Fandom: Harry Potter
Category: Agonizing anguish, Shadows of Dread, Bleeding Hearts, Sick Puppy
Type: Fan Fiction
Warnings: Necrophilia, incest, and homo-erotica involved. Don't read unless you are emotionally and intellectually ready.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and everything belonging to the HP universe belongs to J.K. Rowling. The sick plot is mine.
Summary: Harry has just one unfulfilled desire: he wants to "know" his father, see him and feel him as he was when he lived. So when an opportunity comes from a charm, he decides to pay James a visit in his sanctuary.
Notes: This is absurd. I warned you. I didn't rip off anything from any sucky movies. The movies ripped them from me. Thanks to Zed for showing me Terror Unknown, and to Jifratsu for helping me with this fic.
He had won another game.
The cheers of Gryffindor House filled the pitch as Harry flew to the ground, clutching the snitch in one hand. He was grinning widely, punching the air with his fist in triumph. It had been a hard-won battle and he was damn glad to emerge as the victor.
The rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team rushed to him, hysterical with joy. Soon, he was buried under a tangle of arms, legs, and muddy Quidditch robes. They carried him on their shoulders as he held the trophy, certifying another year of success for Gryffindor House as the Slytherin team marched off the pitch in dejection. Spying Malfoy’s angry expression, Harry grinned again. It was just one of the many perks of winning.
The whole team was congratulated my Madame Hooch, person by person. When she reached Harry, her eyes pooled as she shook his hand.
“You’re so much like your father.”
Later, as Harry stood alone in the hall, he pondered those words. You’re so much like your father. James Potter. Who was his father, indeed?
He peered into the glass case that housed the old Quidditch plaque. James Potter, Seeker. The engraved words were short, so frustratingly unrevealing that Harry had the sudden desire to scratch it out of the bronze surface. Surely, his father had been more than a Seeker. He had been a person with a life. What were his likes, his passions, and his loves? And what had he felt or thought about whenever he walked through these castle halls by himself? Did he laugh a lot? Or was he a pensive person like Remus?
The plaque, as lovely as it looked, could only tell a meager fraction of the story.
He was not satisfied with second hand information that came from his father’s friends. People tend to forget who you really are once you’re dead, preferring to remember only the shining moments—eliminating the flaws, and the little details that matter. At least he had the photographs. But even those were unsatisfying. James could not answer his questions. He could only smile, eternally young, as he held baby Harry is his arms.
Harry sighed as he released his hold on the glass, leaving fingerprints on the dusty surface. James would always be a mystery to him. For the dead, really, could not be awakened.
“It’s supposed to be a charm. A good luck charm,” Remus said as Harry opened the box. The young Potter took the tiny brass ornament from its container, marveling at the craftsmanship of the antique.
“Wow,” he breathed. It was a small lamp, a miniature genie’s lamp, perhaps made for decorative purposes. It was carefully engraved with intricate designs, little gems embedded over the surface. “Thanks, Remus. Where did you find this?”
“It was given to me by a Sheik, a wizard of course, where I stayed while I was in the Middle East. His family had that little lamp for centuries. He said it brought them luck and was the source of all their fortune. Although, I believe it was really the frankincense trade that made them rich.”
“That’s interesting. It all sounds so exotic. What have you done to make him give you this?”
“He was pretty pleased with the way the Order handled the safe return of his kidnapped family from certain Death Eaters. He gave me that as a sign of his gratitude and his friendship, saying that he no longer needed luck now that his loved ones were returned.” Remus paused. “I thought you might need it more than I do.”
“Well, thank you,” Harry said, pleased. “I really appreciate this.” He wrapped the lamp and placed it in the box, slipping it inside his schoolbag. Soon, it was forgotten as he discussed the rescue of the Sheik’s family with Remus.
Later that night, back in his dorm room in Gryffindor Tower, Harry took out the lamp from its box. In the dim light of the empty room, he examined it. It looked so innocent—a beautiful white elephant that must have cost a fortune but could only serve to please the eyes of the viewer.
“Lumos,” he whispered.
Casting the light on the lamp, he stared out the carvings. The gems were surely not cheap trinkets. They glittered, reflecting the bluish light from his wand. If he was not mistaken, they could even be diamonds. Taking a corner of his blanket, Harry rubbed the surface of the lamp a bit, intending to clean off some of the dust.
The gems suddenly glowed beneath his hands. Surprised, Harry released the lamp. Picking it up a few seconds later, he noticed that the gems were now back to their previous dull radiance. Perhaps he had just imagined the glow?
Hesitant about leaving the matter alone, Harry rubbed it again, longer this time. And, as the rough wool of the blanket chafed against the brass, the small, miniscule diamonds lit up in unison, creating a web of shining lights that almost blinded Harry. But he didn’t stop. Oh no! By now, he was spellbound. And, throwing all caution aside, he wanted to know what he had awakened.
A slender wisp of smoke came out of the lamp, coiling over the air. It twirled, slowly, teasing the enthralled boy even further as he sat, unmoving, on his bed. It hung in the air, collecting into a mass of silvery mist in front of him. For a moment, Harry didn’t know what to do. He was torn between running and staying, scared with what he had done but curious, nonetheless. In a few seconds the choice was made for him.
