A/N: This is a severely AU crack fic with a crack plot and crack pairings and just a lot of crack. That being said, I've always had a niggling feeling that after GoF some malevolent spirit invaded JKR. Maybe it's just me grieving the loss of innocence in her characters and in the story, while simultaneously grieving my own steady progress into adulthood. It's all terribly disorienting. Anyway, the purpose of fanfiction in my life is to explore and satisfy the "what if?" What if magic could bring back the dead? That's a pretty loaded "what if," so this will be a long story, told in multiple points of view including but not limited to James Potter, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, and Voldemort.

Thanks to any and all who read.

A Case Most Curious

Chapter #1

"Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice

to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it." - W. Somerset Maugham

There were birds singing somewhere above him. They were quite loud- in fact, they were too loud. A cool breeze played across his face, gentle and very sweet-smelling; it carried the scent of greenery on it. A droplet of water hit the tip of his nose. He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly to alleviate the strain of having to adjust from blackness to daylight.

Daylight?

Why was the heather-grey sky opening up above him? Where was the ceiling?

He meant to clear his throat, but burst into a coughing fit as soon as he sucked in a breath of the clean, damp air. Something was wrong, dreadfully, horribly wrong. He felt as though he'd been asleep for ages- that feeling that he'd occasionally gotten, sleeping in past noon, but this was different. Amplified. As though he'd literally slept for years.

He realized that his glasses were missing, but strangely he was clutching his wand very tightly in his right hand. That was a relief, then. He had his wand.

"Accio glasses," he mumbled, and received a shock at hearing his own voice. It sounded so hoarse, so ill-used. Not his voice at all, but someone else's. He cleared his throat. No glasses had come whizzing up to him. "Accio glasses!" he said loudly, and waited. Still nothing. Quite irritated at being outside and without his spectacles, James Potter sat up and studied his blurry surroundings. He held his wand out and made one more go of it, his voice raised to almost shouting level. "Accio glasses!"

His glasses hit him square in the face and settled on his nose crookedly. The lenses were cracked and dirty. Odd. "Reparo," he murmured, and was delighted to see his specs fixed immediately. At the very least, his magic seemed to be in order. The mild panic in his chest settled briefly, but flared into full-on terror as he took his bearings.

His house.

He was sitting amidst a pile of rubble, the remnants of a cottage. His cottage. And he was quite alone, he realized with horror.

His memory finally kicked in, and he staggered to his feet, wincing as his spine gave an almighty wrench and settled back into place. His throat constricted and his chest tightened mercilessly as he gasped for air, his eyes taking in the destruction that lay all around him. He knew, somehow, just knew, that something truly dreadful had happened here, for all he remembered was blind panic as the wards began to ring the alarm and his wife scooped little Harry up in her arms, her face white as a sheet, her brilliant green eyes frightened. He remembered shouting at her, though he couldn't recall the words, and he remembered the sweat breaking out like a rash on his forehead as he went to the door and threw it open, knowing what would greet him there, knowing he was going to die.

An incantation, and horrible sickly green light filling his eyes, filling his brain.

James rushed towards the general area that had once been his son's nursery. A mouldy, dirty rag on the ground... the remains of a cherished blue blanket patterned with dancing unicorns. The unicorns had long since stopped their cheery prancing, and were still, lifeless on the fabric. He picked the ratty old blanket up and held it to his chest, a reminder that his son had existed, at some point. He had been real.

James became aware of a horrible noise coming out of his throat, a dreadful moan that slipped unconsciously from his lips and filled the eerie quiet around him.

His boy. His baby boy.

The moan escalated, growing despite the fact that James was hardly conscious of himself- he seemed to have left his body, and was drifting up into the air, away from all of this. It was a relief, he thought dreamily, as the moaning grew into outright shrieking. The sound of his own voice raised to a frightening decibel brought him slamming back down to earth, back inside himself, and a powerful rage gripped him as he fell to his knees, hardly feeling the pain that the impact surely must have caused.

He screamed. He screamed at the tattered blanket, he screamed at the sky, he screamed at the ground. He shrieked and shrieked until his throat was raw and aching, and only when he could no longer scream did he realize that he was crying, and it was raining, and he couldn't tell if the damp on his cheeks were from tears or rain. He found he didn't care. The world was a cold, cruel, evil place. He wanted to fall back into blackness, or even better, to wake up and realize it had all been a horrible dream.

