Authors Note: This is a dark story. You have been warned. This story is something that just came to mind and I do not have a beta so please forgive any mistakes. Well I don't know what else to say so yes signing off.
Warnings: Scenes of a bloody/violent nature. Swearing, Slash and smoking.
Rating: R
Summary: To fight evil one must know evil. To gain freedom one must learn how to escape. To love one must find their equal. A murderer and a hero, a boy and a man. Two stories, one love and a tattered veil.
The Tattered Veil
Chapter one: The London Ripper and the Boy-Who-Lived
He was a murderer. It was as easy as that. He did not hide behind lies of him being abused as a child, of him being repentant for his actions. He knew exactly what he had done, how people viewed his actions and, as such he knew that he would never get the death sentence. It was ironic how he killed others without so much as a second thought and yet the public would not kill him due to his human rights. How truly screwed up was the system that criminals such as himself got off on technicalities.
"Please don't! I'll do anything. Have mercy!" the woman had screamed as he had ripped apart her children in front of her. Mothers were always the most enjoyable to break. The fathers would always try to fight so he would often have to kill them quick, making it so he couldn't really enjoy their death, so he couldn't stand over them and watch as their body died. When the light faded from their eyes he always felt a sense of joy, a sense of godliness, he had caused that not some being that didn't exist.
Matthew laughed as he brought the cigarette to his lips, as he took a deep breathe and then slowly blew the smoke out. Was it ironic that he smoked? Cliché maybe? Oh yes he knew exactly what most would think and yet that was why he did it. When one fits the stereotype, the cliché, then most over look him as just a copycat, a male who played too many videogames or watched too many movies. No he never stood out from the other criminals because it made them overlook him, it made them forget about him and it was so much easier for him to pin his crimes on some other moron.
It was simple and it often made him think about giving up. There was no challenge and then he would imagine himself in some nine to five job and a bitter laugh would come to his lips. No, that type of environment was no place for a 'sick fuck' like him. Was that not what many of the officers and the public called him? They did not understand art and they did not have his desire, his need for 'revenge'. What had the woman done to him? What had those defenceless children? They were living in his house, his life that he should have had. That speech often fooled any who tried to get close to him. The truth was that he enjoyed killing. He enjoyed seeing blood, hearing the screams and hearing the hypocritical fools plead for mercy. Irony was a bitch and how he adored it.
"You're brooding again," a sharp, voice that just grated on his nerves. Looking up, Matthew smirked at the aging woman sitting behind a desk that just seemed to emphasize on her dwarfed frame.
"I am not brooding, just thinking," he replied in a bored drawl flicking the stub of his cigarette into the already overfilled ashtray. The woman said nothing just peered at him over her narrow glasses, she reminded him of cartoon he had once saw of an owl who had worn glasses. Smothering a smile with a gloved hand, he looked at her.
She was old. Late fifties, early sixties and her hair were already grey and like wire, cut short in a male like fashion. She was the boss around here, earning her reputation through blackmail, murder and being a downright sadistic bitch. Her husband had died a couple of years before and the rumour that was running rampant was that she had killed him. He did not believe it. There was no proof and the death was too natural. There was no sign of a struggle. If you murdered someone you always did it in a way that made the public realise there was a murderer on the loose.
"You are not paid to think. You are here to kill, you are here because you are deemed as the best and at the moment I find you less then satisfactory," the woman snapped. His pride rose angrily ready to defend his own work and yet when he looked back on the murders, when he looked in the newspapers he too felt that bitter disappointment.
Maybe he was losing his touch, his lust for the blood. No that wasn't it. He was bored. None were a challenge and as such he would start his art with a great excitement only to fall into a slight apathy and finish the job quickly. Whilst it was true that they screamed, and writhed it had been too long since he had messed with their minds, made them break.
"Who knows better the flaws of his own work than the artist?" he replied his eyes narrowing as he looked out of the window. He dreamed about reaching across the desk and wrapping his hands around her fragile throat. Would she scream? Would she pull at his hands and struggle or would she accept her fate? His hands twitched and she smirked cruelly.
