It began and it ended in the Church
Harry Potter had always loved the church.
The high walls painted so lightly as if forgotten and remembered only later on, the colored windows reflecting the sun's gaze; so golden and breath-taking, the colors reflecting on every attendants face, but the statues…Oh the statues he loved the most. They had always fascinated him; how each stone was carved, how much skill it took and how much time, but most he liked were the faces and bodies etched forever, the different tales each one told; a weeping mother holding her firstborn; her joy, their savior. The son of god suspended in eternal torture; so weak and yet so strong, carrying all of our sins.
All were permanently carved in rock, they could never change, their stories always there for everyone to see, for all to know, all to be.
The soft songs heard every time, the light prayers that wrapped themselves around each one, the harsh tones in every condemn, how they spoke on who to damn.
It was perfect.
His own little slice of heaven, right here on earth's ground. Easy to touch, so simple to grasp. Never far and always near.
His home.
His relatives didn't mind this and in fact encouraged it. Harry liked to think they caused his obsession with the church- not the religion but the building, the house of God.
As good christens they attended every Sunday's mass, never missing a single one no matter how much their son, Dudley, whined about missing one or more of his shows. They would sit on the third row, four to the right, next to old Mrs. Moore whose husband died in the last war. They would donate 15 pounds exactly each time the basket passed and then look down their nose on those who would not, who could not.
They were Good People. So kind and True. Thoughtful and nice.
They were liars.
They have decided early on to take Harry with them, reasoning that perhaps being in God's house would help cure him of his 'freakishness'. For God is merciful and strong and good.
Harry had no idea what sort of freakishness he had. He was just as normal as the rest of his family and yet his relatives insisted that there was something wrong with him, that he was a freak. He never found out why they decided that, why they looked at him this way.
Being forced to go to church in order to 'fix' him was the least horrible of their ways, he shivered in remembrance.
He sat quietly every time they visited but couldn't find it in himself to hear the Vicar's words on how to reach heaven- his relatives already told him he was condemned to hell to be tortured for all eternity as all Freaks do. He shook his head from those thoughts and sighed softly, it didn't matter- none of it was real, the words were false either way.
For he might have had his reasons and he might have had his thoughts but they were not only his and if his relatives even suspected how he felt, the beating he would endure would no doubt be harsh.
But going to the church was not enough.
It had also been decided by his law-abiding-relatives that since he was 'A lazy scoundrel just like his good-for-nothing father' (his aunt's words) that he should make himself useful, as if being the Dursleys' slave was not enough. So after explaining the situation to the Vicar ("The boy is a trouble-maker, Father, and should always be occupied so he wouldn't do anything stupid or dangerous, we try our best with the young lad."), Harry found himself working for several hours at the church, doing all sorts of odd jobs. Such as cleaning the windows, washing the floors or polishing the benches.
If the Vicar wanted Harry to do something else, he would simply be told and it would be done by the hour.
Harry didn't mind.
The time he spent at the church allowed him to reflect on his situation. For example, he had always wondered how a man that works for God wouldn't do anything to help him. 'Cause Harry knew the Vicar saw the bruises on his skin whenever his far-too-big-for-him shirt was slipping over his shoulders.
But it didn't seem to matter.
No matter what showed, nothing happened and the way Harry showed up for work never seemed to bother or make a difference. Though, he remembered the one time the Vicar was annoyed that the washing was late because Harry found it hard to work with a broken arm.
Not that Harry cared anymore. He had had years to get used to the way he was treated at home, years to remember that most people don't want to hear or see anything they didn't agree to. After all, if you couldn't see it, it wasn't there and as such didn't exist. And besides, would the good law abiding citizens do something like that?
All of these came up to the reason why Harry never minded staying at the church.
The young boy smiled as he scrubbed hard at the stone floors, washing every scuff and cleaning every stain. The choir of their church was practicing and he had always enjoyed hearing the sang prayers.
The soft words sung so lightly and dreamy made him wonder so many things.
The choir may not have been as good as the ones he heard on the television (on the rare occasion he was allowed to clean the living room while the Dursleys were there) and yet, hearing them, Harry felt in peace; always hoping he would finally get his wish.
After all, the Vicar said his words are God's words so that must mean that the choir's songs were the angels'.
And angles always grant you your wishes.
The boy smiled sadly once more when he realized that he finished washing the floor; it only needed to dry. It was the last thing on his list of chores and he was upset that he had to leave this place and return to the Dursley's house, for it was never his home.
