Disclaimer: Nothing except the idea is mine.

A/N: This is a none-magical AU. It could be considered as controversial I suppose, because it's about the church (in a completely fictional way!), but I thought I'd run with the idea and see if anyone's interested in the slightly twisted side of my imagination…mwa ha haaa! By the way, all of the ranks and titles, like archdeacon are just put in a made up order for the story and some are completely made up roles, so don't be alarmed. Enjoy!

Chapter One

Hallow, Prepotence

"Sin. Something each of us is subject to, for man was made with sin in his heart. This means that our beloved Christ and our forgiving Lord expect us to repent. This does not simply mean attending church like every other God-fearing Parish in Prepotence, but to take your punishment a step further. To earn God's forgiveness, we must prove to Him that we will give up everything to please Him in preparation to exist in a blissful infinity with Him and our Christ Jesus – what is 'everything' for us? For men? For the selfish creatures we are? Ourselves. Thus, we must punish our physical shells, our bodies, our minds. The lesson of pain helps us to remember that we sin with every breath we wrongly take and the simplicity of our hard lives reminds us that we deserve nothing we have. Anything less is an insult to Him. Anything less is a sin."

The priest lent forward, his hands gripping both edges of the lectern, his eyes scanning those listening, rapt, in the nave, "For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God's glorious standard. Romans 3:23. This is the most obvious example of what I speak. The more we show God that we recognise our place on his world and the more we understand our role here to show him our humble natures, the closer we are to acceptance in His perfect dwellings beyond this world."

He stepped down from the lectern and moved quietly across the sanctuary to the altar, where he touched the simple wooden cross briefly. He avoided he eyes of those in the nave, looking instead through the broken pane in the stained glass window to the east. The sun glared through, still low in the sky.

"We are all infected and impure with sun. When we display our righteous deeds, they are nothing but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall and our sins sweep up away like the wind. Isaiah 64:6." The priest looked back at the silent worshipers, "After hymn number 751, Forgive Our Sins as We Forgive, we will move on to the sacrament. Please line up behind the chancel."

Later

"Nice service. One might call it a work of art."

The priest didn't look over his shoulder as he lifted his black stole over his head and hung it over the stand by the door – it had been embroidered with gold patterns and gifted to him by a family in his parish for his twentieth birthday. Following the stole was his alb, the white garment fluttering in the breeze from another broken window. Slipping his white tab from the collar of his floor length cassock, he placed it on the dresser before unbuttoning the cassock itself. Only when he was left standing in his black cotton trousers did he turn, having to hang the cassock on the back of the door. To do so, he had to ask the visitor to come in and close the door. A domineering hand grasped his shoulder roughly to run him around. He stumbled back a step and hit his arm against the door, forcing it closed despite its poor fit in the frame.

"I especially liked the hymn. A nice touch, giving hope of forgiveness to them even though you don't believe it yourself."

"They aren't weak. They are misled."

"Mislead indeed." The man let go of the priest's shoulder with a laugh, his head tilted back. "Misled by you. You've changed." He hand moved again to lift the chain from against the priest's chest. It was no ordinary cross. It was inverted and on a chain so long it touched his navel. The man let it go, letting the cross bounce against his midriff. "I heard about the incident yesterday."

"James, it was—"

"I'm tired of hearing excuses." James said, his voice lowering. He glanced back at the door as though he was checking whether it was still closed. He took a step closer, "I covered for you as soon as they started asking questions. I thought you had finished with this."

"I have." The priest answered calmly, walking back to the dresser to pick up a long piece of rope with miniscule shards of glass tied into the thick frays, "But I keep the cross not to represent Satan, but Peter and my humility and humbleness before Christ."

"Not many will see it that way." James warned him, watching with a sickened expression as the priest looped the rope around his waist twice. It was thin enough to hide beneath a cassock when pulled tight, which he did. The priest's expression showed pain only for a moment as the rope pressed into the barely healed cuts around the circumference of his waist, but he quickly regained control and smoothed his frown out.

"You still do that?" James asked in concern.

"Not during Sunday service."