"Anger is not becoming of anybody. Do not think about messing with me boy!" she snapped before shuffling some papers in front of her. He bit his inner cheek tasting the coppery flavour that meant he had bit too deep. His tongue licked at the wound, yet it was nothing like when he had just killed and licked the blood clean from his hands. It always tasted sweeter, more sugary and it was something that he hungered for when he first swung the axe, the pole, and the knife.
"If you do not mind. I am here to get my payment in full. The agreement was for me to kill the owner of Thorn and the agreement on my end has been met," he replied standing up, his tall six-foot frame throwing a gnarled shadow on the wooden floor. The woman glared at him before a dark smirk pulled at her lips. It was that expression, the steely look that told him everything he needed to know about her. She was a killer. A murderer just like him. They were two peas in a pod and yet she was in charge, she was the alpha some psychologist would say; to Matthew it meant he was well and truly screwed. Once you were in the belly of the beast there was no way out.
"Not yet. The son, the one to inherit the club is still alive, which in concerns to the contract means you have not fulfilled your obligations, as such you will receive nothing until the boy is dead," she replied in a smug tone.
Agreeing he was then given a folder with the information on the boy and reading it made his blood boil. He knew the boy. He knew him. They had been good friends when they were children, going to mass together, insulting the bullies behind their backs. Their mothers had been best friends and the son was a stain on the perfect little community's record. His father was not the woman's married husband.
They had been best friends; partners in crime and brothers but then the boy had betrayed him to protect his own neck. It was this boy that had caused him to kill that bully. It was this boy that brought the bullies into his secret hiding place, it was this boy that had caused him to wish for death. Snarling dangerously he looked at the picture of the smiling man, the perfectly cut brown hair, the wide green eyes and the tidy suit. He had to die. This one would be for revenge and Matthew was longing to taste his burned flesh, to see him scream and beg for mercy. No one ever got away from him, he would get his revenge.
So it was with a sense of horrific joy that he now perched atop the wall that surrounded the cathedral. So Michael was still a strict catholic then. It was time for Sunday mass and sitting on the wall, a cigarette hanging from gloved hands, his hood up, due the rain of course, he looked like some trouble maker that most probably needed to have counselling. The truth was that he was following Michael, seeing where he went, what he did and whom he was with. Today he was in mass with his timid little wife, a woman who had already popped out three children. Tonight Michael would be with a pretty brunette who would show so much skin you didn't need to imagine and would hang all over him.
It was said that the apple never fell far from the tree and in this case it was true. Michael was too rich and as such he was arrogant. Matthew couldn't wait to cut him down to size and so he followed the man, he followed him as he dropped his little wife home and stating false words of love and a business meeting he went to meet his little bit on the side. This was the time to strike.
It had been easy, too easy and whilst he was tempted to end it quickly he knew he deserved this justice. They had been loud, filling the night with moans and screams so it masked any noise he made when he broke open the lock on the door and walked in. It was a ghastly sight seeing the two of them on the bed. The girl saw him first so he shut her up quickly with a backhand to the face; she was a fragile little thing. With Michael he had better plans and so squeezing his neck tightly until he lost consciousness Matthew blocked the door and put on some music. No one would hear them scream.
He sat in the chair, one leg crossed over the other as he watched them. Humans were pathetic creatures that deserved nothing but their death. How long he waited he didn't know. It was long enough for the sun to begin to rise and the first to wake was the woman.
"Why are you doing this?" she had asked tears falling down her cheeks. Grinning manically he grabbed the back of her head, grimacing at the sticky residue from sweat and hairspray that got under his fingernails, and yanked it back.
