alone demanding you be given less hours. I'll be docking your pay by half if I receive another howler during dinner.

The interrogation dorm wasn't a place that many knew existed. Only a select few had access to it, and they were only a handful of Aurors, the Minister himself, and the interrogators. There was a still painting of Dumbledore in the Minister's office, and two taps to one blue, twinkling eye would immediately Portkey them to the main base of the dorm. Harry had always thought it so ironic—the device that led to a place of pain and torture was in the eyes of the Wizarding world's most beloved person.

"Hello, Minister," Harry greeted the darker man who was extravagantly robed in silver and gold mosaic-patterned robes.

Kingsley sighed. "What did I tell you about calling me Minister, Harry?"

Harry smiled at him, sheepishly. "Right. Kingsley," he amended. He watched as Kingsley smiled widely at him and gestured for him to come closer. As soon as Harry did, he reached out with a closed fist and Harry lifted his own palm under it. Something small and cold dropped into his hand and Harry didn't even have to look at it to know that it was a key.


The smile on Kingsley's face disappeared and was replaced with the all-business face of the Minister.

"The Aurors who were patrolling Knockturn Alley yesterday morning following a cloaked man who came from the Floo. Followed him into an Apothecary shop. The items he bought weren't unusual or dangerous—mostly herbs and items for healing potions, Pepper-ups, cheering potions, and the likes. It was the cloaked face that set the Aurors off. The man paid the shop owner and left the store without trouble. As soon as he left a gust of wind picked up and blew his hood right off. One of the Aurors recognized the blonde hair at once and he was arrested immediately."

Harry frowned at Kingsley. "Draco Malfoy?" It couldn't be Lucius, since his body was found at the final battle. Took an Avada Kedavra right to the chest. No one had even bothered to try and find out who had killed him. Not that that surprised Harry—no one bothered to find out lots of things.

The Minister shook his head. "Nope."

Harry's frowned deepened. He knew for a fact that Narcissa Malfoy had become a permanent neighboring patient to the Longbottoms at St. Mungo's. Were there any other Malfoy's he didn't know about?

"His name is Scorpius Malfoy," Kingsley continued, and elaborated when he noticed the blank on Harry's face. "Draco Malfoy's son."

Harry's eyes widened and he looked at Kingsley in shock. Malfoy had a son?

As if reading his mind, he nodded. "Scorpius Lucius Malfoy aged 18."

Harry quickly did the math in his head. If the kid was 18, then Draco must have had him when he was 19. So the Death Eaters went into hiding and started sprouting babies. Lovely. What did they expect to do? Create the next generation of evil dark lords?

"Do you think…" Harry started, frowning.

"That's what you're going to figure out."

Harry smiled at Kingsley. Oh, how well the man thought he knew him.


Kingsley shook his head. "Refused. We only managed to get an age and name from him because of a truth spell. As soon as he realized what was happening, he put Occlumency shields up."

Harry found it beyond idiotic that the Veritaserum administration laws were still being enforced. It was illegal for anyone, the Minister included, to force the truth serum on anyone unwilling. Kingsley was trying to keep to the old laws as much as possible. When Harry had questioned him before, he simply said, "Dark wizards are still wizards. There is no distinction in the law between light and dark ones."

The Minister was foolish, Harry thought. Kingsley must know that, though laws stated it was illegal, certain interrogators still resorted to torture for information—though not nearly as cruelly as the Death Eaters would have done it. Each interrogator had their own system of making a person break, and they were privy to keep that system disclosed. Harry, for one, had never tortured a prisoner. No one knew what he did to get most of them to talk, only that he was damn good at his job. He fought as another smirk threatened to spread across his face. If they knew, they would be horrified. Harry might not be sentenced to Azkaban, but he would certainly lose his license for all eternity. He couldn't stop the bitter grin from coming even if he wanted to.

There were other ways to torture people, ways that didn't have to involve violence.

He bit back the grin, forcefully.

At least, violence as described in the Ministry's books of allowances.

Harry gripped the key in his hand tightly and slipped it into his robe pocket.

"My usual room, sir?" Harry asked, and tried not to appear too eager. His heart was already beginning to pound harshly in his chest. He wanted to be dismissed. He needed to be dismissed. He hadn't had an official assignment in more than three months. And Ron had the audacity to complain that he hadn't had sex for almost three weeks. Ron knew nothing.

"Yes." Kingsley nodded, and Harry saw it for what it was: a dismissal.

He inwardly hissed in excitement, and turned to leave the room much quicker than what probably looked normal. He couldn't let Kingsley know how excited he was. If Kingsley even suspected what went on in Harry's interrogation room…

Harry's hand reached the knob when Kingsley called out, "Oh, and Harry?"

Harry turned slowly, and gave the Minister a curious smile.

"What is it that you do to the captives? Our healers never find any trace of remnant abuse or mind alteration or trauma."

Harry smiled wider. "That's because I don't abuse them, sir." Interrogators were allowed to rough the captives up, and quite badly, but the Minister had made it clear on more than one occasion that torture was not to be applied. He had healers check over the captives' bodies for any trace of serious internal or external injury. Injury that would be long term, if not permanent, anyway.

