This is a collaborative effort between two authors. prone2dementia wrote the first scene and Talionyzero wrote the second.
Talionyzero: Basically, enjoy, but for those that are interested, we do accept anonymous reviews and they will be answered on our profile page.
prone2dementia: Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter or Alex Rider belongs to either prone2dementia or Talionyzero.
Six Degrees
May 2nd was, indubitably, Harry Potter's least favorite day of the year. It was the date that spawned extravagant celebrations across the nation. It was the date that spurred sycophantic worship from fans around the globe. Owls poured in from sunrise to sunset; reporters stalked his every move. Memorial services requested his presence, charity benefits requested his donations, and ministry functions requested his endorsement. Everyone wanted something from him—time, money, attention, praises—and he despised the ceaseless demands.
Beyond the external struggles, however, he also battled internally.
May 2nd reminded him of all that he'd lost, and all that he had to lose. It reminded him that his friends could be harmed and his loved ones could be killed. It reminded him that, at any time, another Dark Lord could rise and grip the wizarding world in his cruel clutches.
Altogether, it was a depressing day for Harry and—upon waking up beneath nightmare-rumpled sheets—he desired nothing more than to stay at home and sulk. No matter how much he was fain to argue, though, Ginny Potter née Weasley disagreed with this course of action.
Standing at the foot of their bed with head tilted and limbs akimbo, she declared in her don't-you-dare-argue-with-me-unless-you-want-to-sleep-on-the-sofa way, "Since it's a holiday and we don't have to work—"
"Tell me something I don't know, Captain Obvious."
"Gladly, Lieutenant Sarcasm," she responded blithely. "As I was saying, since we don't have to work, we should go visit Teddy. I've already floo'd Andromeda, and she's agreed to let us take him out on a picnic. So if you will get your lazy arse out of bed..."
Mumbling petulantly beneath his breath, Harry kicked off the bunched bed-coverings and swung his legs onto the hardwood floor. "Such crude language from such a young lady. What would your brothers think?"
She snorted and did not deign to comment. "I had breakfast while you were wallowing in self-pity, so you'll have to wait until the picnic for food. Get dressed and meet me downstairs."
"Gin," he whined.
But it was too late, for she had already disappeared out the door.
In the yellow-tiled bathroom, he brushed his teeth, shaved his face, and attempted to tame his hair. The last act was executed to no avail, but twenty-one years of habit required that he do it anyway. After several fruitless moments, he threw down Ginny's brush and returned to the bedroom, flattening his unruly locks over his scar with a frustrated hand. Muggle clothing—jeans and a shirt—were tugged from the closet and then pulled on hastily. Still in the midst of buttoning-down, he padded out of the room and down the stairs.
"Ginevra, dearest," he sang, "I'm ready."
"How many times have I told you not to call me that?!" On the first floor, just in front of the entrance hall, Ginny appeared in all her exasperated glory. She was attired in a white summer dress that swayed in time with her hips.
"About the same number of times that Ron's been told the Cannons will never win—but that hasn't stopped him from supporting them, has it?"
"Oh, shut up, you." She smacked his arm playfully, and then took the abused appendage in her own as she twisted on the spot.
There was an unpleasant sensation, akin to being shoved through a small opening.
"Bloody—!" Ears popping and stomach churning, Harry squeezed his eyes together and waited for the Apparition to end. Upon reaching their destination, he pitched forward and nearly lost his balance. "You could've at least warned me!"
His wife shrugged innocently. "Toughen up a bit, Harry." She winked. "You are the Savior of the Wizarding World, after all."
With that, she started forward, and Harry allowed himself a proper study of his surroundings. They were walking over a wooded clearing toward a cottage made of sun-bleached wood. Beneath them was a bed of lush grass, daubed with clumps of pastel flowers; above them was an expanse of eternal sky, dashed with wisps of pearly clouds. As they headed toward the cottage, a small figure sprang out of the back door and barreled forward, directly at them.
"Harry! Gin!" cried a little boy's voice, pitched high with excitement. "You're here!"