"Why? Is that not the question of the universe? If I wished for you to know I would have spoken of my deeds from the moment I entered this room and yet I haven't. Do not worry my darling one, you shall not care about my motives soon," he purred leaning forward his hand reaching behind his back and pulled out a small knife. Cutting the ear off after licking it of course, he made sure the girl could see it. She raised a hand to her ear screams already falling from smudged lips, the blood running over her fingers made him lick his lips. Throwing the ear to the floor he stepped forward once more, loving how she tried to back away from him, as she tried to wake up the useless man beside her. Slashing forward he slit her nose, then once more, as she looked away he tutted.
"Now that's just rude," he mocked and reaching forward he made a scooping motion and soon he was cutting the eye away from the socket. She screamed, she pushed at him and it caused his knife to slip. Her eye was cut open and growling angrily he slit her throat open. She was of no consequence to him anyway. It was Michael who he cared about.
"Our father who art in heaven. Forgive me for what I am about to do," he prayed heavenward, the cruel grin, the tongue coming to lick at blood smeared lips belied the innocence his praying might have made him seem. He was a killer and he knew exactly what he was going to do.
"The murderer nicknamed the London ripper has seemed to struck again. Police were called to a small travel lodge where upon entering found the mutilated bodies of a young girl aged 15 and a man aged 29. The identities have not yet been released, as the families of each victim have to be notified first. When asked if they were any closer to catching the criminal the detective in charge had this to say…"
"They should bring back hanging!" Vernon Dursley's was a loud man, often found placing his opinion on other people. After all he was an upstanding citizen who paid his taxes, why should he sit back and allow these damn do gooders ruin such a noble country?
"I agree dear. This ripper must be punished but if he is caught he will get let off with a slap on his wrist." Petunia Dursley was the perfect little housewife, even if she did look somewhat like a horse. She agreed with her husband, ran the house and of course made sure the neighbours knew nothing about their troubled nephew who was sent to some sort of correction facility. After all they couldn't let a criminal roam the streets even if it did break their hearts to do it to family.
Harry Potter snorted under his breath. Once again he was lying under the window of 4 Privet Drive. Once again he was forced to listen to the news to see if Voldemort was starting to attack the muggle world. Why? None of his friends, or the adults he thought as friends or family had contacted him to tell him what was going on. He did not care though. He needed this time to himself. At first his best friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley had been adamant that they were coming with him and that they would find the horcruxes and yet sitting on the train, seeing his uncles purple face and feeling that familiar emotion of hatred and trepidation he knew that he did not want his friends with him. That he was not ready to even think about-facing Voldemort.
A soft smile came to his face as he thought about how strongly his friends had fought with him but if there was one thing about himself that he wouldn't change it was his stubbornness. So in the end they had returned home with their families and at first they had written to him, useless information and asking how he was coping but he had not replied. What was the point? When he had tried to tell them about Malfoy they had not listened, did they not trust his judgement?
"BOY! Get your backside in here me and your aunt want a word with you!" his uncle bellowed. For a man who was worried about what the neighbours would think he was sure loud enough to make everyone on the street hear what was said.
"Coming!" he called back softly. Standing, he swayed slightly, his legs feel stiff after not moving for a couple of hours. England was going through a heat wave and his messy black hair was finally flat due to the sweat.
"Yes uncle Vernon?" he asked making sure to seem suitably cowed. Whilst his uncle had never seriously abused him he was not against giving him a good clip round the ear with his beefy hand.
"Me, your aunt and Dudley will be gone for two weeks. In that time we have left you a list of chores that will have to be done." His uncle said his nose turning up as if the very smell of Harry offended him. Harry nodded his understanding before walking up the creaking stairs to his small box room.
So he would have the first two weeks of the holiday to himself and then he would be taken from this hellhole and taken to place where he was a hero. It was ironic that he was a hero that he was meant to save the wizarding world when the man who had been a true hero had died. He had watched as he died, he had watched as his body arched over the tower and as such he knew he couldn't win. Not now. Not like this. In a few years, when he had a bit more power yes, when he was stronger yes so he had to get stronger. How though? How could he, Harry Potter become better, become stronger and fight Voldemort?
