Summary: Warnings: If you're bothered by homosexuality, incest, necrophilia, or incestuous homosexual necrophilia, you really don't want to read this. Trust me. There's an incidence of implied bestiality in here as well. Blink and you'll miss it. One can only cram so many 'sins' into one body of text.
Notes and Credits: Yes, this is tasteless. Yes, this is perverse. But it's written this way for a reason. It's supposed to be disgusting. You got that? I don't need emails tell me "it's gross" because I fucking know it's gross, I wrote the damn thing. A thousand thanks go out to Libertine, whose greatness is simply immeasurable, for giving me the Sirius/dead!James idea, which ultimately led to my fascination with Harry/dead!James. And there you have it.
The glacial air bit into the back of Harry's neck, contrasting sharply with the burning in his flesh. Tiny fires raged underneath his skin, marking it with a delicate smattering of sweat drops that glistened like tiny pearls in the moonlight.
He wandered among the rows of graves, stopping on occasion to carefully read their markers. To his left, a lover's final goodbye was carved into the hard granite, bound eternally into place through the use of spells and enchantments. These last words would never wear away, never break, they would remain the same until the end of time. To his right, a witty epitaph detailed the life of a forgetful wizard. If only I could forget, Harry mused, making his way to the end of the row where he stopped and stared at the grave of his father for the first time in his life.
It felt strange, almost surreal, standing there with his hands on his hips, gazing at a bleak piece of rock that served to remind the world that his father had been a devoted parent and a faithful friend whose life was cut tragically short.
His shovel pierced the ground with ease, tossing up clumps of grass over his shoulder and on to the ground behind him. He continued to dig until the blade struck something solid. With great anticipation, Harry cleared away the remaining dirt, revealing the lip of a wooden coffin, the lid of which was decorated with ancient symbols designed to keep the body inside fresh for an extended amount of time. It was a silly custom to employ the use of these symbols, yet it was a practice that carried on long after everyone had forgotten why it even existed in the first place.
Harry climbed out of the hole and withdrew his wand from his cloak. "Wingardium leviosa," he muttered, directing the tip of his wand towards the coffin. The coffin slowly rose up out of grave and touched down on the ground with a soft earthly thump. For the first time in over fourteen years, the coffin sat exposed to the fresh air, moonlight streaming over it in gentle waves, breezes licking its wooden sides. After all these years, it was finally free.
The lid popped off with relative ease, immediately sending the stench of death spewing forth into the atmosphere. It was an intoxicating combination of decomposing bones, rotting flesh, mildew, and faint traces of his father's pheromones which still managed to exist among the other olfactory stimuli. Harry breathed deeper, saturating his lungs with the putrid scent, and loving every minute of it.
He briefly considered moving the body to the ground, but it was sure to be in fragile state and he didn't want to risk damaging it anymore than it already was. Magic had slowed the rate of decomposition, but James's worm eaten eyes and drooping, holey flesh, told stories of how quickly that magic was fading. At last he came to a decision, and crawled into the coffin.
His fathers' face was much different than the one that graced the pages of his photo album, eyes once warm and shining were cold and dull, a testament to one of the many drawbacks of being dead. However, there were traces of his fathers' former self, a thick crop of black hair which rested on his skull, limp and fragile, but still there, just as Harry remembered it being. Desire began to creep up on him, like a fiendish parasite it wiggled its way under his skin and possessed him with the need to do what he knew was forbidden.
Slowly his fingers fell upon the strings of his cloak and nimbly untied them. He cast the heavy garment to the side and gripped the bottom of his shirt, pulling it up over his head. For a moment his world stood shrouded in complete darkness and then as his shirt joined the discarded cloak on the ground he was made aware of his surroundings once again. With the night air now embracing his sweaty chest Harry anticipated a gentle cool; instead he found the heat that burned inside of him increasing in intensity. He shrugged his shoulders, unwilling to question the mechanics of nature, and bent down to brush his fathers' lips with the tip of his tongue. It wasn't as though he expected the body to kiss him back, but the cold, unresponsive lips unnerved him slightly. He shook his head, disgusted with his display of cowardice, and plunged full force at the pale, musky lips. His eyes closed, he pushed his tongue into the bodies' mouth, excitedly probing around the oral cavity, searching for who knows what, but searching nonetheless.
