Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Other Magic	By : starry-pseudonym Category: HP Canon Characters paired with Original Characters > Het - Male/Female Views: 962 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This story - my very first - is compliant up to the start of the Half-Blood Prince. I do not own Harry Potter or any canon references. The story within is purely for entertainment, noncommercial purposes.

Chapter List
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Alison seized where she stood, stricken by fear of being suddenly grasped tight by the arm. At first her thoughts went to the presumed terrorists behind the attack and so it was by instinct that she yanked backward – only to be denied with another powerful squeeze.
“Let go, asshole!” she barked. It wasn’t until she heard her demanding voice resonate through the pub’s chamber that she realized everyone else was gone. Nothing from the street – it was as if all pedestrians had vanished. And for those who managed to flee through the shattered wall on the other side, those calls were growing more distant, as if in chase.
Another jerk of her arm forward landed her against the one relentless in his grip. “With a mouth like that,” his English draw, mired in day’s old whiskey, fell heated upon her cheek. His other hand, until now unseen, raised a slender, wooden stick to tip gently beneath her chin, causing her widening eyes to finally rise to meet his.
“I’m tempted to overlook…,” his hooded stare, lined in smudged kohl, traveled down the length of her front, no doubt in her mind to make her more nervous and thus susceptible to stupidity, but instead of continuing with his thought, he halted. Brows furrowed, and for a moment Alison prayed he had just discovered his true mark – maybe an artifact on the floor, maybe another person behind her, a political target that had been weaseling away while she served as decoy.
“What’s this?” the twig that had been poised along her jaw fell to point at her purse. The tip of the twig ignited with pale white light – causing Alison to flinch in his unyielding clutches, both surprised and confused by what was happening. It illuminated what had become partially dislodged and sticking out of the leather bag resting upon her right hip: a clunky, early-model Nokia mobile phone.
The light extinguished, and just as quickly he pulled her forward, hauling her along towards the collapsed wall and clearing thereafter.
“Seriously, who the hell do you think you are?” she accused as she tried to twist her arm out of his hold, which served to only provoke him to yank her harder.
“Name’s Scabior, and if’n you please, I suggest shuttin’ it,” he growled out between clenched teeth.
Alison quieted. Something about his last words was not aligned with who she thought she was dealing with. His peculiar name, surname she presumed, aside, his restrained tone sounded nearly in secret, as if he was instructing her to keep her mouth shut for the sake of her own good.
Her problem with not living in the moment was at this point resolved. She didn’t have a choice. Fortunately for the both of them, her stubbornness was limited to not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. In moments like this, she knew to comply, and even hurried a step so that he no longer had to pull her after him.
This visibly startled him. It wasn’t typical in his line of work for his prey to obey, though by the looks of it she had no idea that’s what she was. Seeing what he saw in that bag, he was certain that she was about to be on an exclusive and unfortunate list of said prey, a list being drawn up by the likes of his soon-to-be employers.
“Here,” he shoved her into a cobbled alcove, wet with recent rain and obscured by barrels of assorted broomsticks. She stumbled, but steadied her hand against the stone wall, leveraged to peer around the corner at what he was leaving her for. And this is your chance to run, but where? Back the way she came, there was no certainty there weren’t more of his ilk gathering inside. Before her, Scabior was approaching two black-hooded figures that emerged from a shattered, fiery storefront, then a third hauling what appeared to be a bound and bagged hostage out by his collar.
“Go ‘n, I’ll catch up with you lot later,” he addressed the one holding onto who she assumed to be the shopkeeper. She couldn’t make out the features of that third man with Scabior blocking her vantage, but he was hauntingly tall and brutish.
That’s when it happened. In a swirl of billowy black smoke, the four men evaporated and soared from the street, their murky streaks careening through the air high above the city and off out of sight.
Alison straightened, then fumbled backwards into the other side of the recessed building wall. “What the fuck,” she blurted. Scabior, having turned back around to hopefully see his catch still obeying, sighed, looking visibly defeated.
“As I suspected,” he shook his head. “Wasn’t sure until now.” He slogged back towards her, though in her awe she wasn’t so willing to stay put, and began sliding out of the alcove to retreat from him. He wasn’t all that concerned.
“Ever seen one o’ these, love?” He lifted the stick he had used to poke at her chin earlier. She didn’t utter a word, but by the looks of her wary glare – a welcomed change from the fear he was so used to – the answer was no.
“It’s a wand. And guessing you have no idea where you are,” his words flirted on the edge between mirth and menacing. His arms widened, gesturing to the slightly warped-in-time cobblestone alley in which she now found herself. She didn’t react, no cause for conceding to what he wanted any longer, but instead took another step backward, nearly to the small mountain of bricks that had once been the entrance point to …
“Diagon Alley, but a place like this, nah, you wouldn’t know,” he stepped closer, knowing that her next motion to withdraw wouldn’t be so steady, “not a muggle like yourself.”
The word didn’t register; he didn’t expect it would. But the way this woman remained steadfast, as calculated in her next move as he was in his, he was intrigued.
Scabior hadn’t been out of Azkaban for long, but long enough to have landed himself on a crew that would find itself in good favor with the new regime. He had heard rumors that infiltration of the Ministry was imminent, and that their work would thus soon begin. These “odd jobs” capturing certain individuals – Ollivander now being scratched off the list – was a good way to make a few galleons before the real work commenced.
So it was of conflict to now stand before a muggle – not a muggleborn witch, not even a muggle accompanied by someone of magic – but a muggle who had found her way accidentally, through wards, charms, protection spells, and a thousand years of presumed undetectable isolation, into the magical world.
“What to do,” he mused rhetorically when it seemed they were at an impasse. The easiest route would be to obliviate this innocent passerby, but it stood to reason that if she could discover this treasured, millenia-old secret of their existence, then others could too. He wasn’t worried by that possibility in so much as he wondered how much knowledge of it was worth.
And she was the perfect piece of evidence to this newfound conundrum.
“Seeing as I’ve no where right to be just now,” said as he knew his words would jumpstart her thinking – he sussed out she was marginally intelligent, for a muggle. “I think I’d like to get to know you better, love.”
Alison carefully took another step, now onto the precarious façade of the brick heap behind her, then in a feigned jerk to the right, launched off towards the left where she reached for one of the broomsticks in the wood-planked barrel.
Scabior was momentarily fooled, and impressed, but when he turned around to find the bushy end of an old Shooting Star riding broom poised to hit him in the face, he huffed and angled out of the way of her side-sweep.
“Careful now, you might actually do something,” he warned, the right edge of his lips tugging into a looming grin as his stubble-lined jaw squared slightly forward in wait. His hands raised in faux surrender, though he still wielded his wand, pinched to his right palm by his thumb.
Alison had already gone through the customary laundry list of explanations: concussion-induced hysteria and delusion, a Shakespearean performance gone off the rails (and yet with unheard of production value), or she was in fact knocked out on the floor and this was not currently transpiring at all.
Holding firm the broom between them, a makeshift if not practical weapon to keep him at bay for at least a few seconds, Alison could feel the thrumming in her throat start to dissipate. All the adrenaline-pumping excitement of the last fifteen minutes was starting to disperse, which allowed for two thoughts to surface: one new, one ignored.
He was oddly attractive, and she still had to pee.
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Other Magic