"Harry," he moaned, his hands twisting around the blanket so tightly his knuckles began to turn white. He didn't even notice. "Harry..."

His hair plastered to his head, dirty, mangy robes now soaked through, James staggered to his feet and looked around once more. He could not, for the life of him, fathom how this had happened. How his life, his beautiful (though precarious) life had vanished, replaced by rubble.

"All right there?"

He spun around, and realized too late that he still had his wand in his hand. A muggle in a uniform and clutching a large black umbrella regarded him with slight suspicion, but also pity. James trembled. He did not know how long this man had been standing there. He did not know how much this man had heard. Had James done or said anything incriminating, anything that marked him out plainly as a wizard? Why did this man look at him with something akin to understanding? Most of all, why did it matter what the damn muggle thought or knew or didn't know? Harry was gone. Nothing mattered. Perfect little Harry, with his chubby cheeks and shock of thick hair that Lily just could not get under control. His perfect little fingers, the way they curled around the much larger fingers of his father. His gurgling laughter. Gone.

"You must be one of them," the muggle said knowingly. He was an elderly man, perhaps in his late fifties.

"Pardon?" The instinct- bred into James and instilled in him since before he could talk- to hide his world from any and all muggles still managed to cling to him, despite the excruciating pain of loss and the shock of it all. Common sense still ruled. He played dumb.

"Aye, I've seen your lot around here before. Most of them don't go that far in, though. They just stand at the doorway. Some of 'em laugh, some of 'em cry. Some of 'em curse God for allowing it to happen." The muggle scratched his head. "Damned if I know what actually happened, though."

James blinked the tears from his eyes and slowly approached this stranger. "What... you don't know what happened, you say?"

"Me? Naw. I've heard rumours, mind. Plenty of rumours." Seeing the look on his face, the muggle went on. "They say there used to be a family here. A young couple n' their kid. But they was murdered. Yonks ago now, mind. Well over ten years. Must've been important people, too, from what I've heard. People are always showin' up, saying how they just want to see where it all happened, how it all ended. Like I said, just rumours."

James turned away from this man. He was crazy. Over ten years... why, he and Lily had bought this cottage from an elderly couple that had lived here all their lives. No young family had lived here for decades. Except his. And his family was...

Oh...

"Sorry," he said slowly, turning back to the muggle, "but did you say... ten years? More than ten years ago?"

"Yeah, that's right. I'm gettin' old," the muggle chuckled.

"This... place... it's been like this for that long? I mean, destroyed like this?"

"Yeah. Blimey, I thought you was one of them people who knew all about it. Anyway, I've got the post to deliver. You take care."

James shook his head infinitesimally. This must be a dream, he decided as he watched the retreating postman. A bizarre dream. But it couldn't possibly be a dream, part of his mind reasoned. The glowing red eyes that gazed at him, cruel and victorious, the chilling voice, the ghastly green light. He had not dreamt all that. And so he couldn't be dreaming this.

Whether it was a dream or not, his mind pinpointed the thing he needed to do now, the thing that surely would ease the agony in his chest. His right hand found its way to his wand once more. He was no more conscious of the steady downpour- a cold autumn rain that had by this point completely drenched him- than he was of the blanket he still held in his left hand

Wormtail.

The birds, undisturbed by the rain, continued to sing.

It took every ounce of strength he possessed to apparate into Hogsmeade. Reality had finally begun to smooth the ragged edges of his mind, to push him back into place, into himself, and he'd quickly abandoned the desire to find Peter Pettigrew and skin him alive. For now. He would come back to that. First he needed to see Dumbledore. For surely, if there was any sanity left in this horrible world, it lay with the Headmaster.

His feet took on a life of their own, operating outside of conscious thought, and they carried him up to the gates of Hogwarts. He staggered up the stairs to the castle, his wand still held very tightly in his one hand, his dead son's blanket in the other.

The still, quiet air of Hogwarts further soothed his mind. He was coming back to himself. A great rush of relief seemed to swell in him, seeping into his bones like a delicious warmth. James became aware of his body, and the miseries that accompanied that awareness. He ached. Everywhere. His hair was sopping wet, his robes were soaking, his shoes, muddy from the trek to the castle, made soft sucking noises as he hauled himself through the Great Hall, which was eerily quiet and empty.

