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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“Is it true muggles are flatulant as a way to stay warm?” he asked from the other side of the bathroom door. He was leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed and one booted foot hooked over the other. It was his third muggle-related question in as many minutes, and understandably this latest one finally warranted a stir from the other side.
Alison threw open the door, just shy of causing him to fall, and glared angrily at her would-be captor. He smiled, “Done, then?” He pulled her forward by the curve of her shoulder and led her out of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and back into the alleyway.
True it was that Scabior knew next to nothing about muggles – just that they were inferior, in general of lesser intellect, and considered a different species altogether. So while his questions were juvenile, they originated from genuine curiosity.
Alison, at last relieved from her immediate urgency, was less than amused, and hadn’t said more than a word to him since they agreed it was mutually beneficial to give up the broom and do as he said. It took more than some pleasantries, though, to get to where they were.
“Was that a spell you did back there?” she finally spoke up amidst his continued, forced direction down the uneven path. It felt like forever since the silence had become conspicuously unbreachable.
But nothing could have been as awkward as when just a few minutes ago he lowered his raised hands to dispense an incarcerous spell at her, the broom in her clutches dropping, and in the same fluid maneuver landing her bound and defenseless in his arms.
In her awe, both of feeling the tightening invisible ropes around her and his instinct to catch her, she had taken in for the first time the landscape of who he was, so close and inescapable that it was hard not to look.
He was weathered – a few years older, but impossibly more worldly than she was. Whatever life had dealt him, it seemed to have left a stain on his incessant scowl, and yet his swift acts were contrary, more in line with a man who cared too deeply despite his circumstances. The rugged, rock star countenance did little to set her imagination at ease as to the kind of man he was, and while that danger was at best a fleeting thrill for a woman like her, if he was lucky this would be an international incident the American Embassy was surely already on top of.
“Best to shut it again, no?” he nodded when he noticed she was looking at him, to spark her quick agreement but also to gesture her attention forward to where they were heading: down jagged steps of a place branded by sign as Knockturn Alley.
Her study of the last few minutes ceased when the dark, dank murkiness of the narrow corridor swallowed them. Though he had his fingers wrapped around her elbow to keep her from running, it did nothing to steady her when out from around the corner a cloaked figure emerged. Whoever it was, he seemed to know Scabior, for there was a muted exchange of looks, followed by the stranger’s gutteral snort in her direction.
Scabior’s fingers tightened, his dirt-crusted nails digging into her arm. “Selwyn,” he acknowledged. The subsequent linger of the man as he stepped passed them felt encroaching.
“Be done with her quickly, He is expecting us,” said close enough for her to wince as the stench of an unrecognizable coldness permeated the air. That seemed to placate the man, knowing she was afraid, and so he continued down the passageway.
A few moments passed in stillness, and when she was sure they were alone – though how sure of anything could she be anymore? – she rounded on him, the pain of him trying to hold her down ignored.
“What the hell is going on?” she harshly whispered. It was a question posed to a man she for some inexplicable reason trusted enough to not kill her for demanding answers. She desired the opportunity for an interrogation, his or hers, where they could both explain themselves. But “being done with quickly” aroused in her an unsettling thought or two that needed to be tempered by his forthright response.
He just looked at her. The original plan of holing her up in his run-down flat until he could make some inquiries was the best he had, but the time table was quickly shrinking.
“Sorry love, we won’t have time for chit chat tonight,” and without warning, his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her against him, inciting a breathy gasp that, under different circumstances, he would have teased her about. Instead, with a subdued grin, he disapparated, she side-long with him.
What would have been another fifteen minutes’ walk had been condensed into a pop within space and a rush of air returning to her lungs. Anticipating the discomfort his nonmagical marvel would be feeling, he lessened his hold on her and guided her backward into the room they now found themselves in. With one hand still wrapped around her, the other reached for and tugged forward on the strap that led to his spring-loaded murphy bed. He was careful to guide her back with him as he lowered the contraption to the floor. Only then did he finally release her, and let her own distress lead her down onto the mattress.
“Lovely, well, as tempting as …,” he couldn’t bring himself to strike up an innuendo-laden remark, and this bothered him. He didn’t have much time – the others were expecting him – and with the sun no longer visible through the grime-smudged window, he had to hastily make the best of this unforeseen predicament.
“No sense in trying to escape, the whole flat is warded,” he paused. She was looking up at him, and by the clarity in her stalwart stare the nausea had already passed, or nearly so. “Which means you are magically held here until I say differently, understand?”
Enough folklore and popular culture had prepared Alison for the foundation of what she was now faced with. She took a deep breath then nodded.
“Can’t say there is food in the fridge, but uh, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” For some reason he felt the need to add that reassurance, as if in not doing so he was appearing to be a rude kidnapper, and that somehow mattered. He’d need to get this behavior out of his system before his real snatching job began.
And so it was by design that before she could speak, he disapparated once again, leaving her to glance around at the poorly-lit, scarcely furnished, filthy one-room apartment.
“Fuck.”
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