"Hello, Teddy," laughed the woman, observing fondly as her spouse bent to one knee, arms wide open to receive the boy in a warm embrace.
"Hi," replied the four-year-old, grinning toothily at her from over Harry's shoulder. "'Dromeda's inside, makin' the food."
"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go find her!" said Harry.
"By that, you mean let's go find the food, don't you?"
Smiling and pretending not to hear, Harry carried his god-son through the small back-garden and inside. Ginny trailed just a few paces behind.
The door opened into the sitting room, and the contrast between the cottage and the outdoors was immediate. Although sunlight slanted in through large, picture windows, it carried only a fraction of the heat. Across the short stretch of hallway, Andromeda Tonks was busying herself with lunch.
"Mr. and Mrs. Potter, come here and have a taste of this." With neither a glance upwards nor a pause in her cooking, Andromeda beckoned toward them.
Harry set Teddy onto his feet, and then trudged with Ginny into the kitchen, from where all sorts of pungent aromas were emerging. There was the scent of spices, and warm food, and something distinctly like home.
When a spoonful of creamy soup was thrust into Harry's face, the man sipped it eagerly, as if he were sipping a fine wine. "It's delicious, as always."
Beside him, Ginny murmured her agreement. "This is some of the best soup I've ever had."
"Better not let Molly hear you say that," warned Harry, smirking.
"Mum's not here now, is she?" Defiance was displayed in the stubborn line of Ginny's shoulders. Turning back to the older woman, she opined, "Honestly, Andromeda, I've never had anything like this."
A spreading blush evidenced Andromeda's pride. "Thank you, dear. Now—" She ladled several helpings of the soup into a flask charmed to retain warmth. "Take these and Teddy into the garden and have yourselves a nice picnic."
Grasping the flask and basket that Andromeda pushed into his hands, Harry queried, "You won't be joining us?"
"Goodness, no, Teddy has had way too much of me lately." She patted the young couple affectionately and sent them on their way.
Back outside, Ginny assumed the task of selecting a foliage-shaded patch of grass to set down the materials. When she was satisfied with a particular lot beneath a sweeping willow tree, Harry conjured a blanket, unfolded it with flourish, and then arranged it onto the ground.
"Paisley?" the woman asked, gesturing at the pattern on the blanket. "Couldn't you have chosen something more traditional like...checkers?"
Sheepishly, Harry shrugged.
"Well," Ginny continued, exhaling resignedly, "I suppose your appalling sense extends beyond fashion."
"That's why you love me." Harry pecked her on the cheek.
Skipping excitedly around their legs, Teddy inquired, "Can we eat now?"
The man and woman shared a look, then started laughing.
Together, they said, "Yes, Teddy."
The next half hour was filled with the melody of wind through leaves, birds through trees, happy laughs, and relaxed conversations. Harry and Ginny took turns undoing the messes that Teddy made, patiently wiping his hands and cleaning his face at intervals. In the presence of his wife and god-son, Harry felt the stress of real life dissolve—
Until a silver lynx darted out of the trees and into their party.
Not knowing what it was, Teddy reached out a curious hand, only to find that he couldn't pet the silver creature.
"Teddy." Ginny's voice was calm but urgent. "Don't touch that."
"What is it?" Teddy asked inquisitively.
"Kingsley's Patronus," Harry answered absently, even though Teddy had no way of knowing what a Patronus was.
Despite Ginny's disapproving glare, the man motioned for the lynx to follow him several paces away, out of the hearing range of the other two.
There, Harry rounded on the graceful creature. "What is it, Kingsley? What's wrong?"
In the Minister's voice, the lynx said, "We need you to come in immediately, Harry."
"Why?" Harry could detect notes of desperation in Kingsley's tone.
"We will explain more when you arrive at Ministry." A brief pause ensued. Sensing that Harry was not going anywhere without some more information, Kingsley emphasized what little he could at the moment. "Just know that this is a matter concerning wizards and muggles alike."
-HP AR-
"No. No, no, no, no, and no," Alex insisted as he refused to take the seat that was offered to him. He had just been ushered into Blunt's office for what felt like the millionth time in his life, and he was determined not to walk out of that office with a mission.
