A/N: This has gotten progressively more deranged, so we believe it is fair to offer a warning. Despite the fact that this is a joke, things such as suicide, dubious sexual things (of varying degrees of description) such as necrophilia, things with tentacles, and other nasty beasties (not to mention crossdressing, slash, and MPreg, but to each his own offenses) are pretty much prevalent throughout the narrative, which is also complete and total so-late-it's-early crack. Also, far too many things are hyphenated.

This concludes the message. If you've already read this far, we doubt warnings about possibly turning back will do any good. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. We certainly have. And we wrote it. While giggling. A lot.

-LittlePsychoWolf & Voldie on Varsity Track

That night was perfect, so full of tentacles--- grey, writhing, twistily phallic as they penetrated the depths of Harry Potter’s piteous, teenaged being. They searched out the darkness from his soul, releasing it in aches and streams of abounding love. The two were so enamoured of each other, so entangled in the pleasure they found everywhere— in dungeons, beds, McDonald’s restroom stalls, and everywhere where Harry and the deliciously steamy Davy Jones could have a mere moment of privacy.

But now those days were over, and Harry had had to return to Hogwarts, left with few memories of their summer of love other than those radiating feelings of bliss Harry felt whenever he thought of tentacles, and that twenty-pence can of anchovies that Davy had given him as a farewell present.

Harry clambered out of the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, covered in slime, horrified at the atrocities against nature (and kitty plates) which he had witnessed, and possessed of an immediate and powerful urge to be sick. Ignoring the equally shocked Hermione completely, he staggered upright and bolted for the nearest stall in the long-disused restroom, ignoring her soft wails of agony.

Once it was over, however, he felt no better; rather, he almost felt worse. It was, he assumed, the unspeakable things he had seen in the Chamber which had nauseated him so; he wished dearly that Davy Jones was there to comfort him, and drive the pain away with his passionate embraces, so cold and damp and smelling of rotting squid. This was, altogether, extremely ironic, as Umbridge had had nothing whatsoever to do with it, and the captain of the Flying Dutchman (and Harry’s angst-ridden heart) did.

Having forgotten Hermione’s existence entirely, Harry remained in the stall for another five minutes, the tears burning his eyes like little fires. Then, with soul-wrenching slowness, he stumbled out and into the corridor, wandering through twisting hallways until he burst out into the blinding sunlight and the verdant grass of an indoor courtyard, where he immediately heard the sound of heartbroken sobbing that was not Hermione’s. He knew so, for he had briefly seen Hermione attempting to drown herself in the loo, beating her head with tubular fruits she had stolen from a market stand in Rhossili. He didn’t care one bit for Hermione, that ugly, nauseatingly straight creature that had stalked and had loved him for years. His heart belonged to Davy Jones, to the child he carried.

A woman of unmistakably royal bearing sat in the courtyard, staring intently at a smallish hole in the ground; this was, in fact, a rabbit warren, which explained absolutely nothing at all. Around her lay the small white corpses of innumerable other rabbits, all of which, Harry supposed, had once led peaceful and well-rounded lives in that same exact warren. Huddled in a corner was the quivering, sobbing, wreckage of a man, recognisable by its shock of bright ginger hair as Ron; however, Harry paid him little attention, if any. He was far more intrigued by the woman and her entourage of dead rabbits.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said tentatively, “but may I ask what you’re doing, and your name?”

Without looking up, the woman replied, “I am Queen Isabella, and I am waiting for the last rabbits to appear, so that I may projectile-urinate into them.”

Harry blinked. “…Oh. Um, jolly good. Next question. Why?”

“So I can see if I’m pregnant, you adolescent, angsty, asinine little shit,” Isabella snapped.

Completely unfazed by the insult (he had, after all, been called a lot worse over the course of his young life), Harry blushed slightly as another bout of nausea struck him, and, with it, a sudden epiphany. “Can I wait with you?” he inquired. “If you can spare a rabbit, that is… I think I’m, you know, in a similar situation.”

Isabella, not knowing enough about modern biology to understand how impossible this ought to have been, acquiesced with a friendly, albeit rather evil, smile, “Certainly.”

Thus, to the music of birdsong and Ron’s incessant quiet crying, Harry Potter and Queen Isabella sat in the courtyard and waited for rabbits, arguing loudly to pass the time.

“I’ll be much better at this than you,” Harry bragged. “After all, I don’t need to do a ton of awkward poses, since I’ve got a penis. I bet they’ll crown me champion rabbit-pisser-upper of all Britain.”