He took a moment to stare at the great hall and felt his breath hitch at the wonderful sight he saw; Sparkling statues each telling a story, see-through windows full of color and shine, glowing benches so neat and clean and a newly washed floor to complete.
The only thing missing was the angels.
As if summoned by that very thought, the great wooden doors opened and a tall figure entered.
Harry stopped what he was doing but didn't rise from his knees; his eyes not leaving the man.
He did not look like an angel; he was far too dark for that.
His hair was the blackest black Harry had ever seen, with glowing red eyes to match; they burned brightly in the church's lights and told the boy of the man's past. They told him about the screams of his victims and about how they begged and how he never gave in. They told him that the being in front of him wasn't a normal human; he was far too superior to be one.
The shadows in the church seemed to attach themselves onto him as he walked down the aisle, every step soft and carefully measured. If Harry could count them, he was sure that it was the exact number of steps needed, no more or less.
Whoever he was, he was heading in Harry's direction, front center of the church. But the boy wasn't scared.
Angel or not, Harry was sure that he would get his wish tonight.
How right he was.
Harry watched the red-eyed man standing in front of him, the darkness he felt before was almost tangible now, the shadows swallowing the glowing light from the windows and the sounds of the choir fell as if gone.
"Why have you come here?" The words broke the silence, loud in the quiet of the hall.
The dark angel stared, his red eyes not leaving Harry's greens.
"Am I not allowed?" He wondered and the boy shook his head. "The angel of death doesn't belong in a church."
The idea was simple.
The Angel of God, the Great Lord of Death, only takes a life because it's in God's plan, or so says the Vicar. It is understandable that God will not allow him to kill in a church, His own home, unless he has a good reason for it.
With that in mind…"What makes you think that is what I am?"
Harry smiled but didn't answer; after all, they both knew he was right, so why argue?
"What is your name, child?" The man asked and Harry cocked his head to the side, "Harry Potter, but you knew that already." It wasn't a question, for the man did not look surprised by the answer.
The man stared at the boy for another moment before his gaze turned around to gaze upon the church.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" The whisper startled him, even if he didn't show it. Harry always noticed when it did. His relatives told him that he gave them the shivers. "It all fits." The child carried on.
"What fits?" Voldemort asked and the child sighed in disappointment at the man's words, even as he gave the answer. "God's house with an angel inside, even if it is a dark one."
"It was said that there is no light and dark-" He was cut off by the child. "Only shades of grey, yes I know."
Voldemort shook his head and briefly wondered if he was making a mistake; ridicules, quite clearly so, and yet.
"Are you going to grant me my wish now?" Harry asked still not breaking his gaze.
The dark wizard pulled out a wand. Yew, thirteen inches with a phoenix feather.
It was the brother of another who will never have a master.
"Do you want to see your family again?" The dark lord spoke and Harry nodded.
"It has been my only wish, yes."
Voldemort paused once more before he pointed the wand at the child's heart.
"Close your eyes." He whispered and the boy complied.
"Do I need to keep wishing?" Harry asked silently and the red eyed devil smiled grimly.
"No. There is no need. Your wish is going to come true in any case."
With that he spoke the two words and watched the green light heading towards the boy.
So caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear the boy's silent words of 'thank you'.
He didn't answer.
The young body fell to the floor almost soundlessly and Voldemort felt his breath hitch.
He, himself, was no angel…but the boy…Harry Potter was the perfect example of one.
Pale skin that seemed to glow even in death, eyes closed with a blissful smile on his face.
He was beautiful and it saddened the great lord to kill such a being.
The boy needn't have died. He had no magical powers so he wasn't dangerous, but it had to be done.
His reasons were his own; To show his followers that he wasn't scared of his one-time defeater, To tell himself that he was telling the truth but mostly because he had the feeling that the life Dumbledore (the old fool) had sent Harry Potter to, with the muggles, was just like his own at the orphanage and he could not let that go.
The boy wanted to die so badly that it was his greatest wish; he wanted to be with those he loves so much that he now laid upon the ground.
And that was proof enough that Voldemort was right.
Yes, Harry Potter had to die by his hand, if only so it wouldn't be by his family.
As he left the church, Voldemort was glad that Potter's perfect picture of the church wasn't ruined.
There in god's house, with the clean floors and the washed windows that glittered in the sun's gaze, laid an angel.
An angel that finally got his wish.