Blunt was well known for keeping an emotionless façade on him at all times. He was often described as having the emotional range of a snake by the agents that worked under him—the last time he had actually been seen smiling at work was years ago. And yet, at that moment, the exasperated look he shared with Mrs. Jones could only have been described as human.
"Mr. Rider, please sit down."
For a moment, Alex considered simply walking out on Blunt. But, in the long run, he doubted it would do any good, and he wasn't the sort to run from a fight. He'd faced down worse than Blunt before; he could do it again. So he sat down, albeit with a deep scowl.
Blunt sighed. Alex didn't want to be here, which was understandable. What he didn't know, however, was that the head of MI6 was just as reluctant to have him. And, with the new prime minister breathing down Blunt's throat about the immorality and illegality of using kids instead of trained agents, Blunt was lucky that he hadn't been suspended. This situation was desperate, though, and the immoral means justified the moral ends.
Ms. Jones glanced at Blunt, uncertain of how to proceed. Blunt sighed mentally. He had decided that it would be best to dive in immediately. Showing the dire results of the situation could be the path to convincing the boy to agree to work with them. After all, Alex was just like his uncle in that he couldn't allow others to suffer what he could prevent—and that was exactly why Blunt felt that Alex could be useful now.
"Alex, this is a matter of utmost importance—not only to the safety of our country, but also to the state of our world," Blunt began. He had already adapted a more detached voice for the briefing. Not that it showed much because he really was very much of a snake. Emotionally, that is.
But Alex wasn't going to acquiesce to Blunt's manipulations without protest. "Where've I heard that line before, Blunt? It's always for the 'safety of our world,' isn't it? I'm not working for you, no matter what you threaten me with. Jack already has her permanent visa, so you can't deport her. What else can you try?" Catching sight of Blunt's parted lips, he shook his head to halt the man. "And, please, don't get creative on my account. I know that Prime Minister Meyers won't agree with you; Ms. Jones has already told me that he refused to let you use me. So what the hell more do you want?"
At the end of his assertion, Alex deflated back into his seat. He hadn't meant to come off that strong, but he was firm in his conviction: He was not going to allow himself to be pushed around anymore.
Blunt raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Jones blushed; Alex wasn't supposed to know that the prime minister had told Blunt to cease and desist when it came to using the boy as a weapon. Neither was unprepared for the outburst, but it always annoyed them that Alex could act so childishly.
Well, Ms. Jones considered, he was technically still a child.
"While that may be the case, Alex, I have no other options except to ask you for help." When Alex opened his mouth to object, Blunt held up a hand, successfully quieting the boy. "If this were not a last, desperate attempt to salvage a mission, I would not be asking you. Just listen to me. I promise that I won't make you accept anything. You will get a choice on whether or not to accept."
Alex blinked. That was not what he had been expecting. He had come in waiting for Blunt to order him through use of blackmail. Instead, he got…this. Blunt didn't seem threatening and imposing. Rather, he simply appeared to be old.
But it didn't matter. Alex shook his head, roughly reminding himself not to get pulled in. This was how they had coerced him into agreeing in the past, and he wasn't going to go through that again. They had professionals for their dirty work.
"No," he said in a strong voice that bared disagreement. "I'm not your last chance; I'm a kid that is still having trouble with school—having trouble because of the times I've already looked after the safety of the world for you."
Blunt wasn't ready to give in just yet. He tried again, this time with a different approach. "You know, Alex, it has come to my attention that you have not been paid for your services to your country."
"Somehow, Blunt, I doubt that you just recently noticed this. Actually, I believe your exact words were along the lines that, because I don't officially worked for you, it would look shady if MI6 deposited any amount of money in my bank account."
"That is easily remedied," the grey man said in his monotone. "Sit here; listen to a rundown of the situation." Blunt made sure he avoided saying 'briefing'. "After you have heard the entire speech, you will be free to accept or reject our offer, with no negative consequences. When you make your decision, you can discuss finances with Mrs. Jones."
