Take Me to Church

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Blurb: 'In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene, only then I am human, only then I am clean.' Harry is sent back in time to 1945 from 1998. Love does not discriminate. (Tom Riddle/Harry Potter.)

Song Lyrics: Hozier - Take Me to Church

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Take Me to Church.

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My lover's got humor.

She's the giggle at a funeral.

We were born sick, you heard them say it.

I'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knife.

The only heaven I'll be sent to, is when I'm alone with you.

Offer me that deathless death, good god, let me give you my life.

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Harry Potter was bleeding.

Blood trailed down his bare arm from where he held it clutched to his chest, scarlet staining the edge of his white t-shirt sleeve. The ringing of blood-stained glass spinning itself in gradually slowing circles against the stone ground resounded in the massive room.

Harry had apparated into a mirror.

Silently grateful that he hadn't splinched himself through glass, the sixteen year old wizard straightened his back and lifted his chin, green eyes skirting the dark corners of his surroundings.

Mirrors lined every wall. They were entirely new to the Department - and more than a little unsettling.

Hesitantly, he raised his uninjured hand and gave a slight wave, watching the reflections repeat the action a thousand times, their own green eyes twitching as if to follow each other's movements.

Harry ducked his head, blowing out a slow breath and shaking off the chills rising on the back of his neck. His gaze was eventually drawn to the center of the room, wherein a whispering, shuddering veil shivered and hummed, flickers of ghostly wisps occasionally appearing like tentacles from its vacuum-like darkness.

The wizard steeled himself, letting his injured hand fall back to his side and watching a drop of blood hit the ground in every mirror. He took one step forward, the act mimicked in the walls of glass.

Shaking his head slightly and sending his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, he forced himself to focus on the object of interest instead of the dizzying reflections. As he stepped toward the dark veil, his pulse picked up, the whispers intensifying.

"Sirius?" his voice rang out; sharper in the cold, deadened silence of the whispering room than intended.

He flinched.

The black-haired, young man now stood but a foot away from the whispering veil. For a moment the image of a nauseatingly familiar white tomb flashed before his eyes, and his throat constricted.

The veil was Death. It had to be.

Harry reached out a hand to Death, shivering as one of the silver wisps shot out and brushed the edge of his finger, sending an electric buzz up his spine and leaving a faint smell of burning in his nostrils.

The Department of Mysteries.

A fitting name. Death was not supposed to feel like electricity, like liveliness; Death was not supposed to whisper. Harry bowed his head, remembering that he had little time in the Ministry - rather, he should not have been there at all. But there were dues that had to be paid; mourning that had to be done, lest it drove him to madness in the late hours of the night.

"I needed to say good-bye." Harry spoke aloud, his voice seeming intensified a thousand times in the dark of the room. The veil's whispers quieted, as if it were listening...eager. It flickered like a flame, breathing in and out; feeding on some unseen substitute for oxygen. "To - both of you," Harry continued, swallowing thickly as his mind conjured images of Sirius and Dumbledore.

"You've both done so much for me. This is my fault," he whispered now, his breath catching as he stumbled over his words, eyes stinging painfully as anger welled up inside him. His hand tightened into a fist as another silver wisp reached out to his hand, and he choked on his breath as the sting shot up his limb again.

"If there was any way I could take it all back - take back everything that's happened to everyone who's tried to protect me, I would."

The veils whispers intensified suddenly in volume, sharpening and becoming more clear, whispers of words.

"I don't understand, but I want to," a voice whispered sharply, distinctly. Harry started, green eyes widening. The words became more garbled as Harry took a step back, only making out the word 'death' in the next sentence.

Unthinkingly, Harry fumbled for his invisibility cloak, pulling it protectively around himself. The voice was too clear. Was someone else in the Department? That was the only explanation. The veil - Death - it couldn't actually speak.

He pulled his invisibility cloak over his head to be safe, seeing no harm in the precautionary action as he looked left and right.

The Department was still empty.

Harry took a hesitant step closer to the veil again, inclining his head disbelievingly. The whispers began anew, echoing off of the glass mirrors lining the walls, the sound reflecting as if it were a vision.

"Death won't take anything else from me. I've nothing left to lose." The voice was hoarse: a whisper, a plead.

Harry furrowed his brow slightly as an outline of a person - a man - began to take shape in the silver wisps. He reached out his cloaked hand, fingertips grazing the edge of the silvery form.

