Trust and Betrayal
By: JA_Japster
Inspired and partially based on the OAV "Samurai X"
Copyright Notice: Harry Potter is copyrighted to J.K Rowling and Samurai X and Rurouni Kenshin is copyrighted to Nobuhiro Wazuki and Shueisha Jump Comics. The fanfiction is the product of JA_Japster and should not be reproduced in any fashion without permission.
Betrayal
Part V: The Necessity of Murder
Twenty Eight Years Ago…
Dublin, Ireland.
Sitting in the shadows of a dark alley, a young boy huddled in the mass of dirty rags that surrounded him, searching in vain for warmth to keep the bitter winter chill at bay. He was small for his age of seven with hair as white as the snow that fell, flickered with specks of dirt and ash. His arms and legs were like twigs, and his body was thin and bony, like a skeleton wrapped taunt in a costume of flesh. The boy was like the hundreds of other homeless urchins that roamed the streets of Dublin, desperate, afraid, and slowly starving to death.
He had survived this long by sneaking into the nicer parts of the city and routing through their garbage bins. Hunks of stale bread from bakeries, slightly rotten vegetables -one man's garbage literally became a treasure for those barely hanging on to life. But lately the larger bullies and street gangs had become more active than usual, and smaller children like him had to be careful lest they attract attention. Being noticed by the bullies was always bad. It meant usually meant a severe beating and getting your food taken away…or worse.
He was used to going long periods of time without eating though. Hunger was a regular part of life for him. But it had been five days since he had last eaten, and he was beginning to get scared. His frail body was stricken with periodic pains of hunger, but there was little he could do. He was too small and weak to steal food, and the good people of the city had stopped caring about people like him a long time ago. He would no support from them…or from anywhere else for that matter.
He was all alone…
A tear rolled down the boy's cheek, but he bravely brushed it away, sniffling. He would not cry…he could not cry. Here on the streets he was on his own. There was no one to pity him, no one to shield him away from the cruelness of the world. His mother had abandoned him, and his father was dead. No one loved him. No one cared about him.
Unappreciated.
Unloved.
Unwanted.
He was all alone…
"What the hell is this?"
Terror shot through the boy's body as if someone had doused him with a bucket of ice cold water. He looked at the mouth of the alley, and just as he had dreaded, a gang of three larger boys, the bullies, were standing there, glaring at him. The boy did not know the boys in the gang nor had he ever bothered them before. It didn't matter though. He was in for it now.
"Oh, it's the weird one." Said one of the boys sneering.
"The fag." Chuckled the largest and ugliest of the trio. He must be the leader, the boy thought.
The other boys laughed and began walking toward him. The small boy stood up quickly and began backing away. "I don't have anything to give you." He stammered. He shot a glance behind him. The main street where pedestrians walked, his only hope of escape, was far away. His small legs could not outrun the larger boys.
"You don't?" The leader said. "Well, that's not good."
"Think we're going to have to teach him a lesson." Said one of the others.
He was still back peddling, but as he did the other boys were still advancing on him. He needed to buy some time. "Please…I'll have something for you next time. I promise."
The leader smiled unpleasantly, making his disfigured face appear all the uglier. He slapped his fist into his hand and growled menacingly. "Nope. Besides, even if you did have something valuable, I still wouldn't take it. Beating up little shits like you is fun."
RUN!
Realizing the futility in trying to negotiate, the boy span around and raced for the end of the alley. He had no hope of reaching it in time. The pounding of footsteps chasing after him thudded in chorus with his beating heart, and all too soon he felt a heavy hand clamp around his shoulder and spin him around.
"Too slow." The leader whispered. He punched the boy hard in the face, knocking the kid back into the alley, blood streaming from his lip. The small boy fell in the snow and struggled to get back up, but another of one of the gang members pushed him down.
DON'T HURT ME! DON'T KILL ME!