"Everything I do is quite natural."

Kingsley quirked a brow. That's all Harry had ever said about his methods in all the years since he became an interrogator.

"Right. Run along, then. And do see what our little Malfoy has been up to."

Harry nodded, and pushed forward a look of determination on his face. The Minister grinned in approval, and waved Harry away.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Harry allowed his restraints to falter and began to chuckle darkly. He pulled his wand out of his robe, began to twirl it with his fingers, and made his way down the corridor as he hummed aloud. Merlin, he was excited. As soon as he turned the corner, he quickened his pace. He couldn't be late, after all.

He had a prisoner to break.

Harry had expected Scorpius Malfoy to look a lot like his apparent father. Draco had basically been a miniature figure of his own Dad, and from a portrait that Harry had once seen hanging in Malfoy manor, the same could be said about Lucius.

But this—Harry shook his head as he locked the door —was almost scary. The boy looked exactly like Draco had, when Harry remembered last seeing him. He had been seventeen then. The similarities were frightening. The only difference that Harry could truly take note of was that the boy's face was not nearly as pointy as his father's had been. That and he looked to be a bit taller.

Scorpius Malfoy sat in a hard black chair, his wrists and ankles strapped down by magical binds. His hair was slightly long—reaching down to his back and sweeping just over his shoulders. He sat straight, and his robes were torn and muddy. So, Harry concluded as he observed the man in the dark room, he put up a fight when the Aurors tried to restrain him.

Excellent. He liked them to struggle. Everything was much more exciting that way.

Scorpius Malfoy watched as Harry drew near. His eyes—a grayish blue, and Harry took note that Scorpius' eyes were different from his fathers', as well—stared at him hard. His cheekbones, sunken and pale, dipped sharply into a tightly clenched jaw, and he looked absolutely livid.

Harry smiled at him, and the boy stiffened.

"Hullo," Harry greeted, and gave a quick scan around the room. It was his usual space, the last door on the third floor. The room was empty, with only a chair in the middle and a hospital bed at the corner. There were two doors at the very back; the first led to his private rooms, where Harry basically lived when he interrogated. The second led to the infirmary of the base, though it was only a one way door. No one could enter from the outside. The main door, which led to this particular room, was locked by him, as well. The Minister might have thought that he held the key to the room, but he was wrong. He was so wrong. Only Harry could enter the room, since he spelled it to open with a password. And since the password he used was in Parseltongue, he was pretty sure of his security measures. The door to his chamber and the infirmary were also spelled the same way. Couldn't have the prisoners escaping or let anyone unwanted come in, after all. The Minister had never come in without first alerting Harry thus far, and so Harry had always had time to banish the locking spell. If the Minister ever found out about it he would surely want answers. He could always lie, but really, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Who are you?" the boy spat, and Harry quirked a brow. Well, he didn't sound like Draco, either.

"I'm nearly ten years your elder, boy," Harry drawled, approaching slowly. "You should speak to me with more respect than that."

Scorpius growled at him, and Harry returned it with a grin.

He conjured a chair and sat directly in front of the kid, knowing that the binds would not allow him to move, and the chair was firmly set to the stone. As soon as Harry sat, Scorpius tried to launch forward.

Harry laughed. "Feisty one, aren't you?"

Scorpius snarled, and continued to struggle.

"It's necessary procedure," he told him, sounding almost bored, "so I can't avoid it. Here goes: My name is Harry, and I'm your interrogator. Nice to meet you."

Scorpius said nothing, choosing instead to glare daggers.

Harry tutted him in disapproval. "Let's move on. You've been offered the option of confessing under Veritaserum, but refused. That is why you find yourself in my interrogation room. You can either willingly answer my questions or," And Harry hadn't meant to sound so cliché and add to it by smiling, but he did, "I'll make you answer them."

Scorpius glared harder.

"I see you aren't going to cooperate," Harry sighed tragically, loving every second of this opening game. "That's alright, though. You will. They always do."

When Scorpius remained silent, Harry continued. "Where's your father, Scorpius?"

Still nothing. Not that Harry had expected anything more. "That's only one of the questions you will answer by the end of our entire session. By the end of the week, you will be telling me who your mother is, the location of all of your father's Death Eater friends, why you were at the Apothecary, who else has been born from the last generation of Death Eaters, as well as any plans you and your father might have." He paused, and then smiled cruelly. "Amongst a number of other things."

Scorpius Malfoy paled, but his tight jaw didn't let anything out, not even the tiniest quiver. Harry grinned again, and pulled out his wand. He pointed it at Scorpius, and smirked when he saw the boy flinch. At once his clothes were spelled off, and they dropped to the floor in a puff. Harry took in, greedily, the sight of silver-blue eyes opening wide in shock, and small lips opening in surprise, and he purred.

"Let the games begin."





A/N: Hullo, everyone. I hope you enjoyed reading so far. The fic is about 20k, and broken up into 4 parts. I'll post the first two parts today, and the last two either tomorrow or sometime early this week. Review, please. Tell me what you think!