Hey all, just wanted to drop by and that I'm sorry. Everything is on hiatus for lack of inspiration. I had the stories planned out some time afterwards, instead of trying to wing it, and still have the plans with me, but I'm not going to continue them until I'm satisfied with my work. I've started on a new FF, but unlike my other works it's a cross over from Alex Rider and Harry Potter and planned out. It's a plot bunny that's been bothering me a while and I'm posting a little prologue to see reactions of reader.

I don't want to completely give up on my other stories put for now Solider's Life is permanently on Hiatus (i don't know if you can permanently put something on Hiatus or not...). I want to try updating the Need and Psychopathetics but again, it's very tough because I am rather unsatisfied with my writing. Apologies again.

So here's a new story I'm not at all content with the title so please give me some ideas, Iunctus Per Nex is Latin meaning United Through Death. Both stories will be changed a lot, and mostly focused on Alex Rider. Sorry for all you HP fans but I'll try to put more HP in, this idea was mainly inspired by the wonderful AR writers out there.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR ALEX RIDER THEY BELONG TO J.K. ROWLING AND ANTHONY HOROWITZ RESPECTIVELY.

Chapter One

It was bright, sunny and warm. The outside world was so happy; children were playing in the sun, men and women were basking in its warm glow. This was the worst weather for a funeral. Men wearing their black three piece suits, some tapping the ground incessantly, desperately wanting to leave the warm weather and go inside the church. Women wearing black skirts and shirts fanning themselves with funeral papers and dabbing their faces gently with handkerchiefs. All of the black, soaking up the sun's bright rays. The priest wore a black cassock reading out of a small book, saying solemn words to the attendees. It was hot and they were all sweating. Rain would have been greatly appreciated by all the attendees.

A blond haired man, with the body of a dancer stood from a faraway distance, watching the funeral from behind the cool shadows of a tree. He wore all black, like many of the attendees, but not a suit. Black leather jacket, black turtle neck, black leather pants all in contrast to his rather pale skin. Yassen Gregorovich watched closely with his cold, blue eyes as the priest closed his book, and shut his eyes saying another small prayer. He watched as the two caskets were lowered into the ground. They were to stay six feet under for the rest of the body's existence. John. . . a small tear fell from his eye, the first of many years. It left a small trail of water, hardly noticeable unless you were standing in front of him . . . but anyone who did that would be dead before taking a breath, before blinking even. He wiped it away. He watched as the group started to leave. A medium sized, fair haired man greeted each and every one of the guests, thanking them for coming to the funeral. Ian Rider. He cradled a small bundle of blankets in one of his arms. Gently rocking it back and forth. It was a baby. Alex Rider.

They all continued to leave and as the last man left into his car the fair haired man walked back to the grave and knelt down. He traced the names of the deceased with his fingers, saying small words to himself, or the baby . . . or the dead. A prayer perhaps? Yassen watched silently, unzipping his black leather jacket. It really was too hot. He stayed like that for ten minutes, small tears falling out of his face. Finally, the man stood and left with the child in his arms. Yassen saw a two small hands reach up to touch the Ian's face. Ian played with the boy's small hands and gave a small smile to the child. They got into the car; the man strapped the boy into his seat and then walked to the driver's seat. They drove away.

Yassen waited another five minutes before he walked himself to the grave. Just to make sure. After all, no one could be careful enough in his line of work. He, too, knelt down in front of the two graves, specifically in front of the one with the name "John."

"You shouldn't have died," he said quietly. "SCORPIA was supposed to protect you. I know the truth though. They tried to hide it from me but I know. They betrayed you. They betrayed me too. The bridge, the plane, everything. I know what actually happened and what was supposed to have happened.

I can't say that I'm surprised though. I always had a feeling you were too nice to be SCORPIA. At least to me you were. You weren't anything like the other instructors. You actually cared. I wish you would have told me though. I wouldn't have told them anything. My loyalty is to you and you alone. After all, you were the only one that recognized my . . . special talents. You were the only one that listened. That paid any real attention to me. You were the one that taught me everything about my . . .skills. How to use them, what to use them for and other things. I was glad to find out that you were just like me, or should I say I was just like you.

You were like the father I never had. You cared for me, sometimes a bit too much, but nevertheless you cared. I won't let anything happen to Alex. I promise. No promises on Ian though, but I suppose I could promise not to kill him." Yassen laughed a little. "I know you won't appreciate it if Ian suddenly dies. I really wish you were still alive. That I would have gotten to tell this to you in person. Alex won't ever feel the love that I felt from you. The love of his father." Yassen stood and looked at both graves.

"Or the love of his mother. . . It's a shame; John told me that you were a wonderful woman. I guess I wish I could have met you. Met the nice, warm, funny woman that he always described you as." Again he looked at John's grave. Like the man before the traced the name. J-O-H-N R-I-D-E-R. He took out a bullet; it was old and rusty, clearly used. He went over, closer to the tombstone and dug a small hole. He placed the bullet inside and then covered it up with the dirt. You better remember what this bullet is from John.

Yassen was crying now. Not just small tears, but fully grown tears leaving streaks of water down his pale cheeks. His broad shoulders shook, his eyes were shut. He tried desperately to stop the tears, but his emotional system would not have it. He needed this. No, he needed John.