"Alright," he reluctantly agreed after several moments of silence, punctured only by the silver crinkling of Ms. Jones unwrapping another peppermint. "But I'm only going to hear you out, that's all!"
Blunt nodded, satisfied. "If you could start us off, Ms. Jones," he asked.
Ms. Jones stepped forward from her spot beside Blunt's chair. "As previously mentioned, Alex, you are our last attempt. We have sent three other agents in to investigate already, and all have been killed in the line of duty. I won't deceive you; this is a dangerous mission. Yet the stakes of this mission going wrong are too heavy to do nothing."
There was a brief pause as Tulip Jones allowed that information to sink in.
Growing tired of sitting still, beneath the two steady gazes, Alex nodded. "Go on."
"For several months we have had our eye on a terrorist cell named Uppryckandet, a name that literally translates to The Rapture. They are a mostly European cult, who bases their beliefs off the bible. They believe people on Earth must strive to be perfect Christians, so that—in the afterlife—they may enter heaven and join God. The group believes prayer for forgiveness and living according to the Old Testament is the only way to achieve a higher state of being. Those who do not comply should be punished for spreading filthiness to the rest of the world."
Alex raised an eyebrow. How was this any different than the vast majority of religious people? The cult sounded strikingly similar to a church where, every Sunday, groups gathered to go on about the 'horrible state of the world'. Well, barring the fact that churches usually didn't tell their members to 'punish' those that didn't agree with them.
Blunt turned the large computer monitor that was on his desk to face Alex. Both Ms. Jones and Alex sat and watched as Blunt typed a set of commands into the computer and, a moment later, Windows Media Player popped up. Alex resisted a smirk. Apparently, MI6 was on the PC side of Mac vs. PC. Who would have guessed?
The footage was grainy and old. It seemed to be some sort of demonstration. Looking as though they had never shaved in their lives, several old men were holding signs above their scraggly heads as they stood in front of a government building. The signs were cardboard and drawn in black sharpie. The slogans were the standard variety for religious extremists; 'Fear God!', 'Homosexuality is a sin', 'Accept God as your Savior now', and "Those that sin will burn'. There were about twenty men in total, all with European looks, long beards, homemade clothes, and an excess of pent up rage. One man kept trying to force pamphlets onto annoyed onlookers and pedestrians, but that was the closest that they seemed to get to the crowd.
For roughly thirty seconds, nothing else happened. Then, one of the men put down his sign and the rest quieted instantly. A moment later, the man started to scream above the rest of the crowd's noise.
"YOU CANNOT LIVE IN SIN AND EXPECT TO BE WELCOMED BY GOD IN HEAVEN! THOSE WHO DO NOT ACCEPT OUR GOD AS THE FATHER AND HIS SON AS THE SON MUST BE CONVERTED IF THEY HOPE TO EVER GAIN ACCESS TO HEAVEN! OUR GOD IS THE ONE TRUE GOD AND MUST BE ACKNOWLEDGED AS SUCH. ALL OTHER RELIGIONS MUST BE EXTERMINATED! ONLY WITH US CAN YOU FIND THE ANSWERS TO SUCH QUESTIONS AS 'WHAT IS LIFE?,' 'AM I ALONE?," AND 'WHY AM I HERE?'"
There was more, but Alex started to tune out after that. The rest was all exactly what a person would imagine a brain-damaged extremist to say, and needless to say, no one took a pamphlet.
"That is the leader of the group, David Wright. This was taken as the group was just starting out, before they became classified as a terrorist cell, thirteen years ago in Sweden."
Blunt minimized the screen and clicked on another. The next clip was slightly less grainy. It was short; a man recognizable as David Wright threw a can into the window of the church. A moment later there was an explosion from within the church. All of the windows shattered, but that was the only structural damage. Wright ran away, disappearing moments before an alarm started to ring.
"That was the first recognized act of vandalism that Uppryckandet took part in. In the following two years, Wright and his followers were arrested four times. None of their actions resulted in fatalities. At worst, they were regarded as a nuisance by the local police. And then a year later, the cult took part in this."
