Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Experimental. Sorry.
Aunt Petunia was not particularly religious, but she forced Uncle Vernon and Dudley to church either out of some long buried guilt, as Harry thought when he was feeling generous. When he was not feeling generous, which was most of the time, he reckoned she went so the neighbors didn't whisper. He didn't really care either way. He wasn't even sure what denomination she was.
The Durselys had only taken him to church once, when he was too small to remember now exactly how old he had been. He supposed Mrs. Figg must have been visiting relatives or otherwise incapacitated. He couldn't think of anything else that would have compelled them to bring him along. He couldn't remember if it had been Christmas or Easter.
He remembered the deep color of Aunt Petunia's overcoat (she draped it over his face when they entered), the big white D Dudley carved into the pew, Uncle Vernon's face when he dropped a note into the collection basket, the lady two rows up with the black lace veil and one eye who didn't take communion, and the Jesus on the wall.
He looked waxy and pale and thin, all twisted out of joint and definitely not normal, in the Dursley sense of the word. The blood that ran from his wounds was pink. His crown stuck out like Harry's hair. Harry didn't think that Jesus's expression was noble or sad or forgiving. He didn't think Christ looked anything more than resigned.
Sometimes when he remembers the Jesus, his pale skin and brown beard remind Harry a little of Sirius. Then, he feels sick to his stomach and wished he believed in God.