"Thank you," Yassen whispered as he wiped his eyes of those damned tears. "For everything. I promise. . . promise, to take care of Alex. No matter what happens, I promise." Yassen looked once more at the grave then walked away. He stared at the church, he had never been a religious man, and without a doubt he never would be. Though for some strange reason he thought it important to go into the church. He didn't know why, but he did. As he walked in it was quiet. There were several places in the roofs and upper forums for snipers to be hiding, but he didn't think that they would, at least not now. After all, no one, not even SCORPIA, knew he was here. He went to the front and sat in one of the pews. He stared up at the crucifix of the suffering man. The man – Jesus was it? – looked up in sorrow at his 'God.' Yassen never got religion, he never planned to. There was no point to it. Once you died, you died. That was it. End of story. Though despite that, he liked it here. It was quiet. He could think. Such as peaceful place. He closed his eyes.

"Excuse me, sir," a low male voice said from behind him, not even five minutes after he had closed his eyes.

Yassen opened his eyes and looked behind him. It was the priest from before. The priest from behind him looked at him with concern in his eyes.

"Yes?"

"You don't go to this parish much do you?" the priest had a thick cockney accent, but Yassen was used to different accents and could comprehend the man's words.

"No."

"Umm . . ." the priest seemed unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry sir, but I need to lock the church up now. We're being renovated. If you wish you could come tomorrow, a bit earlier perhaps?" The priest flushed. He didn't want to kick the man out, especially since the man was new and perhaps thinking of conversion to a Christian.

"No, it's okay. I don't need to come back." Yassen curtly stood and walked away leaving the priest baffled at his reaction. He was slightly disappointed, what if the man just wanted some justice or to reform? Oh well, it was a lost cause now. The man seemed too cold in his answer to want to try again today. Perhaps some other time.

Yassen walked over to his motorcycle. He put on his black helmet and zipped up his black leather jacket. He started his bike and sat comfortably on it. He rode of noisily, not usually a suggestion for someone in his line of work, but he liked bikes. They were freeing. He thought about the Riders. He had to protect Alex. He had to help the Riders. He had to help Ian raise Alex. But first there was other business to attend to.

ARxHP

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stood at the foot of James and Lily Potter's graves. There was a sermon going on from one of the members of the Order. Mad-Eye Moody, boy what a man to pick for a sermon. It was dark, gloomy, and the rain drizzled down very slowly. Very fitting for a funeral. Everyone had anti-rain charms on their clothing to avoid from getting wet. Their cloaks and clothing all black, women wearing black hats and dresses, men wearing black suits under their cloaks holding umbrellas above the women's heads to avoid wetting their hair. They all stared gloomily at the two tomb stones. As Mad-Eye finished his final words for Lily and James everyone bowed their heads. Four great wizards . . .gone.

One by one the wizards and witches began to file out as the storm grew more violent. Two men, both looking very tired by the most recent events stood and shook the hands as well as thanked the people who had come. One had long black messy hair, somewhat resembling a dog, Sirius Black was his name. The other, very thin, much more weary than Sirius. Remus J. Lupin. He held a small bundle of blankets in his hand. Soft coos came from the blankets. Harry James Potter. The Boy Who Lived.

"Sirius, Remus," Dumbledore said, nodding at each man.

"Sir," they replied, nodding back.

"Would it be alright if I saw him?" Lupin hesitantly looked at the baby, and then remembered who it was that was asking exactly. He gave the boy over.

Dumbledore stared at the child. His bright, emerald eyes would open and close rather sleepily. Dumbledore touched the young boy's fingers. The boy woke up a little more and saw the friendly blue eyes of the old man holding him. Harry gave a toothless smile and started to play with the long white beard. Dumbledore smiled at the young boy. So curious, innocent and young. He gave Harry back to Lupin.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said.

"No problem, sir," he said. Sirius and Lupin turned and left. Dumbledore stayed behind, and continued to stare at the two tombstones.

"First John and Helen, now the both of you too?" he asked the tombstones. "You're all making my job harder you know?" He thought about Alex. Little Alex Rider. A baby, just like Harry, who had just lost both his parents in a 'tragic' plane 'accident.' Though, Alex, unlike Harry, had a loving caring uncle to take care of him. Not to mention a wizard uncle. Harry on the other hand had muggle relatives. Both despising of magic, but it was the best way to protect him after all. Voldemort was not gone . . . no matter what people said.

Dumbledore took out a photo. It was of two couples. Both very happy, both very young, both still in their school years at Hogwarts belonging to the same house of Gryffindor. They were all rather happy, innocent, and making funny faces at the camera. They were laughing, and pushing each other of the bench. He smiled at the memory. They were all talented and intelligent at school, John, Lily, Helen slightly more intelligent than James, but James had his own little perks to make up for that. They were the closest of friends and were always together. He placed the photo in the ground, just beneath the tombstone. He cast a spell on it, making sure that only a few, select people would be able to see it.

He turned to leave. It was time to send Harry to that home. That sad little home, with magic hating muggles. Hopefully, Harry would be able to hang on and not give up. To always have hope.