19 Chapter 12: Red Mist(letoe)

London, UK. September 2003.

Bullets whizzed over my head. The sound of gunfire and screams echoed all around me. 

The peaceful life I'd grown accustomed to had disappeared and in its place, this hellscape had risen. I ducked behind a crumbling wall, my own gun clutched firm in my grip, finger on the trigger ready to fire.

"Bas!" Tom Felton, his own firearm in hand, shouted for me. My head snapped at him. He slid behind a rusty barrel, desperately ducking as another hail of death pinned him to his post. 

Our enemy, seeing their opportunity; Tom, unaware of their position, lined up a shot. Not on my watch!

"Duck!" I fired my own salvo. Red spurted. "Get over here." I waved him to my barricade.

With a nod, he braced and sprinted across the opening between our positions. He was fast, the resulting fire pelting the ground behind him. 

But then, tragedy. His foot fell into a divot on the ground. He tumbled in a cloud of dust. I saw the gun barrels all aiming at his defenseless form. 

I knew what I had to do. I'd already lived a good life.

I pumped my legs as hard as I could. I skidded in front of his prone body. I spread my arms wide, my body shook violently as I was rocked by the seeds of war. 

Strength left my legs. I fell to my knees. I looked over my shoulder. Tom was ok.

"Medic!" He shrieked, anguish in his voice.

"Ha! I got you!" my assailant celebrated.

"T-tell them my-" I coughed, "my story. Don't forget me." my breath shuddered. 

Suddenly, more bullets came. The pellets exploded against me and painted me red. "Ow! I'm hit already. I'm hit!" I quickly stretched my arms to surrender. Tom dodged around me and huddled against a barricade. 

"Hurry up, Bas!" Emma raised her mask and taunted my death. "Scurry off unless you want another round bruising your butt."

"Damn, girl! Take it easy." 

"Permission to treat the target as a zombie, commander?" Alfie Enoch, the young actor playing Dean Thomas, and apparently Emma's second in command pointed his paintball gun at me.

Realizing that discretion was indeed the better part of valor, I rushed off the field with my hands raised over my head. "I'm dead, don't shoot." I could do without any more bruises, thanks very much. 

The gun strapped to me clattered against my thigh as I hastened to the picnic table set aside for corpses and parents. 

"Quite the performance." Mrs Felton teased as I took my seat at the table. 

"Less pretend than you'd think. Those kids are ruthless. I can see why warlords love child soldiers." I looked around what had been dubbed the graveyard. 

Tens of teenagers, snacks and drinks in hand, mingled around in paint splattered army fatigues while the other half still duked it out on the war ground. A few even sat happily near their families. Given the host of adult supervision readily available, I'd given Cadbury the day off.

She chuckled and offered me two paper plates, both with something sweet on them. "Chocolate or red velvet?" 

I took both. "Dying worked up an appetite. And you know what they say about a balanced diet, don't you?"

"Do enlighten me."

"It's a slice of cake in each hand!" Without wasting any more time, I forked a nice, fat bite of gooey chocolate cake and stuffed my cheeks. 

Mrs Felton, Tom's mom, if it wasn't obvious, handed me a napkin. Clearly, my table manners fell to the wayside with Cadbury's absence. "But seriously, Bas. Thank you for suggesting this party. We so infrequently get to spend time with Tommy as it is, it's nice to see him enjoying himself on his birthday. I'm sure the other children also appreciate the outing." 

The redness on my cheeks wasn't courtesy of a paintball this time. She was being way too sincere. "I didn't do much." I waved her off. "It's not like I organized anything."

"I beg to differ. I have neither the authority nor the ear of anyone to halt filming for even a moment, forget an entire day."

"Wasn't a big deal." It really wasn't. "We're stuck twiddling our collective thumbs for another week, anyway." I took another bite. "The Buckbeak animatronic is going through revisions again. We can't continue filming until Alfonso Cuaron is happy with it." I deflected. "It's mostly just the kids on set these days since only the Hogwarts class scenes are left to film."

"You really must learn how to just take a compliment." She reprimanded lightly. "You've been filming since February, haven't you? I'm surprised it's carrying on this long."

"Alfonso is obsessive." I shrugged. "David Heyman, who you might've met - he's the producer - has put his foot down though. We're going to use whatever version of Hippogriff comes out next and fix the rest in post or we risk running long."

"Mr Cauron sounds rather difficult to work with."

"He is, but he's good at what he does. Thankfully, he's been convinced to come back for the next movie." 

"This one isn't finished, but you're already thinking about the next one?" her eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs.

"I won't be the only one thinking about it. Filming for Goblet starts months before Prisoner is set to release."

"All the more reason why today's party is important for the children. So I say again, thank you, Bas. You're a sweet boy."

I hurriedly looked around us to make sure nobody was in earshot. "don't let anyone hear you say that. I have an image to maintain!"

–

London, UK. December 2003.

"I'll be parked out front, sir." He heard the chauffeur inform him as he stepped out of the leather coated interior of the pointlessly expensive Bentley. 

The luxury only continued as he stepped into the lavish lobby of the hotel. He observed the large bouquet sculpture centerpiece decorating the middle of the room. At least there was some semblance of class here. 