"Because that makes a difference." James scoffed. The priest tied the rope, his expression still carefully blank. He passed James to reach for his cassock and pull it on. James watched silently, leaning against the stone wall as the priest buttoned the cassock with swift fingers. H slipped the white tab into his collar as he turned to face James again.

"I have a job to do, James." He said, his voice, low, "Is there anything else you needed, or did you come here just to accuse me of treachery against the Church?"

James raised his eyebrows and took a step forward to place his hand on the priest's shoulder. "I'm sorry this has happened to you. When I brought you here…" he shook his head and looked away, "I never would have thought you would rise to the position of priest in such at the age of twenty."

"It's my calling." The young priest smiled gently, lifting his hand to touch James' face as the other man's own hand dropped. "I, of all people, am aware of my sins. Only I can tell the people of this parish the truth about themselves. The truth will save them from damnation."

James met his gaze again and stared for a long moment before shaking his head. He turned away, yanking the door open to leave. A low creak filled the air between them before it hit the wall. "Do you plan on a promotion?" he asked without turning.

"To be a suffragan bishop isn't what I came here for, what you placed me here for. The way for me to fulfil my purpose here is to continue what I do now."

The priest watched as James shook his head and left. He was alone in the room at the back of the church, staring at an empty doorway.

Hallow, Prepotence, six years later

The door, its wood darkened by the pressing rain, swung open at a brush by Harry. The doors had been loose on their hinges for as long as he could remember, but the Church had refused to fund the repairs. They had been told that it was selfish to beg for money for something so unimportant that would only be for their benefit.

As he opened the door, the other door flew open beside him, swinging out and slamming against the black stone wall outside. Archdeacon Sirius stormed out, his cassock billowing behind him and sweeping around his ankles in the pools of water that gathered on the uneven ground, the fabric darkening even further. When Harry was spotted by the older man, Sirius performed a low, mocking bow.

"Good morning, oh great Harry, the boy who lived. I'd watch your back in there." he advised with a dark grin, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the church, "He's in a bad mood. With me, at least."

Harry frowned after Sirius' back when he strode away towards the Parish over which the church presided. Boy who lived, he thought bitterly. It was the nickname Sirius had given him when he had learned of how he had been abandoned in the woods outside the parish as a babe and nearly died from the cold of winter. Harry hated being called the boy who lived, because it drew attention to how brutally he had been abandoned and immediately orphaned, but he couldn't stand up to Sirius the Archdeacon of Hallow. The only man in a higher position was the Suffragan Bishop of Hallow and it wasn't as though he would listen to a common Noveant such as Harry. The bishop of their province himself would care even less. That was usually the way – the higher the power, the further from their Noveants they were, so the less they understood what they really needed.

There was, however, James. The youngest Archbishop of the province. He was the Archbishop of the whole of Prepotence and was the kindest of their leaders. Kindness didn't meant forgiveness, though, and he was never available to talk, the reason being that he was kept away by assignments from the Pope as well as the fact that his home was, primarily, the capital of Prepotence, The Grail.

Harry came out of his head and turned to go into the church, pulling the doors closed behind him against the rain. Most of the light was closed off by doing so, forcing his eyes to adjust to the meagre light of the candles in the black stone building. The only time natural light shone into the church was through the east window during sunrise.

Despite the lack of light, Harry could see the priest seated on a low stool in the sanctuary at the head of the church, a large object resting against his leg. Harry recognised it to be a cello and watched as the priest lifted his bow and a beautiful, haunting melody filled the empty space of the church, its low tendrils caressing Harry's ears as he listened. It wasn't often music was heard outside of a hymn. It wasn't outlawed – yet – simply frowned upon.

Harry bit his lower lips; maybe the priest had forgotten about their appointment. It looked as though he had walked into a private moment. Harry started to back away, thinking about the punishment he might receive for being caught in the church when the priest didn't want him there. When he reached the doors, the music stopped and the priest beckoned him over before continuing the piece. Harry thought he recognised the notes as they reached him, but was distracted by the thought of sitting beside the priest alone. What if he had interrupted a private moment? Harry had never personally seen the priest angry, but he had heard tales of how thorough his punishments were.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Harry made his way to the sanctuary. He meant to walk quickly so as not to displease the priest, but his feet dragged as he walked through the nave were the Noveants sat during service as they always did. He was always humbled by this beautiful building and by the sermons the priest gave. They were to be selfless and they had been taught that to rush was to be selfish, to want to be somewhere faster – that if God had given them legs that carry them comfortably at a certain speed, then they should never dare to push the limit of comfort that He had gifted them, for He could have been merciless and given them discomfort at any speed. This had always confused Harry, as other sermons had taught them that to be comfortable was sinful, as they must punish themselves every day to show Him that they would give up anything to be with Him when their time here was over.