Hogwarts had not changed. James had no trouble finding his way to Albus Dumbledore's office. The stone gargoyle presented a problem.

"Move," he said, again aware of the hoarseness in his voice.

The gargoyle remained cold, hard, and unresponsive.

"Please move."

Granite eyes stared past him, uncaring and unrelenting.

"Bat bogeys! Snuffbox! Chamber music! Bowling ball!" He was losing it again, he realized, but the horrible part of it was that he could do nothing; he was powerless against the wave of mania that swept through him. More tears were forming in his eyes, tears of fury.

"Ahem."

James waved his hand over his shoulder, not bothering to look around. "I need to see the Headmaster!" he cried, and began to beat his fists against the hateful gargoyle's face. He punched at it until his knuckles were bloody and raw, until a softly muttered charm sent a calming sensation through his limbs. He slumped to the floor in a heap of filthy robes.

"Sometimes we cannot see what is in front of us," a gentle and very familiar voice said, "and other times we cannot see what is behind us. Both are grave and unfortunate mistakes."

James lifted his head and looked over his shoulder, then up at Albus Dumbledore. A strangled cry escaped his throat, and he launched himself at the man's feet. "Headmaster." It came out raw and serrated; he sobbed raggedly.

Dumbledore knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hello, James."

The tears came in torrents now, as James registered his own name in someone else's voice. "Headmaster," he repeated, his voice broken and harsh.

"It's been a while. Refresh my memory, James. Your middle name?"

"Malcolm."

"Your position on the Gryffindor quidditch team?"

"Captain. Chaser."

"And the nickname used by your three closest friends at this school?"

"Prongs." His voice cracked.

"And if you would kindly illustrate to me why you were given that nickname?"

It occurred to James, finally, that Dumbledore might not believe he was actually James Potter. And why not? If it had been more than ten years... but surely... impossible. He banished such thoughts. They would only drive him mad, if he wasn't already. It did not bear thinking about. He slipped into the transformation easily- it was like breathing- then turned back into a man. As overwrought as he was, he did not miss the audible gasp Dumbledore gave. And there was somebody else crying now. Arms wrapped around him and pulled him close, a warm, welcoming embrace. Sanity. Finally. He clung to it, clung to his old headmaster, though he held on to his wand and Harry's blanket for dear life.

"James Potter." Dumbledore's voice sounded incredulous, but hopeful. Painfully hopeful. "You've come back to us."

Before he could stop himself, James let out an agonized wail. "My son!" he screamed at Dumbledore, clambering to his feet and staggering away from the man. "My son is dead! You were supposed to help us! Help us keep him safe! He's dead! What does it matter if I'm back?"

Dumbledore looked genuinely shocked. Then, inexplicably, his eyes twinkled. James wanted to rip those eyes right out of their sockets. He wondered how he hadn't done it yet. What force held him back, when he so wanted to kill this man for mocking his pain?

"James, you have much to catch up on. Harry is alive and well."

James nearly wailed again, but stopped. He had heard wrongly. Because...

"Yes James. Your son is alive. In fact," Dumbledore checked his watch, "he is on his way to Hogwarts as we speak."

His voice had left him. He stared at Dumbledore, speechless, his muddled brain slowly putting the pieces together- the headmaster's shock, the twinkle in his eyes, the way he spoke of Harry with the ease of familiarity. Ten years, at least... so then... He did the math. Maybe...

"Year?" he whispered. "What year is he in?"

"Harry will be starting his fifth year." Dumbledore pulled a hanky from his pocket and dabbed the tears from his eyes. He regarded James warmly, though his face was quite pale. "Far too old for blankets," he added gently, "but I'm sure he will appreciate the sentiment."

James looked down at the blanket clutched so tightly in his hand. Harry...alive. A young man by now. Fifteen. His heart squeezed painfully, though it was a different kind of pain; not the deep, maddening agony, but the pain of relief, of hope. James found his voice, though it wavered when he spoke. "Does he... he still needs a father, right?"

Dumbledore chuckled weakly and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Of course he needs a father. He's only fifteen. Still a child in many ways. Though he's been forced to grow up faster than most."

His heart squeezed so tightly he was certain it would burst. Fifteen... he had missed his son's childhood. He had missed teaching Harry how to fly, how to ride a bicycle. Fourteen birthdays, Christmas, Halloween... but James did not want to think about Halloween..."Lily?"