"That damn London ripper is nothing but some kid who needs a good beating," his uncle's bellow was clear and Harry felt clear. It was as if the blanket was lifted from his mind. He knew. To fight evil one must become evil, was that not what philosophers often said?
Standing up Harry walked to the window. Could he truly become evil? Could he truly become dark? No he couldn't. Killing his friends, killing innocents were something he would never find in himself. What was he going to do? How was he going to fight something that had years on him that was so evil that he cared about nothing and had no weakness except for his own vanity? Harry sighed. He would think about it later and as he turned away from the window he never noticed the young man perched by their wall smoking a cigarette staring up at the window.
Matthew smiled slightly before dropping the cigarette to the floor, his converse covered feet (for they were difficult to track with the fact that many teenagers were wearing them) stubbing out the white stick. His boss had giving him a new target. Of course she would not have let him off with the murder of his old friend. This was the last one and he had made sure she kept to her promise. The money had already been paid to his account and as such it was done, this part of his life was finished with the death of the Dursleys.
Looking upwards once again at the small window he frowned. There was nothing in the records of a skinny black haired boy. He had done his research and all of the neighbours had said that the nephew would not come back from school for another couple of weeks and yet here he was. Would he kill the boy? No he would make him go insane, it would be delicious and he longed to hear them scream and to see the boys mind snap. He loved it when they were young and skinny they were so fragile and so easy to mess with.
Vaulting over the wall, the neighbours ignoring him, thinking him to be some sort of troublemaker and they did not know if he had a knife on him. In this day and age everyone ignored anything that was going on otherwise they could be on the news for being killed, and he entered the house easily. Maybe that was why he was becoming so apathetic about killing. It was too easy; there was not the fear of being found out, of someone reporting him, of someone fighting him off. Now the population lived in fear and the government helped the criminals even more. It was boring really.
The fat son was the first to go. The sight of him made Matthew sick and as such he would not lower himself to touching the lump of grease, the father was the same. It was quick and easy a quick slice to the throat, to the wrists and to the stomach, though he didn't want to think about the thick, white substance that came out with the blood. That was not attractive or even delicious. The wife was even worse. A horse was more attractive and if he was into bestiality he would have preferred having sex with one, as such she too was quick to go. After all he had his money so what did it matter how he killed them, though of course he made sure to cut out some internal organ and stuff it in the cupboard under the stairs.
Climbing the stairs he reached the last room, the room with locks on the door and raising an eyebrow in interest he opened the door and stepped in. At first it was anti-climatic, there was nobody there and then in a second as he turned the young, skinny boy jumped on him a wooden stick pointed to his throat.
Matthew quickly fought with the boy and soon he had him pinned up against the wall, the boy's legs hanging loosely by Matthew's side.
"My, my you are a feisty little thing," he mocked his eyes narrowing dangerously as he took in the gaunt face, the fact that the boy was too light for his height and age.
"You killed them. You bloody bastard you killed them!"
"Of course I did. My job was to kill them and I have done that. They said nothing about you, so what I do with you is my own prerogative," here Matthew smirked as he saw boy pale and yet a frown slowly appeared on Matthews face. The boy was not scared, there was a firm set to his jaw, his eyes were narrowed and it seemed that the boy was willing to fight to the death, he was not scared of death and Matthew dropped the boy in shock, in boredom. It was no fun if they did not wish for death.
"So what are you going to do with me? Kill me? Rape me? Torture me?" Harry spat out his lips pulling back in a ghastly impression of a smile. Matthew looked at the boy instantly seeing himself at that age and he could not help but smile.
"Why aren't you an interesting little thing? No my darling one. I have better plans for you," Matthew replied before turning and walking out of the door ignoring the glares the boy threw at his back.
"Oh and one other thing. You had better disappear, your relatives have been killed and they won't believe the story of the boy everyone think is deranged!" Matthew called back sniggering at the swearing the boy did as he started to rush around trying to pack up his things. Oh yes this would be interesting.
The game was about to begin. Matthew had a new pet and he wasn't about to lose it.
Authors Note: What do you think? Please review.