A shiver bounced along his spine as he felt something soft and warm brush up against his tongue. Harry closed his eyes, imaging that his father was warm and alive, and this thing, whatever it was, was the tongue of his father, reaching out to him, needing him, loving him. This fantasy was shattered when his taste buds began to scream in protest at the foul slime that they were being subjected to, and Harry gasped, inadvertently swallowing the slimy source of affection. He choked and hacked until the offending worm flew from his mouth and hit the ground with a splat. Dazed and confused, it slithered out of sight.
Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up in the wooden vessel, he toyed with the buttons on his trousers before releasing them from their task and sliding them down to the top of his shoes. A familiar tingle brewed in his loins, enticing his already throbbing cock to press against the seams of his boxer shorts, straining for release. He pushed down his boxers, exposing his cock to the brisk night air, and kneeled down between the long legs of his father.
The slacks his father was buried in had certainly seen better days; the fabric practically fell apart beneath his fingers. All he had to do was tear it gently and soon the flesh of his fathers' inner thighs was revealed. Harry was perplexed as to why they chose to bury his father commando style, but the sight of the withered, decomposing cock that appeared to be as soft as jell-o and just as flabby, seemingly attached to the body by the scarcest amount of connective tissue. This visual feast emptied his head of all patterns of logical thinking. His mouth was drawn towards the flaccid piece of flesh as if magnets of reverse polarity were at play. He indulged himself fiercely with the spoiled appendage, the flesh felt as though it could practically melt in his mouth and the texture was like nothing he had ever experienced before. The taste of death and decay swarmed over him, causing him to gag, but he was enjoying himself far too much, and he pushed onwards, running his fingers up and down the length of his own cock, crying out into the night from the pleasure he was bestowing upon himself.
His cries intensified as did the vigour of his strokes, he came in a blur of pleasure and hesitantly released James's cock from his mouth. He looked down to see that his cum was tangled in the sparse curls of James's pubic hair. Seeing this caused him to grin widely, and he continued to do so until a familiar voice emerged from the blackness. A monstrous flush broke out over his cheeks and he reddened deeper as Sirius Black approached him, his mouth propped open in a gesture of intense shock.
"I - I - I - I -" Harry sputtered, attempting to find the words to justify his actions.
"We'll talk about this later," Sirius muttered. "Get home."
Harry obediently threw on his clothes and ran off to the bush where his broomstick lay hidden away behind an old oak tree. He quickly mounted it and flew off into the night without looking back.
Sirius wandered up to the open coffin and peered inside. What he saw neither spooked nor shocked him. Years of life in Azkaban had allowed him to build up a resistance to most anomalies. True, dear old Prongs had seen better days, but his grotesque appearance was nothing that couldn't be overlooked. It wasn't even all that bad; the look on James's face rather reminded him of the way James had looked as a young man when they caught Snape performing a lewd act with his owl.
As memories of his past continued to haunt him, Sirius climbed into the waiting coffin and turned James over on his back. James has always been best on the receiving end of things and Sirius felt the experience the bond they once shared just one last time. His slacks and underwear were stripped off his body and dropped to the ground nonchalantly. He left his socks on. James always liked it when he left his socks on.
His fingers traveled along the lines of James's mushy buttocks, retracing the contours that he once knew so well. He parted the twin cheeks, chuckling softly to himself as the lumps of flesh actually stayed in place instead of bouncing back as they had done so stubbornly in the past.
A quick thrust brought his cock into the safety of James's rectum where he was immediately greeted by the sensation of maggots wriggling against his cock. He moaned, despite himself, and began vigorously humping James's ass, tearing away pieces of flesh that fell to the silken lining of the coffin and sat there waiting for the insects to come and claim them.
He rocked back and forth, vigorously riding the rotting flesh, savouring the sweet ecstasy of his encroaching orgasm. Just as the walls of skin began to cave in all around his pulsating cock, he found relief and planted his seed within the corpse.
His heavy breathing taxed his lungs, forcing him to struggle for each breath of air that he took in. Once again he flipped James over, this time putting the body back exactly the same way he found it.
A part of him urged to return to the world of the living while another felt compelled to remain among the dead. As he sprawled out in the coffin, he looked up at the stars and wrapped an arm around his decaying companion. He drifted into a dreamless slumber under the night sky and awoke before the first rays of dawn touched the ground. Everything was put back into place and made to look as if nothing happened. He abandoned the cemetery, contemplating exactly how he was going to deal with his Godson, but James Potter was never far from his thoughts, and Sirius would be back.