Dumbledore's expression turned sombre. "Lily was murdered by Voldemort. I'm sorry, James." The hand on his shoulder gripped him harder. "But we must go to the hospital wing. You need medical attention, I think. For shock, and we must get you out of those soggy old robes."

Dimly he allowed Dumbledore to lead him to the hospital wing. He was becoming aware once more of how awful he felt, physically. His hands were dripping blood where he'd skinned his knuckles raw. His stomach felt oddly sore, and he realized he was beyond hungry- starving, in fact.

Madam Pomfrey looked much the same as he remembered her; a no-nonsense woman that nonetheless gave off an air of motherly concern. She shrieked when he walked into the hospital wing.

"James Potter!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore said lightly.

James realized he must be missing something, for Dumbledore and Pomfrey to act so shocked to see him. Yes, he was missing something, an integral part of this puzzle. It eluded him. "Why... why are you so shocked to see me?" he asked Madam Pomfrey. She gaped at him, then at Dumbledore, before pressing on bravely.

"Well, James... I mean... heavens, you've been dead for... for fourteen years..."

Again he felt himself begin to unravel. It took a great deal of effort to keep calm, to keep his sanity intact. He didn't care to spiral back into the dark place that was tinged red, where his emotions took over, raw and savage. It was a testament to Madam Pomfrey's excellent character that she simply ordered him to sit down and began to fuss over his hands. "You've been fighting, have you?" she asked sharply.

"A scuffle with a gargoyle," Dumbledore said, regarding James over his half-moon spectacles.

"You should see the gargoyle." James allowed her to pry his wand from his hand, but the blanket he refused to let go of. The matron gave him a severe look and handed him a set of clean blue robes.

"Shower," she said. "You're filthy."

James had recovered himself enough to be offended, but he saw her point. He'd dragged a considerable amount of mud in with him, and he became aware of a rather rotten smell that seemed to be coming from himself. Obediently he went into the bathroom and stripped his soaking, tattered robes off, then climbed into the shower and turned it on. The jet of hot water revitalized him; he stood in the shower, very still, his head hung low as water pounded against the back of his neck, working the stiffness out of his muscles. Mud and blood mixed with the water as it went down the drain. James washed his hair, his body, and the blanket he still held. It seemed to have become a part of him, an extension of his hand. He looked down at it, and his mind began to spin.

Harry. Fifteen. Walking, talking, going to Hogwarts... He wondered what his son was like. What did Harry talk about? Did he have many friends? Did he get good marks in school? James was deeply comforted by the knowledge that Harry must surely be in good hands, raised by Sirius. Yes, Sirius would have made a good father. Harry had loved his godfather as an infant... but did he call Sirius "Dad?"

His thoughts were cycling around in his mind so fast he was becoming dizzy and sick, and James found he had to withdraw himself from all of it just to finish showering and get dressed. He put his glasses on, looked at his reflection in the mirror, and received a very nasty shock. The man looking back at him was not young. Not in his early twenties. He looked... old. His hair still refused to be tamed into a respectable style, and it was still black- he searched rather frantically for any trace of grey, but was enormously relieved to find none. Still, there were faint lines around his eyes, the beginnings of crow's feet, and absolutely no trace of boyish roundness in his face.

But of course, if Harry was fifteen, then he, James had to be... thirty-five.

He brushed his teeth, then rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Stubble was beginning to grow on his chin. He would have to shave... But it could wait. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey studied him with interest.

"Much better," Madam Pomfrey said, though she frowned when her eyes fell on the now-clean blanket. She pointed at it with her wand and muttered a drying spell.

"Thanks," James said weakly. He sat down on a nearby bed. Madam Pomfrey forced a cup of tea into his hands.

"There's nothing in it," she said firmly when he sniffed at the steaming liquid. "It's just tea."

"Pity," James mumbled. "Could do with a shot of Ogden's."

Dumbledore smiled. "Excellent idea." He waved his wand and a tall bottle of deep amber liquid appeared in his hand. He gave it to James and watched, his eyes twinkling, as the younger man unscrewed the lid and took a deep drink.