Nonetheless, Harry always took his time to admire the architecture – the church itself was beautiful in spite of its ugly usage. Harry snapped his eyes back to the priest, fearful that he had heard the blasphemous thought. The man was still seated with his back to him, the music from the string instrument louder now. The priest swayed with his dark melody, his head bowed. His whole body was tensed and hunched over the cello as his arm moved the bow faster, the notes becoming abrupt. Harry thought it sounded dangerous. There was still that familiarity nudging the back of his mind, but he couldn't know the song. The only music he ever heard was the hymns in church and the psalm that represented Prepotence. To play music for oneself was considered a selfish, pleasurable act.

Harry reached the steps before the chancel and waited, his eyes flickering from the stone floor to the priest in the sanctuary that could be seen through the large stone archway. After a short minute, the notes from the cello came to a short, abrupt climax. The silence stung Harry's ears.

The priest stood and turned in one sudden and fluid movement, making Harry start, untwisting his body from around the instrument. He rested the cello and bow against the wall of the sanctuary beside the altar. Harry watched as he stepped in front of the altar and bowed, tracing a cross over himself, before turning and making his way into the chancel. The priest looked him over briefly before descending the two steep steps. He beckoned for Harry to follow him into the room at the back of the church beside the archway to the sanctuary that was always closed. Inside, Harry found himself looking around a small, boxy room that contained only a narrow wooden bed and a dresser with a minimal one drawer. Two candles lit up the windowless room.

"Stay here."

Harry didn't dare to move even an inch until the priest came back with two wooden chairs. He set them at the end of the bed and gestured for Harry to take one. Harry waited for the priest to sit first, but when he didn't, he began to feel foolish so took the one nearest to the door. Once Harry was sitting, the priest sat opposite him. Even when sitting, the priest was taller than Harry by a full head. The fact that he sat with his back straight as a ruler only made him seem more intimidating. He seemed to sit forward a little, as if trying not to let his back touch the back of the chair. Harry automatically straightened his back, oddly vulnerable.

The priest studied him in silence. Harry tried not to stare back as he was assessed. The priest was tall and slim, and had blonde hair that fell just shy of his shoulders. His sharp blue eyes pierced whomever they looked upon and his mouth was usually pressed in a stern, straight line. He entwined his fingers and rested his hands on his lap. Compared to Harry's shorter frame and dark hair matched with dull brown eyes, the priest looked like an angel and was often compared to one by those in Hallow. Harry held the priest's gaze nervously, fighting the urge to look away from those eyes that seemed to bore through him and into the core of his God-given soul.

"Your name?"

Harry jumped at the sudden question and automatically answered, "Harry."

"Ah, Sirius told me of you. The boy who lived—"

"I'm—!" Harry cut off his frustrated cry with a cringe as the priest gave him a cold glare. Harry flinched as though he had been physically struck. He lowered his eyes to the priest's hands again, the tips of his own fingers white as he pressed them together.

"If you had let me speak, I would have continued to say that a name is not what defines him, but who he is and how he offers himself to God." The priest finished, "Which is why we do not give orphans last names. It gives you a place within the Church to prove yourselves. Putting parentless children in their places is what we do."

Harry stared in disbelief. Surely that was too close to an insult to the Church to be proper for a priest? The priest seemed to know what Harry was thinking, his mouth curling into a wry smile.

"I realise you know that my name is Remus, even though I know those within my parish refer to me as 'the priest', so I will not introduce myself."

"I attend every service." Harry stated with a humble bow of his head.

"I know." The priest smiled looking away, "Are you aware that I was an orphan?"

Harry looked up at the priest, surprised, "No, I didn't know."

