Disclaimer:The novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" belongs to Oscar Wilde. The 2009 movie "Dorian Gray" belongs to Momentum Pictures. I claim to be neither and I am making no profit. However, Roderick Lewin belongs to me so yay.

Warning: This fic is slash. Not explicit, not dirty, but still slash. As in 'male/male romantic relationship' and not 'cutting something open'. I very much doubt that there are any Dorian Gray fans who have a big problem with that, but if by chance you happen to be offended by such things, proceed no further.

Author's Note: All right, I know most of you hate original characters but in here I really need them to make the story work. Like I said before, bear with me. Just read it as a piece of literature and ignore the fact that it may not uphold all of your favorite fan fiction clichés, okay? I really think you won't be disappointed in the end.

Chapter one

The Truth

The gallery was very large and very crowded. It seemed that all of London had gathered to comment on the opening of the so-called 'Exceptional Examples of Modern Art' exhibition. Perhaps more surprising than the number of spectators was the sight of so many painters gathered in one room. Those who were featured in the exhibition were conversing animatedly with the visitors, determined to make their own piece the most talked-about painting. Those who were not featured discussed among themselves the many faults of the chosen pictures.

On one end of the hall a small crowd had gathered in front of two life-sized portraits. The portraits stood side by side although they were quite different.

One was a very life-like image of a beautiful young man, so realistic that he almost looked as if he would walk out of the frame any moment.

The second one was completely opposite. This one showed a young girl in a blue dress, standing in the middle of an enchanted garden. Her red hair seemed to be alight with a supernatural glow and she was surrounded by large butterflies which, when one looked closer, turned out to be little fairies.

If the man on the first picture looked as if he would come alive and enter this world, the girl looked as if she could draw you into her own and, stepping over the frame, you would find yourself in the garden with her.

The group currently observing the two portraits consisted of a tall, severe-looking gentleman around fifty with enormous sideburns; a lady, not much younger than him, whose high-pitched and loud voice seemed to compensate for her short stature; a pleasant young couple, newlyweds, judging by the loving glances they were stealing at each other; and a young man in a dark gold waistcoat and wine-red cravat.

"Oh, George, they are so exceptional!" the young woman, Irene Greenaway said, leaning on her husband's arm as she stared up at the images. "And so different! Is it true that they were both painted by the same artist?"

"I believe so, my dear. Look at the signature. Basil Hallward. I wonder who the fellow is. I should very much like to meet him."

"Meet him? Don't you know?" the short woman squealed in her high pitched voice which she then dropped to a deafeningly loud stage whisper. "Why, he was murdered! Stabbed in the throat two years ago! By the very young man you see on this picture!"

"Impossible!" Irene Greenaway exclaimed, her pretty blue eyes filled with horror. "What awful things you say, lady Weatherby! Maybe you find morbid rumors entertaining but even gossip should have its limits! This wonderful boy on the picture – a murderer? And the creator of these two masterpieces – dead? Surely you are mistaken."

"But it's true!" Lady Weatherby assured her. "This wonderful boy, as you call him, Mr. Dorian Gray, took a shard of glass and stabbed his victim in the neck, then ran away when one of their mutual friends unexpectedly entered the room. Poor Mr. Hallward only lasted a few days after that."

"And what became of Dorian Gray?" Lady Greenaway asked, appalled and entranced at the same time by this horrible story.

"Why, he died also or so they say. Killed by the friend who walked in on the scene of the crime. Of course, such a thing was never officially announced but since when does the police ever tell us the truth.

And that's not all the tragedy behind these pictures. The girl on the other portrait is no other than Sybil Vane – Dorian Gray's fiancée. She drowned herself because of him."

"Now you are inventing," Lord Greenaway said skeptically.

"No such thing!" Lady Weatherby persisted. "I know the girl's brother. He is a famous merchant. Why, I won't be surprised if the fabric for your clothes was bought from him!"

George Creenaway considered this for a moment.

"Vane you say? I believe you may be right! And you say this was his sister?"

"Oh, yes, the poor dear. She had the misfortune to fall in love with such a corrupted young man. They say everyone who has ever been in Dorian gray's circle has regretted it. Why, Basil Hallward was one of his closest friends and look what happened to him! Such a talented young man, such promise, such future…"

Lady Weatherby sniffed a bit too theatrically and brushed a non-existent tear from her eye.

"It is a small blessing perhaps that he had no living relatives but can you imagine what his poor friends must have gone through? I imagine they would have been by his side on those final days… Such tragedy! Although it does, of course, make the pictures more interesting."

"But why would he kill the painter, especially if they were friends?" George Greenaway asked, unable to tear his eyes from the painted version of Dorian Gray, whose beauty now seemed to him quite sinister.

"Well, this may not be for your wife's sensitive ears," the older woman said primly, pretending to blush. But after a moment she plunged into the explanation anyway. "You see, there was something going on between Dorian Gray and Basil Hallward. People who knew them claim that the painter was unusually fond of the boy, almost possessive. They say they might have been more than friends. They say the two were seen on the night Hallward was stabbed…" she dropped her voice even lower, "…kissing! Perhaps it was a crime of passion!"

The gentleman with the sideburns, who had stayed silent until then, sternly surveying his companions and waiting for the right moment to join in, wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"A crime of lust, you mean. If you ask me, if it had anything to do with that, it's more likely to have been the painter's fault. I appreciate art but I detest artists. They are weird folk with unnatural proclivities. At least Dorian Gray was most known for corrupting young women and not other men. The way you describe it, Hallward might have tried to force himself on the boy and gotten stabbed in self-defense. And if he was so possessive, maybe he even killed the girl. After all, is it certain she killed herself? And even if it is as you say, maybe it is a good thing this Hallward is dead because I doubt I would have liked him. I don't believe I could even stand in the same room with a man with such… desires. Not to mention that as an artist he would have bored us all with a million interpretations of his work which would have greatly decreased our own pleasure. Look at the other poor guests at this opening – they are constantly being ambushed by painters trying to promote themselves."

Both of the Greenaways looked quite appalled by this speech but Lady Weatherby seemed unperturbed. This was mostly due to the fact that she had not listened carefully at all. She rarely ever listened to what she herself said and she saw no reason to do it for others.

"You, sir, are quite wrong, I assure you."

They all turned to the man in the gold waistcoat whom they had barely noticed until then. He had spoken in a voice that was emotional, yet hard as steel. "Suppose that I tell you I know exactly what happened in the days before and after Basil Hallward was stabbed."

"I don't see how you could know better than I, young man!" Lady Weatherby protested. "My information comes from most trusted sources."

"I beg to differ, madam. Your information is incomplete at best. But since speculation is so much more entertaining than facts, I won't try to take your pleasure away."

"Oh, please, do tell us what you know!" Irene Greenaway beseeched him. "I would have preferred to know nothing of this story to begin with. But now that I have heard so much, I am eager to find out which of it is the truth!"

The man glanced into the eyes of the young woman and perhaps the honesty in them won him over.

"Very well, then. The truth is this…"

End Note: And in the next chapter the actual story finally begins. Here's a question for you before you read any further: what do YOU think really happened? It would be lovely if you could tell me your opinion on that or anything else in a review :).