Another clip popped up. This one was panned in to show the entrance of a mosque. The door consisted of an archway and, inside the mosque, about twenty men were praying in traditional Islamic garbs. For about a minute, Alex stared at the screen, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.
"What are we staring at this clip for?" he started to ask, but Blunt interrupted him by raising a finger.
"Wait."
A moment later, Alex saw what they had been waiting for. An explosion, starting at the top of mosque, sent the entire structure crumbling down. It was a true picture of terrorism; shouts of terror and a clamor for the doorway arch ensued. At least ten of the men in the mosque did not make it out.
"So they took responsibility?" Alex asked, knowing without asking but doing so anyway.
"Yes," Ms. Jones said. "From that point on the cult was officially listed as a terrorist group."
"For the past ten years the cell has been relatively dormant, only appearing on the news twice; once for planting a bomb in the car of a preacher that had been accused of molesting a child, and again for the decidedly larger scale bombing of what they claimed was an empty church. Contrary to the group's belief, the church was not empty and the explosion that ensued killed two janitors. The first bomb detonated when the preacher's adolescent daughter used her dad's car to go and meet her date. She died in the hospital hours after the car bomb exploded."
"So why the sudden interest in them?" Alex asked warily, certain that he didn't want to know.
Tulip finished sucking on her current peppermint and popped another into her mouth. The smell was nauseating, and both Blunt and Alex gagged as a new wave of mint breath hit them. Blunt did so covertly, but the same could not be said of Alex.
"Their numbers have increased dramatically this year. Several months ago, we heard the first rumors of their involvement with Anthrax transactions. A couple weeks later, we received information about their distribution of the strain, and—only days later—we were able to confirm that they, indeed, possessed Anthrax." She paused. "Unfortunately, due to their relatively low amount of terroristic acts, we underestimated their abilities. When we sent in our agent, he was flushed out almost immediately. Since the agent's death, we've only been able to discover two new pieces of information: the site of their headquarters and the location of the virus."
For a moment, at the mention of the now deceased Agent Grownley, Ms. Jones voice seemed to go up in pitch. It was barely noticeable, but it was there. Blunt noticed and took over.
"Hypocritically, a brother is storing the virus in Switzerland. We would not be so urgent to get in there, except we have received fresh information that leads us to believe the new strain of Anthrax may be released soon. And since the places Uppryckandet has targeted so far have been on European soil, we are understandably concerned."
"So this group believes that it's wrong to break the rules in the New Testament and yet they have their headquarters in a brothel? How very Christian of them," Alex said.
Blunt coughed. "Yes, well. As Ms. Jones was saying, we sent three agents in, and our first was killed immediately. This was about the same story for the other two agents. Now, what can you conclude from that?"
"That you need to train your agents better," Alex shot out without hesitation. He paused for a moment, before giving a weary sigh and shaking his head. "It's almost sad if you think about it. I know that not everyone can be expected to have the same success and survival rate as a fourteen-year-old boy, but three of your agents were killed immediately? Three highly trained agents killed, and you're relying on a kid. Desperation in play, that."
A moment of silence greeted Alex's words. Blunt coughed again and continued, "Be that as it may, your age and experience are the reason we want you. The Swiss authorities refuse to both seize the brothel and cooperate with us, so we are forced to find the strain on our own. So far, our men have been picked out because as clients and workers. They were carefully monitored, but you would have a different role. As a child, you would not be working at the brothel, obviously, or come in as a client, but rather be posing as the son of a prostitute. This would enable you to look around without the same level of scrutiny."
Alex couldn't believe he was even thinking about it, but he was. Blunt made a good point, and he couldn't—with a good conscience—allow an extremist cult to decide whether or not they should release a plague. Sighing, he asked the question that needed to be asked, "So, hypothetically, and hypothetically only, assuming that I agree to this mission, find the Anthrax strain, and get it seized by the Swiss authorities; what would my cover be?"
Blunt did not smile. That would go against his personal hatred of human emotion. But, if possible, his lip turned up, just a tiny bit. This was going better than he had expected.