The blows came faster and faster, bruising flesh and breaking bones even though he was defenseless, huddled up in a ball, crying in pain. He shut his eyes tight and threw his hands over his ears, trying to block out the harmful worlds that assailed him like the fists that pummeled his helpless body.
"Faggot!"
"Fucker!"
DON'T KILL ME!
The onslaught continued. A wild blow caught him in the middle of his chest, and he vomited violently, staining the snow red with blood. No one would stop these brutes from beating him to death. No one would see him die. No one would care.
I DON'T WANT TO DIE!
Then do something about it…
Like what? These bastards were bigger than him, tougher than him. They would rip him to shreds without a second though. He was just a small weak kid. What chance did he have against thugs who were born and raised to prey on people like him?
Then what are you going to do? Roll over and die?
No…but if I fight back…aren't I just like them? An animal, an ignoble savage only capable of obeying his most basic instincts?
Then die. Die being the good guy. Die because you're too stupid to realize that no one gives a damn what you are. No one loves you, no one cares about you, so why do you care what people think about you?
No one loves me… I'm all alone. I'm going to die. And no one will care.
Go crazy.
I'm all alone.
Go nuts.
I'm all alone.
You are what you are. Society hates you. Do not conform to their imposed standards. People hate you. Do not strive to be loved. Stop using your soul, your emotions, your feelings -they chain the only thing that will save you now.
The savage within each of us…
You're all alone…
I'm all alone…but I don't care anymore…
Anger that he had never known blossomed within him, and suddenly, his body moved. It moved without thought, without hesitation, without command, feeding on the boy's innermost innate desires. Rage, hate, desperation, fear -they spontaneously exploded inside his mind, fueling the fires of violence that he had up until now refused to give into. But now there was no reluctance or fear of consequence. There was only necessity. The necessity to stay alive.
"I don't want to die!" He screamed screwing his eyes shut tightly. His fist shot blindly into the air and connected with flesh. Something pleasantly warm doused his hand, covering his arm and splashing against his face.
For a long moment there was only silence. The chilling winter wind blowing past was deafening, and the only other sound present was the soft staccato of something wet dripping on the snow. And then one of the young boy's attackers screamed a shrill sound of terror that was quickly echoed by the rest of the gang. The boy could hear their footsteps as they turned and fled…and then there was silence again.
Slowly the white haired boy's eyes opened, and when they he quickly snapped them shut again. Blood was everywhere. It covered the once pure snow. It was splattered against the alley walls. It soaked him from head to toe in the vile smelling liquid.
What have I done…?
His eyes creped open and gazed upon his handiwork. At the scarlet painting he had created. The unmoving body of the leader of the boys lay on the ground, most of his chest missing in a mass of twisted flesh and spilled blood. He was unmistakably dead; the frozen look of horror in his eyes told it all.
How could I have done this…?
The small boy had hated the gang leader. He had feared him more than anything in the world. But despite the pain he inflicted, the boy never wanted his antagonist dead. But now the other boy was, slain by his hand. He had killed the older boy. More than that, though, he had wanted to kill him.
I'm a murderer…
The boy suddenly felt sick and he threw up again. Fresh tears sprang to his eyes, and this time he made no effort to fight them. He had killed someone…he had taken another person's life and for what?
To protect my own…
And that is all the justification I need…
But the gnawing feeling of guilt in his stomach told him differently. He fell to his knees and shook the dead boy's arm as if trying to rouse him from a deep sleep. He did not know why he was doing it. He knew had had killed the other boy, but his mind had long since transcended reason. He did not want the boy to be dead any more. He wanted the gang leader alive even if it meant another beating. He wanted to turn back time, to make now into then…
This is not what I wanted…
What did I want?
To be loved…
Now what do I want?
To be left alone…
"Are you alright?" A voice from down the alley said. The young boy spun around, fear gripping his body as he turned to see an adult dressed in black robes approach. The man ran a hand through his disheveled brown hair and crouched beside the body of the dead boy.