Just then, Harry felt a twinge of doubt gnawing at his heart; Ron stirred in his filthy corner, and the glimmerings of his tears reminded Harry of his own lost love. Was Ron even crying for love, anyways? He didn’t know, and he wondered why he briefly cared. But no matter what plagued any one of this band of courtyard delinquents, Harry knew that his own love for Davy would never fade, never collapse into the bleak obscurity of time.

Davy was stunning that night in August; however, the summer heat could not compare to the burning passion in Harry’s young loins. Davy’s cock was so long and hard, purple as an aubergine (which is indeed a tubular fruit), and it pleasured Harry so much to have that man’s pounding bits deep within his body and soul. They made love beneath the trees and branches of parks, forests, and random people’s gardens. They met where they could, when they could, and Harry thought that their love blossomed like flowers, like unfurling fire, whenever they united for the bliss and ache of sex.

On their last night together, Davy sighed, glanced at Harry with a sad gleam in his sea-bright eye. Davy did not need to say anything; Harry knew. This would be the end of their love, for Davy had to return to the sea. And Harry… Harry could only make love to the anchovies, scrubbing their greyish-black scales over his taut thighs, chest, and penis, cucumber-green with mould and Vulcan blood.

And now, Harry felt certain that he was with child by his darling Davy, and also that he was completely alone in this cruel world. He longed for a friend, if he could find any. Ron was too pasty and he smelled like Will Ferrell’s knickers. Hermione was normal. Dumbledore was dead, but that did not stop the old coot from being so glorious and feisty a lover. He glanced over to the woman beside him, who might not have looked quite so serene had she known what thoughts were running through his filthy, depraved, tentacled-undead-sea-captain-obsessed mind.

Then, at long last, a rabbit poked its adorable pink nose out of the warren. Isabella laughed maniacally and hitched up her skirts, taking careful aim. The rabbit, which had survived thus far by being too remarkably stupid to figure out how to exit the burrow in the first place, took no notice and started to nibble at the pee-drenched grass, apparently unfazed by the accompanying stench or the bodies of its companions.

Harry leapt up as well, determined that he would beat Isabella and take his rightful place as Champion Rabbit-Pisser-Upper of All Britain, complete with trophy and parade in his honour. As they struggled to achieve the best angle, Ron woke up, made an amazingly educated guess about the entire inane situation, and began to cry once more.

“You can’t kill ‘im, ‘Arry, nooo!” Ron wailed, tears streaking down his face as he flailed his arms wildly like a green flaily cactus thing at a Californian car dealership. “Not Flopsy!”

Harry took no notice, but did take aim. Within seconds, the second Flopsy was dead and Ron, yet moaning like a sissy lass, had fallen to the ground, utterly defeated. Within minutes, the remainder of the rabbits in the warren had emerged and were, as far as Harry and Isabella could tell, all dead, every last one. Ron could not look. Harry could not believe it— he had lost! Isabella had successfully done in all the surviving (at least until recently) rabbits, and he, despite his superior anatomy, had not gotten even one!

Harry stomped away to the other end of the courtyard, ignoring the nasty squelching sounds that resulted when he accidentally trod on more than one dead rabbit. Thus, he failed to notice the new visitor, an attractive man in a sequined green dress and stunning designer shoes (stiletto heels, in the interest of complete narrative detail), whose bearing of indefinable kingliness was clarified somewhat by the glittering crown perched amidst his immaculately styled curls, the shimmering gold, Harry might have thought, of the caramel-covered sardines Davy had once bought him for their anniversary.

Edward stopped, and stared, his crimson lower lip beginning to tremble. There was Isabella, that hideous, Hades-born she-goat who persisted in maxing out his credit cards (which he desperately needed for shoes) on men named Leonard, Welsh pastries, ocelots, and tubular fruits, often all at the same time, which created some mental images he tried his best to ignore. And there, their wide, adorable eyes glaring emptily up at him from the violated grass, were the innumerable legions of once-living, now-demised rabbits. A monarch more power-hungry than Edward might have pondered the merits of resurrecting these innocent victims, and so creating a terrifying army of zombie rabbits, but medieval kings of England never really pondered these things, never having heard of zombies in any case.

“Isabella…” he whispered, numb in the crushing grip of absolute horror, “what have you done?!”