Tears sprang to his eyes as the liquid seared its way down his throat and into his stomach, burning his insides rather mercilessly. And then finally, at long last, his chest began to loosen up, and for the first time in hours (or years, his mind supplied for him) James found himself able to breathe once more. "Better," he said, and his voice sounded much more recognizable, stronger and unwavering.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm afraid I must leave you now, James, as it is getting on," he glanced at his watch, "and the students will be wanting their feast. Not even I would dare come between them and their first meal at Hogwarts." He stood and looked down at James, his eyes now filled with relief. "I believe the Ministry will want to interrogate you, but that can wait until tomorrow..."

"My son," James said quickly. "Can I... see him? Headmaster...? I want to see Harry..."

Dumbledore held up a hand. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Yes, of course, but give the boy a chance to eat and socialize with his schoolmates, James. He's in for more of a shock than you are, I daresay."

"Okay," he sighed, content for now to know that his son would soon be close by. But would Harry recognize him? Would James recognize his own son? Surely he would...yet what if he didn't...?

Madam Pomfrey clucked, drawing his attention out of himself. Dumbledore had left. "James Potter. Well," she mused, her hands going automatically to her hips. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"Food," James said immediately, for he was just now imagining how wonderful it would be if he could go down to the Great Hall, sit at Gryffindor table, and eat himself into a coma. Yes, that would be lovely indeed.

"So you are James Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, and laughed. James merely stared at her. She huffed and pulled her wand out, and a plate of food appeared, hovering front of James. He seized it, grabbed the fork that also hung in the air, and began to wolf down his meal.

Harry slumped forward in his seat, his elbows on the table in front of him. He was tired, and though it felt wonderful to be back at Hogwarts, absolutely wonderful, he simply was not in the mood to have other students give him odd, sidelong glances of concern and even mild fear.

Harry knew what they were thinking. That he was mad. Touched in the head.

"Look, there's no Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher!" Hermione whispered, nodding at the high table. Harry lifted his head wearily and scanned the table. Hermione was right. There were no new teachers there- all were familiar faces.

"Maybe Dumbledore's going to teach this year," Ron suggested. "You know, with... you-know-who back..."

"Don't be silly, Ron, Professor Dumbledore's got to be far too busy to be a teacher," Hermione answered breezily.

All through the Sorting, and through Dumbledore's speech, Harry stared off into space. Once, his eyes drifted over to Cho Chang at the Ravenclaw table, who was watching him, as many others were, though her gaze was quite different. She looked concerned. But as soon as Harry caught her eye, she flashed him a brief smile and looked away. He saw her cheek turn rather pink.

"Food!" Ron cried.

Harry loaded his plate with everything within arms' reach- mashed potatoes, carrots, roasted parsnips, ham. He had three helpings of Sheppard's pie.

"Harry, you're going to be sick!" Hermione whispered in alarm.

"Hungry," he muttered, draining his goblet of pumpkin juice. In truth, he simply wanted to be done with all this, so he could curl up in his own bed in Gryffindor tower and go to sleep.

At long last, just as his eyelids were beginning to droop and his stomach began to feel alarmingly tight, Dumbledore stood and ushered them off to bed. Harry stumbled along with the rest of Gryffindor, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Harry. One moment, if you will." It was Dumbledore. He seemed oddly excited, his blue eyes twinkling more than ever.

"Okay," Harry sighed, his shoulders sagging. He couldn't fathom what Dumbledore wanted. It was getting on, and he had classes in the morning... He watched as the Great Hall slowly emptied. Some of the staff was looking at Dumbledore curiously.

"Headmaster," Professor McGonagall said rather sharply, "Potter has class in the morning."

"Oh, I don't think Harry will be attending his classes tomorrow," Dumbledore answered quietly. Harry looked up at the tall old wizard, confused.

"Professor, it's the first day of school... I have to go. I have OWLs this year."

"I'm very glad to know you value your education, Harry, but there is something we must discuss, and I am afraid it simply cannot wait until tomorrow. No," Dumbledore mused, apparently getting lost in thought, "best to get it over with, I believe."

Harry felt the first flutter of unease in his stomach, though it might have been the extra helping of dessert he'd had. "Am I in trouble?" he asked quickly.

"No, no. To the Hospital Wing, Harry. I would explain it to you if I could, but it is something that must be seen, to be believed..." Dumbledore trailed off. Harry had never seen the Headmaster like this before. He seemed eager, but apprehensive. He kept glancing at Harry, his eyes reflecting an odd mixture of concern and excitement.