Electricity blinded him, burning pains shooting through his body as he felt himself be sucked into an unseen vacuum.

xxx

"Oof," Harry grunted as he collided painfully with the solid form of another wizard, who managed to catch and steady him at the last instant. His vision was blackened, his eyes horrifyingly unseeing as a loud, high-pitched ringing scream pulsed against his eardrums. He felt like he'd slow-danced with a dementor.

His vision began to fizzle in at the edges, a noisy ringing still blocking out all sounds. "I'm sorry, thank you," Harry said unthinkingly as he shifted away from the unknown person, blinking several times as his sight returned.

He was in Hogwarts. In a bathroom. Someone was speaking to him, a hand still holding his shoulder as he swayed slightly in place.

"Quite all right," a smooth, rich baritone responded, an aristocratic lilt of an accent touching the corners of the sound. It was familiar - it was the voice from the veil. Then, it had been roughened by grief, but now it was smoothed over, the richness distinctly apparent.

Harry blinked harder, lifting one shaking hand to scrub at his eyes as he focused on the face in front of him, mind spinning impossibly fast.

He'd been at the Ministry. He'd touched the veil. He'd fallen into the veil. But that was impossible; his prophecy had told him more or less what his death would be. It wasn't tripping into a veil, it was Voldemort.

The man in front of him suddenly came into stark focus.

A gasp tore itself from Harry's lips, his green eyes widening impossibly as he scrambled away from the other wizard, his legs nearly collapsing beneath him as his knees shook - he was still fighting off the ringing in his ears as he reached into his jacket pockets, fingers closing around his wand.

"Are you all right?" Tom Riddle asked in the politest of tones, his left hand stretching forward and resting on Harry's elbow, steadying him.

Harry's mouth felt dry. He couldn't think. He could barely breathe. "Don't touch me," he snapped breathlessly, yanking away from the wizard's gentle touch, leaning heavily on the bathroom sink, his fingers loosing their grip on his wand as he braced himself on the bowl of the sink.

He didn't recognize the place. High-reaching ceilings, intricately designed faucets twirling around a circular sink in the center of the room, linoleum floors mopped to perfection. He fumbled for the spigot on the sink, turning on the water and splashing some on to his face a couple times to rid the cold sweat that was spreading over his skin.

Harry drew in slow, steadying breaths, eyes pinched closed as he blindly turned off the water, droplets still trailing down his face and darkening the fabric of his shirt.

"Where am I?" Harry found his voice after a moment of his mind spinning.

"Fifth floor bathroom," a concerned voice responded quietly.

"Hogwarts?" Harry asked breathlessly, looking up but avoiding looking at the wizard he was speaking to.

It was impossible. Tom Riddle was in the past - Voldemort was there now. This man - whoever he was, wherever Harry was - was just someone who shared a striking resemblance. He hardly remembered what the diary Riddle had looked like, anyway. It had been years.

I need to calm down, he told himself firmly. I'm seeing things.

"Yes," not-Riddle responded lightly. Harry finally met his dark gaze, feeling his stomach swoop as he stared into the eerily familiar, friendly eyes. "Can I help you?" the wizard asked slightly, shifting his weight on to his heels, a wrinkle forming between his brows. "You seem lost."

Harry opened and then closed his mouth, looking the man up and down for a moment.

He was tall - taller than Harry by at least a few inches. His hair was inky black, not unlike Harry's own, but far more tidy, settling handsomely around his face. He was pale, with arched, aristocratic features - high cheekbones, expressive eyes. He was lean, but far from lanky. His eyes were a dark, heady grey, faintly-visible black limbal rings framing his irises in an enchanting fashion.

A small, exceedingly flattering smile flitted across the wizard's features and he straightened his neck, extending a hand to shake.

"I - am," Harry admitted slowly, his pitch dropping without his permission. He accepted the handshake and ignored the confusing tightening in his stomach as he did so. "I don't think I've seen you around Hogwarts," Harry said unthinkingly, trying to place the man as he momentarily forgot his predicament.

The stranger wore grey dress slacks, black formal shoes, and a grey button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to expose toned forearms. He wore a dark green silk tie, making his House not difficult to guess.

"I was just about to say the same," the wizard responded archly, a smile brightening his features. "Tom Riddle. Seventh year, prefect, Head Boy, Slytherin House," Riddle introduced himself with a small hand gesture, the same charming smile still settled on his features as Harry reeled back, green eyes wide with something not unlike horror.