His wife smiled innocently up at him, readjusting her petticoats. “Nothing, Edward dearest. I think it’s the baby talking; women get some very odd cravings. You know, pickles, prawn ice cream, tubular fruits, a burning desire to pee up rabbits and make sure we’re really pregnant and not just fat and horribly ill…”

As ever, she hadn’t spoken more than three words before Edward desperately wanted to kill her. Clenching his fists, he shrieked, “SHUT UP!!! I HATE MY LIFE AND I HATE YOU, YOU ANAL-POTENT GALLAVANTING BEER CHEESE!!!”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“I don’t know!” Edward raged, digging his hot pink and rhinestone-studded talons (he got them done at a shopping mall in Glasgow for half off) into his beauteous face, his eyes rolling frantically into his head; he simply could not fathom the loss of his darling pets, the spiralling of his wondrous life into one where he had to provide for that shrieking hell-beast and its spawn instead of emptying the royal treasury to buy out every Payless store in New York. He could not fathom the idea that he was unloved, that Ron, who had but five minutes ago waited in this very courtyard for him, for tea and biscuits, for conversation and promises of deep and abiding love, was now dead by perhaps his own hand. His ginger mop of hair was a floppy sun, a wilted sun, and it burned the king to realise, at last, that everything other than he was already gone. And he could fix that.

Edward was still seething, his face bright and red like a non-tubular tomato. He wasn’t going to answer his wife. He wasn’t going to mourn for Ron when he should have been mourning for himself, for the loss of his wonderful life. Cursing in a fit of fury, he stormed out of the courtyard, never to be seen by mortal man ever again.

Several hours later, once night had fallen, Edward’s pale, hopeless body was found dangling by a rope from a sturdy limb of the Whomping Willow, still being punched about at intervals by a few particularly bored branches. Considering the mood he had been in during his last moments on this wretched mortal plane, it was a safe bet that the king would have appreciated this. How he had managed to get close enough and tie the rope in the first place, however, was anyone’s guess and would forever remain one of the great unsolved mysteries of Hogwarts.

One person intrigued by this mystery lurked in the snow and shadows of the Hogwarts grounds, unseen. She had watched this fruity man rage around, wringing some strangling material in his gentle, moisturised hands, and had seen some of herself in his despair: the agony, the frustration, the thoughts of suicide that nearly drove her mad. This girl, Jessie Edwards, knew what it was to angst, for her dear boyfriend Tim, an athletic, car-and-sex-obsessed boy, had recently dumped her for some cheerleader. Some cheerleader! Jessie was deep, intelligent, a poet: basically, more than that girl. Watching the man dying on the Whomping Willow that night, Jessie knew that she needed his courage and his will to die. She needed him, and she silently wished that she could make love to his corpse as she teased his cold, dead flesh with tickling sweeps of live caterpillars.

Not being a witch, Jessie could not cut him down with magic. So she waited and, quite luckily, the string from which the king had hanged himself was rather weak (it was dental floss) and he fell to the ground. This was her chance.

Grinning madly, Jessie hurried over, a necklace of live caterpillars strung about her abnormally pale neck, and dragged the dead king off behind the Whomping Willow for a bit of privacy. She may have been a suicidal, brainless, emo nymphomaniac, but she sure as hell wasn’t an exhibitionist.

Edward’s designer clothing proved to be very difficult to unfasten, especially the slim green gown, the clasps of which refused to yield for almost five minutes, during which Jessie’s short attention span almost atrophied.

Finally, however, she met with success, and didn’t even flinch at the sight of the ex-monarch’s underwear (suffice to say it was also intended for the opposite gender, and had lace in places where lace did not ought to be). That, too, was quickly disposed of.

And then she found her black-lipsticked mouth on his, sucking his tongue like a nymphomaniacal dementor thirsty for the unique pleasures which were only to be found beyond the veil of death. It was cold, it was slimy, but it was inexplicably the most arousing thing she’d ever experienced in her short, angsty, sex-and-bad-poetry-filled life. In fact, that basically described the rest of the affair, although that was without mentioning all the caterpillars, and the fact that Jessie was already composing completely different verses even as she fucked the decomposing brains out of the departed king.

Not long later, Jessie had managed to haul the king’s body up to that very same courtyard from which he had stormed several hours earlier. When she had passed it, she immediately thought the piteous, dead-floppy-things setting becoming to her emo soul and, of course, suitable for the sacred rites that were about to take place that night.