"I didn't mean to!" The small boy cried, crying remorsefully. "I didn't want to!"
Surprisingly, the man smiled. He touched the boy's shoulder, but the boy flinched away, unused to the touch of another. "Are you alright?" The man repeated.
Why is he smiling? He's going to punish me, isn't he? I've done something wrong!
The boy nodded slowly.
"Good. Here, wipe away those tears." The man said handing him a handkerchief.
"Who are you?" The boy asked.
"My name is James Potter, but you can call me just James if you want."
"Why are you here?"
The man, James, laughed. It was a different laugh than the kind of laughs the boy normally heard. Not coarse or the product of amusement at someone else's misery. This one rang with genuine kindness, devoid of any mockery. "I was looking for you." He answered.
"Looking for me?"
"Yeah. I've already introduced myself, so now it's your turn. What's your name, kid?"
The small boy hesitated, and involuntarily shrank away from the man. He was unused to any form of kindness, and it confused him momentarily. No one paid him any heed unless they wanted something. Did this man want something from him? And if so, what? Or was he just being paranoid? Maybe this man's friendliness was sincere. He had no way of knowing for sure. He had never had a friend before.
"My name is Janus. Janus O'Meara."
Now
London, England.
Draco Malfoy could only imagine how old the man sitting across the table from him was. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but Draco knew that not to be true. Lord Voldemort, as he become to be known, had served the ministry for over a hundred years now if the tales were to be trusted. Rejuvenation potions would help facilitate the façade of youthfulness, but Voldemort did not strike Draco as the type who would divulge in such vanity.
The two men sat in the middle of an extravagant restaurant. Even without looking at the gold embroidered menu, Draco guessed that the price of a single meal could feed a large family for a month. While he had grown up in nobility, Draco did not revel in it like the elitists that sat around them, dressed in their elegant dress robes. Still, he did enjoy partaking in some life's luxuries from time to time, especially if it was for free. Tonight they would dine at no expense of their own no matter how much their meals cost. Such was the respect and fear they, the Death Eaters, commanded.
"So Janus refused my offer." Voldemort whispered.
Draco frowned, the fine food in his mouth suddenly tasting sour. They had not even finished their meal yet and already the Dark Lord insisted on discussing business. As much as Draco respected his leader, Voldemort had no appreciation for the finer things in life.
"He did." He replied.
"As expected," Voldemort said. He turned and smiled knowingly at his subordinate, already anticipating the question Draco was about to ask. "No, I don't want you to kill him yet."
Draco was momentarily taken aback. "He defies you and you'll let him live?"
Voldemort nodded. "The sharpest swords still cut their masters on occasions. But would you discard it for such a trespass?" He smiled. "I think not. That is the inherent consequences for possessing such a weapon."
"He will still be useful then?" Draco wondered.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
Something nagged at Draco so urgently that for a moment he forgot his manners and blurted out, "Forgive me, my lord, but I believe you're being too lenient on him. I thought the price of betrayal was death."
"It is, captain. But Janus O'Meara is not a traitor. Not yet at least. All Death Eaters, no matter how old they grow or how much they change, always retain the old ways at heart. Janus will be no different, and when he is willing to release his full potential on the Slayer…"
"If he is willing…"
"If he is unwilling, then I shall delegate the task of both his execution as well as the death of the Slayer to you. Does that satisfy you, captain?"
Draco nodded. "It does."
Voldemort rose. "Then this meeting is concluded."
Showing his impatience and irritation at his subordinate, Voldemort rose swiftly and strode out of the restaurant before Malfoy could salute. Draco exhaled deeply, ignoring the frightened stares of the patrons who dined around him. He was fortunate that Voldemort valued him enough not to kill him for being so impudent. He was even more fortunate that the Dark Lord could not read thoughts, or he knew for a fact he would be dead. He would have to be more careful in the future, especially since he had now decided to go against his master's orders.