He was suddenly sucked away from his world, falling into an unknown emptiness that never seemed to end. He screamed in the blackness, flailing his arms, looking for something… anything to break his fall. But his hands could touch nothing. There was only space, and he was its prisoner. Overcome with fear, he blacked out.
“Open your eyes.”
Harry blinked against the darkness. Instant confusion. He was no longer falling, but he wasn’t standing either. Rather, he seemed to be floating, suspended in space.
“Tell me what you wish for.”
“Who are you?” he asked. He turned his head, trying to find the source of the voice. But he could see nothing, only the swirling mists that curled around his colorless world. “Where am I?”
“Where is here? Here is nowhere. There is no place, no space, no time. Here is the realm of wonder, where anything could happen.”
Harry was stunned. Where did this disembodied voice come from? He shouldn’t have been so reckless as to stir up ancient magic that had been dormant for centuries. But, what was done was done, and he must find a way to get back to his world.
“How can I leave?”
“Harry Potter.” The voice chuckled. For a moment, it sounded just vaguely human. “Make a wish, mortal. For I can give you your dreams.”
“I…” He really didn’t know what to say. What did he have to wish for?
“Think. What do you desire most of all?”
What did he desire? Harry closed his eyes once again. The challenge was tempting. It might also be the only way that he could get out of here. Maybe he should wish for Hogwarts?
“I bring life to the lifeless.”
Maybe it was those last words. Harry’s eyes snapped open, the green widening into realization. He had something to ask for.
As soon as he thought it, he started falling again, losing the peaceful sense of floating in the fog. He went in shock, fighting to maintain his balance. But it was impossible. And soon, for the second time, he lost all consciousness.
“Ohhh…” Harry moaned as he woke up. It was never good to lose himself more than once in a day. Or was it even a day? He no longer had any idea.
He was lying on the grass, facing the blanket of stars that was spread over the sky. They gave enough light for him to see, luckily for him. Groaning, he sat up. His muscles ached in more than a dozen places, and he could not even find his wand. Damn… he must have left it in the bedroom.
He looked around him and was startled to see where he was. There were headstones everywhere: bleak, grey stone ones, the grand, white, marble kinds that caring people provided for their loved ones, crypts for the richer families… and he was sitting smack in the middle of them all.
But he wasn’t alone, for right in front of him was a stone block, engraved with the name: James Potter—with the dates of his birth and death. You are loved. How touching. Maybe Dumbledore had it placed there. But it wasn’t the words that held his attention. For, on top of the block, lay his father—James, as others had known him.
With morbid fascination, Harry approached the body. James was covered with a white sheet from the neck down, only his face was revealed. This was enough to surprise Harry, for James looked far from dead. His skin was pale, yes, but his cheeks were slightly flushed, lips kissed with the faintest hint of life.
He really could not help himself. Wanting to see if his father would respond, Harry touched James cheek with his hand. He withdrew almost instantly. James was cold, colder than he had imagined. And, for some reason, this saddened him more than the lonely name on the Quidditch plaque.
“Father,” he whispered brokenly. He flung himself on the body, putting his arms around his father’s corpse as he wept. His tears dropped on the sheet, staining the perfect white with wetness. He held on to James, hugging his father close to him as he was never able to do his whole life. Dead or not, James was here, and he was all Harry had.
Raising his head later, Harry stared at his father’s face. James did look like him. He was beautiful, radiant in a way that only a lover could see. It may have been that emotion, that sense of familial love, that made Harry do what he did next.
He bent his head and kissed James’s mouth with his own.
Once he started, he could not stop. He moaned against the coldness, imagining his father kissing him back. He dipped his tongue into his lips, running it along the roof of his mouth. Strangely excited by his father’s clinical taste, Harry started kissing his face, traveling down James’ neck as he pulled the sheet off with a hand.
Harry stared at James’ body, breathing tightly with anticipation. He ran his hands through the limp torso, touching his lifeless groin as he felt himself grow aroused by the sight. Slowly, he lay his fingers over his father’s pale thighs, massaging the stiff limbs as he touched that sensitive spot beneath the penis.
Suddenly, he could no longer keep himself from what his body ordered. Moving with haste, he flipped James around and faced his back to him. Harry placed his hands on the rigid globes of his ass, running a finger down the crack as he looked for the crevice that would give him his salvation. He tore the front of his robes off, releasing his enlarged arousal. Carefully supporting James’s hips, Harry positioned himself behind his father.
He entered James hard, roaring with the feeling of tightness squeezing his cock. The friction of the act drove him wild as he rode on, pushing, thrusting relentlessly into the body. He wept as he fucked James, chanting his name over and over again, as if he didn’t want to stop. He hardly even felt the drops that started to fall. The rain grew stronger, pouring with rage as he neared his orgasm. So absorbed was he by his father. With one last yell, Harry came, emptying himself into James’s corpse as he raised his face to the heavens, meeting the rain with his cries.
He slumped against James, kicking the wet clothes off the stone block. The tiny drops of water pricked their skins as they lay there, naked. Together.
He no longer really wanted to go back.
Harry smiled as he touched his father’s face lovingly. “Daddy,” he whispered.
The rain continued to pour for a long time, matching the bleakness of the graveyard. As the night gave way to dawn, the only sound that accompanied the storm was the sound of humming: a young boy singing to his end.