He marched up to the concierge and announced himself discreetly. "Alan Rickman. I'm told you have a key for me." 

"Good evening, sir." She greeted. Given the way her eyes widened, she'd clearly recognized him. She kept professional, however. Alan appreciated that. "Ah! Yes. Mr Rhys has informed us of your arrival." She kept her head down as she went about preparing a key card for him, but he caught her sneaking glances at him. "The suite is on the 8th floor." She handed him the cardboard sleeve with the key card tucked in, showing the room number.

"Thank you." Long used to this, he waited as the young woman plucked up the courage to speak to him from beyond the facade of her duty. "Is that all?"

"I-I've watched Sense and Sensibility a hundred times…" there she goes. 

Unsurprising. Had she been a man, he'd have expected Die Hard. 

Without missing a beat, he took the card out of the sleeve, palmed the tethered pen on the desk, and signed the piece of paper for her. "To Bridgette." Her name tag was made to be visible. "Have a good night." 

She snatched the card from the table and clutched it to her chest. "Thank you!" Alan couldn't help but smirk on his way to the lifts. Still got it.

The elevator dinged, he stepped out, and the plush carpets of the hallway swallowed his footsteps. Only a few moments after a sharp knock on the door, Alan found himself ushered into Bas' hotel suite by the boy's austere au pair. "Please make yourself comfortable. Shall I prepare some tea?"

"Not quite the time for it tonight. You'd best prepare the boy instead." He hadn't even bothered to sit. The only 'T' he was concerned about were the letters in tick-tock.

"Very well. I shall pick the pace up for him." 

He caught a glimpse of the dressing room as she opened and entered it. He sighed irritably - the boy was only now putting trousers on. 

Love, Actually's red carpet premiere was in less than an hour, and it just had to be him that served as Bas' babysitter for the night. 

This wasn't something he'd normally consent to doing, but he liked the boy well enough, and with the incessant pushing Warner Brothers had done, he'd had little choice. 

Everything, even another movie entirely, was a potential marketing ploy.

The callous irresponsibility of children was one of the many reasons he'd never had any of his own. Being surrounded by the hormonal hoards over the last four years did little else but bolster that decision. 

Yet, as Alan parsed over the pile of papers Bas had likely been working on earlier, this youngster wasn't so easily labelled.

Contracts, endorsements, financials, was just the little he could glean from a casual glance. The sort of minutiae and tedium best left to those who were paid to know better. But given the horrendous, familiar, chicken scratches all over the pages, Bas' mind wasn't as empty as he liked for it to appear. 

"Cadbury, who is that?" Bas announced himself with his trademark frivolity. Eager for absurdity when a simple greeting would suffice for anyone else.

"You know very well that is Mr Rickman, Mr Rhys."

"But where's the black bob-cut and fashion sense of a grieving widow? That's the Alan I know."

He jumped in before the nanny could. "Talk of fashion coming from the person wearing the ugliest sweater I've had the distinct displeasure of ever seeing? I might as well take tree climbing lessons from a fish." 

Redder than a baboon's behind and littered with embroidered white hearts stolen straight off a twenty pence Hallmark Valentine's card made it garish enough, but the large brand logo - identical to the one on Bas' endorsement file, somehow made the sweater the minister of distaste.

The knitted monstrosity was a surprisingly à propos insight into how Alan saw Bas. Flippant on the surface, but when you looked closer, everything had a legitimate purpose. 

An attention grabbing outfit that seemed like a joke, but also served as a walking billboard. 

A carefree young man, hiding a keen mind beneath juvenile antics.

Devious. 

"I'm repping a Christmas themed rom-com, and my brand. But you? Funeral homes would consider you dour." 

Alan opened his blazer to show off the label. "Versace." He pointed to Bas, "pyjamas. Good thing you blend into the red carpet. Provides you with a ready-made excuse when no one bothers noticing you." 

"Good thing I have a trump card." Bas pulled on a novelty antler hairband. "Tada!" More holiday vulgarity. "No one can ignore me now."

"Except for every woman out of sheer embarrassment." The banter continued even as the group bundled up in the car and made their way over to the event.

Bas, as ever, projected unwarranted confidence. "Who do you think will want to take more pictures with me? The Swedish models in skimpy Santa outfits, or Kiera Knightly?" 

Their arrival was marked with the theme song from the movie blaring over the speakers, and the manic flash of cameras even before they reached the gator board and banners. 

For many celebrities, it's these moments where people clamour for a moment of your attention, that hold all the value of fame. The limelight. But Alan considered this the most infuriating aspect of his chosen career. He couldn't wait to hit the open bar. 

Bas made a beeline to the aforementioned models. They did, in fact, enjoy the accessory adorning his head. 

His focus was stolen away by someone hooking their arm around his elbow. Few people in the world took such liberties with him. Emma Thompson, his co star and dear friend, was one of them.

"Your boy sure does know how to work a crowd." 

Alan looked back and saw the cameras going wild as Bas manufactured a photo-op swaddled in the embrace of several attractive women.

"You have no idea."