Voldemort did not want Malfoy to move against either the Slayer or Janus personally for some reason he chose not to disclose, but Draco did not think this wise at all. If Janus either did not hasten to kill the Slayer or refused to, there was a very real chance that the Order assassin might slip away and disappear back into London. The Ministry did not want that, especially since it was confirmed that the Minister of Magic's granddaughter was supposedly under the assassin's protection. They did not want that at all.
It had been over a week now since the Death Eater's partially successful assault on the Order of the Phoenix. They had achieved their primary objectives of destroying a key cell in the Order's structure, but they had failed in apprehending the Slayer or recovering the Minister's granddaughter. If Fudge had been angry back then, he was apocalyptic now about the Death Eater's lack of progress in rescuing her from the Slayer. Voldemort did not seem worried about the Minister's angry protests, therefore Malfoy did not either. He had more important things to worry about right now.
Malfoy usually respected his master. Seldom did Voldemort do something that Draco felt was unwise much less stupid, but at the moment Malfoy could not help but doubt the wisdom in his leader's decision. If they allowed the Slayer to roam freely for too long, he could cause a vast amount of damage, damage that the Ministry could ill afford. Voldemort wanted to trust Janus with this task, but as a Death Eater Malfoy could not. Too much was at stake here.
Draco paused in mid thought, his mind working as only his could. Analyzing, calculating, processing. Suddenly, he grinned as he came to a decision. He would never get away with directly attacking the Slayer or Janus, but if he played his cards right he might able to work out a way to force Janus' hand. Theoretically he would not be disobeying Voldemort, yet at heart he still would be. If all went well, maybe his master would actually thank him for taking the initiative. Doubtful, but still a possibility. Life was full of risks.
A waiter appeared at Draco's table, bearing a small glass full of reddish yellow liquid atop a golden tray. Very carefully, he placed it before Malfoy. "Your Crysia, my lord." He whispered before bowing and disappearing again. Malfoy smiled and gingerly picked up the glass, peering at it with admiration.
Concocted from the blood of a newborn dragon and fermented in the bowls of unicorn for centuries, Crysia was one of the most expensive liquors one could order…and also one of the most illegal. It was a crime in itself that the highly potent drink required the death of two beautiful magical creatures, but the content of Crysia itself produced a hallucinatory affect unrivaled by any narcotic available in the underworld. When consumed, one would feel nothing but absolute bliss for up to an hour without absolutely any side affect when it wore off.
Draco smiled as he toyed with the glass. There was a catch, however. One could not hope to flirt with heaven without risking hell. Whenever anyone drank Crysia, there was always a one in fifty chance that it would stimulate a violent chemical reaction that inevitably resulted in a violent and painful death. It was impossible to predict when the drink would kill, and therefore even the boldest of men seldom chose to sample Crysia's deadly taste even once. This would be Draco's thirty-second time. Another one of life's little risks.
Taking a deep breath, Draco gulped down drink and slammed the glass down on the table, shattering it. Blood flowed from where shards of glass had pierced his hand, but he did not even notice. His earthly problems disappeared in a flash of happiness. Nirvana had instantly dominated him, transporting his mind into paradise where pain and worry no longer existed, and there he would remain until the drink's affects wore off.
Draco smiled and leaned back into his chair. It could be only too soon.
Author's Notes:
Sorry about the incredibly long delay between updates. I changed houses about two weeks ago, and I still haven't had a phone line installed yet which means my access to the internet is limited at best. The next update probably won't be until I get my phone line which won't be for another few weeks at least. Writing is also a little slower these days with school work so demanding, but hopefully it isn't decreasing the quality of my writing. Be sure to drop reviews if you read. The amount I receive gives me an indication of how many people are actually reading, and I've noticed the review per chapter ratio has been steadily slipping. Not a huge deal, I know, but having a lot of people give feed back always makes me happy.