Three hours, one irate Dolores Umbridge and four coffees later,

"I'm going to ask you one more time. Who are you?"
"James Potter." The man in question was sat, mug in one hand and legs splayed out on a wooden chair in Dumbledore's office. Behind Dumbledore's desk was a tall, wiry, grey-haired man with a bad-tempered expression, and an Auror in Ministry security uniform was standing by the door, watching the situation play out tiredly. It was late, and the portraits around the room weren't the only ones yawning.
"James Potter is dead!" The interrogator snarled. "You are not James Potter."
"Yes I am." James smirked, then held out his empty mug. "Could I get some more coffee?"
The interrogator snatched the mug and slammed it down on the desk. "No!"
"But it's the only thing keeping me awake," James said condescendingly. "Sir."
"Fine!" The interrogator shoved the mug in the guard's direction.
"Extra milk and sugar!" James shouted at the guard's retreating back as he descended the stairs.
"Who are you?" The interrogator shouted, at the end of his tether, spittle flying out of his mouth at an alarming rate, and a portrait of a grey-haired woman with a large goose on her lap added helpfully, "He's James Potter."
"Ugh!" The interrogator throws his hands up in pure desperation, glaring at James lividly as he stops in his pacing. "Fine! Fine! Keep lying! But maybe you'll think twice about lying when you're put on trial for attempted identity theft!"
The guard returned with the coffee, looking like he'd rather be somewhere else.
James took one sip of the drink and pulled a face. "Dammit, sir, this is one bad cup of coffee-"
Dolores Umbridge came storming up the stairs, face prim, and looking proud of herself. She brushed the interrogator to the side and leant over the desk, one stubby finger pointed directly at the middle of his face as she smiled sickeningly. "I advise you to stop this act at once. Your so-called 'wife'-"
"Do you know that pointing's rude?" James raised his eyebrows at her, a wicked grin playing around his mouth, and her nostrils flared, but she still had a gloating expression on her face.
"Your wife has just admitted to me that you two are lying. We know that you are lying. Admit it now, and tell us your true identity like your accomplice did, and I'll see if I could get you a reduced sentence-"
James' eyebrows rose even higher. "Looks like the only person lying here is you. Ma'am," He added as an afterthought. "My wife, who is actually my wife, by the way, would not have said that, because we are not lying. My name is James Fleamont Potter, my wife is Lily Marie Potter, and my son is ill in the Hospital Wing and I need to go see him. Excuse me."

Dolores Umbridge watched in disbelief as he winked at her, handed the guard his half-finished coffee cup and left. When he reached the corridor, a big black dog slipped out of the shadows and trotted along beside him, tail wagging victoriously.

Harry Potter was sat up in bed, watching his mother stare at him from under her half-closed eyelids. She was drooping in her plastic chair next to him in the Hospital Wing, obviously exhausted, but every time she closed her eyes and started to relax she'd seem to remember herself and jerk back upright, eyes flying open, then smile broadly and blink a few times, yawning. Finally, Harry mumbled, "You can go to bed. I don't mind."
"Nah, I'm fine-"Lily was cut off by her own enormous yawn, but she shook her head at him. "I'm fine. You should go back to sleep, sweetheart."
Harry was still shocked, still stunned, and it all seemed too perfect, so he hadn't quite acknowledged his mother's presence yet. The shock of seeing his previously dead parents hadn't yet sunk in. She didn't seem quite real.
"I don't- I'm not tired." Harry muttered, running his hand through his hair. Lily observed the action with overly bright eyes.
"Okay sweetheart." Lily's smile was warm and gentle, and it seemed too good to be true, like a dream, so Harry reached out to touch her hand that was rested on top of his bedsheets, then stopped when he saw her frown, confused. She seemed sad, then held out her hand.
"It's okay. I'm real."
Harry bit his lip, hard, to try and stop himself getting upset, and touched her palm once, lightly, tentatively, then yanked his hand back and crossed his arms, so tightly that it was likely that they would be difficult to uncross. "I know."
"Are you okay?" Her green eyes were crinkled with concern.
"I'm…" Harry scrutinized her face. It was younger than he remembered, smaller and paler and more worried, but her eyes were inherently familiar to him, the same colour he saw every morning in the mirror. "I'm okay. I'm better, actually. I mean, I'm good. Great."
She fiddled with a stray lock of her brilliant red hair, twisting around her finger in a nervous gesture.
"Good. That's…good."
There was a minute of prolonged silence, in which Harry counted the scorch marks on the wall behind Lily, and counted the stains on the old wooden flooring from spilt potions. The window behind him was open, and a cool breeze washed over him, making him shiver. Lily noticed the action and tucked the duvet tighter around him, like it was instinct, then looked down at the floor, blushing. She bit her lip like Harry had, anxiously, and for a moment Harry felt the strange urge to comfort her.

Harry's throat was burning, and his eyes were watery; he wiped the tears away quickly, not wanting her to see him crying and think that he was upset, because he wasn't.
He was happier than he had been in a long time.
His breathing hitched, and her gaze jolted up as she looked at him, worried.
"What's wrong? Are you okay sweetheart?"
"I'm just…" Harry wiped his eyes again, blinking rapidly to clear the tears.
"I'm just really glad to see you, Mum."
Lily Potter's face broke out into a radiant smile, and it looked just like Harry remembered.

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