"I cannot remember the name that was given to me by my orphanage in The Grail," the priest went on with that distant smile, "I was adopted at an early age and given the name I have now."

"Did you ever have a last name?" Harry asked, before cursing himself inwardly at forgetting to ask permission to ask a question. The priest didn't seem to mind, however.

"No. I was an orphan since I was a babe, so I had no father to gift me with a name, much like you."

"Gift you?"

The bitter smile was back. "A surname is an identity, a reassurance of where you have come from and where your heart will always belong. Without one, you grow accustomed to being alone. You have no history or connection to the rest of mankind."

Harry smiled, unsure of how to react to such a thing. The silence stretched out between them as he shifted uncomfortably on his hard chair. The priest watched him intently, seemingly unaware of the intense air between them. Harry shifted again and cursed himself for the second time that day – comfort was a thing a man deserved little of, if any, so he should refrain from showing discomfort. Especially before a priest.

"Why am I here?" Harry asked, his damning curiosity bettering his common sense.

"You applied to train for a deacon position, didn't you?" the priest frowned, his fair brows drawing together to create a deep crease between them. The corners of his mouth turned down for the first time in their meeting. Harry mimicked the confused expression for a split second before turning it into amused realisation.

"That was years ago." He smiled, remembering his immature scrawl on the front of the letter when he young and impulsive, "I never thought I'd be considered."

"Everyone is considered." The priest assured him seriously. Then his expression lightened and he smiled, leaning forwards eagerly. Harry watched in fascination as the priest flinched and leaned back on his chair again, his hand briefly touching his waist and covered it up with a small smile. "We had to wait until you were of age. Are you still partial to the idea?"

"Of course." Harry answered before he could stop himself.

"You might have worked out by now that this has been an interview of sorts, allowing me to assess your suitability to the position under me." the priest informed him. Harry couldn't stop his eyebrows from lifting.

"Under you?"

A look of cool question crossed the priest's face, "Is that unsatisfactory?"

"No!" Harry said quickly, before collecting himself and quietening himself, "I only meant that, well, I thought the deacons trained in the capital parish before being assigned to their home church as an apprentice curate?"

"Your training will be with me." the priest answered easily, "I have need to be in The Grail soon, so I assure the Archbishop that he would have no need to find a priest for you there. We will have to clear this with the Sister at your orphanage before we think about this any further, though. You must be sure you want this, Harry. This can't be a lingering childhood wish."

"It's not." Harry decided on the spot, his jaw clenching as he thought of Sirius, "I have something to prove."

The priest nodded and stood, offering a hand out. Harry got to his feet, too, and shook the hand firmly. The priest held on, appraising him silently with an expression that was no longer astringent in any way.

"You remind me of myself at your age." The priest said with another half-smile, releasing Harry's hand, "Driven to get what you want." His expression suddenly turned serious, making Harry's stomach clench nervously. "Be careful. When I was your age, there was a good chance I could have been executed for a case of blasphemy of which I was later found innocent. It is hard for a holy man to stay free of sin. Sometimes we sin without even realising it."

Harry itched to ask what had happened, but the priest's expression had closed up again as he opened the door to the church and ushered him out. They walked down the aisle of the nave side by side until they reached the doors. Harry could hear the rain pattering outside. At least it sounded as though it was finally slowing. It would be back, no doubt, in the afternoon as they were in the midst of Hallow's rainy season.

"I would appreciate it if you would address me as Father Remus." The priest said, flashing his teeth in an expression that wasn't quite a smile and wasn't quite a threat, as he pushed the nearest door open a crack, letting in the fresh smell of the rain. "To yourself and others as well as me. I am aware, you know, what people think of me. I would like to rid myself of such a negative image. Everything I do is for your own good."

Harry nodded as the priest – Father Remus – gestured for him to exit through the door.

A/N2: Oh please don't hurt me! Or drown me in hate messages! I don't hate the church, I really don't – I find Christianity intriguing, as well as the extreme lengths to which the very few will go to prove their commitment to their faith. I've mixed up Protestant and Catholic stuff in this fic, so try not to take any of the details to heart. It is, after all, set up in a messed up future. Drop a review if you liked it and even if you didn't, just be gentle…