This is a dream, Harry told himself firmly, sharply. The veil.

The veil had done this.

Where was he? He was not dead. This wasn't death.

The veil had...enchanted him. That had to be it. He was sleeping. He would wake up - but, oh Merlin, it had to be soon. The horcruxes, Ron and Hermione, the wizarding world still needed him. He couldn't sleep through the prophecy. But what was the correlation between time in the dream world and time in the real world?

"Is something wrong?" Riddle's voice startled him back to present.

"Not at all," Harry lied poorly, his voice coming out choked and hoarse. "Harry Potter," he introduced himself dumbly, sticking out his hand again as his mind worked furiously, a million emotions clouding his thoughts. Anger, confusion, sadness, guilt.

Maybe if I play through this. If I play the veil's...game. It must want something from me. I can do this.

Riddle's face shifted to amusement as he accepted the second handshake. "A relative of Charlus Potter?" the Slytherin asked. "Well-met."

"Uh - yes," Harry replied quickly, feeling the uncomfortable tightness in his stomach return as Riddle's fingertips brushed his palm as the handshake ended. "Yes - I'm - I'm a transfer. I'm looking for - Albus Dumbledore." Dumbledore will help. Oh Merlin, please let Dumbledore exist in this...game, dream. Please, Harry thought desperately.

Riddle's expression grew cold. Not a muscle shifted in his expression, but something in his eyes dissipated, and Harry suddenly found himself shifting away, a feeling of discomfort washing over him.

"Would you like help finding his office?" Riddle offered genially.

"No-" Harry started, then froze, realizing he had no idea where Professor Dumbledore's office was in this dream world. "I mean yes, that'd be – um – good, thank you," Harry offered lamely, receiving a cheery smile from Riddle in response.

"You missed Sorting, I assume you didn't come with the train?" Riddle asked curiously as the two started out of the bathroom, Harry desperately trying to ignore the strangeness of the situation as he kept pace.

This isn't Voldemort. This is Tom Riddle. He's - nice. Just play along. Play along, and Dumbledore can help you. "Uh, yes," Harry said shortly, ignoring the suddenly very intense, strange look Riddle was shooting him.

"Where are you from?" the prefect asked lightly, holding open the door for Harry to walk through.

Harry hesitated, not wanting to turn his back to the other wizard, before awkwardly clearing his throat and darting into the hall as Riddle sent him a bemused frown. His eyes widened slightly as he stepped out into the familiar corridor, a pang of nostalgia and sadness gripping him.

No somber depression lurked in the halls as the entirety of the school mourned the headmaster's disappearance. Life and vibrancy shone through every window, lightening the mood of every unfamiliar passing student.

Where am I? Harry worried anxiously. Where had the veil taken him? He recognized this place, but none of the students he saw wandering through the halls. Where were Ron and Hermione? Did they not exist in the dream world?

"Hey Tom," a pretty blonde Ravenclaw said lightly as she strode past the two of them. Harry watched her go with slightly widened eyes, her floating tone of voice oddly familiar - while still entirely foreign.

He had never met that girl. In all his six years at Hogwarts. Not once had he seen her - at a Quidditch match, at the feast, in a class. She was Ravenclaw, so perhaps he had simply missed...but, no. There were plenty of people at Hogwarts who Harry didn't know who would have recognized him. None of these wizards had even paused to glance at his scar.

Was this even Hogwarts?

Tom didn't acknowledge the witch as she walked off, instead looking to Harry expectantly.

Harry blinked. "Oh. Uh, homeschooled," he replied, belatedly answering the forgotten question.

"Ah, of course."

Harry relaxed, nodding slightly as the two of them ascended a couple floors. He attempted to shake his confusion at the relaxed manner in which him and Tom Riddle were walking along - an air of familiarity tangible in the air between them in the peaceful quiet.

"Just in there, now," Riddle said suddenly, pausing just outside of a painting of a bowl of fruits. He tickled the lemon (an odd sight indeed,) which promptly squealed, the door flying open and a citrusy odor filling the air.

Harry watched in slight wonder, drawing an amused smile from his company.

"They're rather humorous, magical paintings," Riddle said lightly.

Harry nodded, stepping inside to the small hallway which led to an office without another word.

The painting swung shut behind him.

I'm trying something new. Thoughts?