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
- 7
- 8
- 9
Author's Note: I am taking liberties with the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy and the catalysts for it coming to be.
For stretches of easily twelve hours at a time, Scabior left the woman unguarded in his flat; keeping her company was lowest on his growing list of concerns since taking her several days ago. In retrospect, he should have left well enough alone. Had he obliviated her right then, he wouldn’t have uncovered what was slowly brewing into a masterful plan – but then again, he would have been as well off with his employment with the Dark Lord, and ignorance might have been preferred.
In between reconnaissance of the entry points of the Ministry – they had moles stationed at every level of government, but even they couldn’t be absolutely trusted – and smuggle runs of illegal herbs, Scabior had plenty to keep himself occupied, but eventually he’d have to go back and confront the muggle.
Find out how she broke through the veil, give her to the Dark Lord, collect your reward, sail off into the sunset debt free.
Because it wasn’t just a lapse in their world’s defenses. Every witch and wizard was told as a child the story of how their world was so well guarded from ever being discovered by the non-magical population. Even he, a wizard who had fallen off the path of pureblood peerage in pursuit of peccant practices, had a doting mother who regaled him when he wasn’t more than seven years old with the nighttime story of the oldest magic in the world.
“Long ago, in the time of Myrrdin, we and the mugglefolk lived together in harmony. We were thought of as healers, and in times of need prayed to for appeasement of rain or drought, famine or disease. It is believed that we even bred with them, for they were seen as the stewards of the earth, and we the keepers of the sky.
Among them there lived the King of Britons, a noble man who courted a plain, Christian maiden of peasant birth. The king’s sister, Morgen of the Fae, knew their union would cause ruin and despair, for she foresaw her brother’s bride to be deceptive and libertine, and would not only break her brother’s heart, but would bring about the end of his reign.
Years passed and as it was prophecied, turmoil befell the land. Converted to the monotheistic faith of their new queen, men and women of the kingdom no longer prayed to the Faefolk, and soon our conjurings were seen as the harbingers of evil. On the eve of war, Morgen pleaded with her brother to see reason, but it was too late. He had been enchanted by other magic, the kind that torments a man’s soul. He was in love.
Knowing that a war would end in death on both sides, his met by spell, hers met with iron, Morgen crafted a spell that would protect the magicfolk from the war to ensue – a ward of such immeasurable might that it could never be broken. But in casting it, she also knew she’d never see her brother again.
And so it was through her sacrifice that the great divide of our worlds began. As the sun rose across the battlefield, the Fae disappeared from sight and from memory. We would remain in the magical world, and they in their muggle kingdom, forgetting of our existence forevermore. To this day, the mist of Avalon, the veil in which Morgen shrouded us in permanent secrecy, is the most powerful magic ever known. Through love it was cast, and there is nothing stronger.”
“Rubbish,” he kicked off from the hallway wall; he had been delaying his return, and so found himself in the poorly lit passage of the fourth floor corridor outside his flat for who knows how long. He jerked open the door, irritated by the fairytale grousing his brain, and slammed it shut behind him.
“Jesus Christ!”
Twelve hours at a time was a long stretch of nothing to do, not that she had much else waiting for her when he came back. Their exchanges were limited to “here’s food,” and “no, you can’t leave yet.” He had no interest in getting to know her nor she him. He never stayed longer than half an hour, so she assumed he slept elsewhere.
This unspoken agreement of space afforded her liberties with his flat after the initial anxiety of captivity wore off. This her third day, it was finally time to concede that she was as filthy as his abode. Long, limp strands of her curly hair lay lifeless upon her shoulders, and having worn the same clothes, she was partially worried her smell was what was keeping him from longer stays.
“Not that I care,” she asserted to herself as she tore off her draped, light-weight jacket and threw it, her camisole, and her jeans onto the bed. She hurried into the small bathroom next to the kitchen, now accustomed to his popping in whenever he pleased, and quickly shut the door. She continued undressing, her black bra and panties being flung atop the toilet tank, then reached for and turned the faucet to release the flow of slowly warming water. She was grateful that some things were the same, no matter what world one lived in. As soon as the water was suitably hot, she climbed in, not even that disgusted by the decades’ old grime permanently stained on the porcelain bottom.
The water pressure was surprisingly divine – not even her hotel had it this good. She looked around for soap, and seeing none, peeked around the browning curtain for anything she might have missed. The pedestal sink was bare, and there was no mirror or medicine cabinet. “That explains why he looks dirty as fuck,” she sighed.
Hot water would have to do. She scrubbed as best she could with her nails and palms, getting to everywhere she could, as well as a decent tussle of her hair at the scalp. Had there been a mirror, it would have been quite fogged by the time she turned off the water and stepped out – to realize there was just a sad navy square of fabric, hardly earning the designation of wash cloth, hanging on the rung where toilet paper ought to have been.
Dripping all over the tile, Alison snatched the cloth and dabbed it all over, patting dry her arms, legs, between her thighs, and breasts. She glanced at her discarded bra and panties and frowned. The last thing she wanted to do after getting sufficiently clean was throw on dirty underwear. Flicking the faucet at the sink, she tossed in both pieces and started to pull, brush, and soak her delicates the olf-fashioned way.
“I could use some magic right about now,” she shook her head, but couldn’t deny the irony that made her smile. Less than a week ago she knew nothing of its existence except for in fables and film, and now she was sad not to have it at her disposal. She imagined life for this man was a lot easier – there had to be spells for doing laundry, cooking, maybe even bathing. “Guess he doesn’t know any of them. I was abducted by the shittiest wizard.”
Once rung out of excess water, she flung the articles of clothing across the top of the shower rod to dry. Reclaiming the wash cloth, she redoubled her efforts on towel-drying her hair, starting at the ends and squeezing out the moisture.
Absently thinking, she opened the bathroom door – maybe she could use one of his t-shirts to dry off the rest of the way – just as the front door slammed shut. On instinct, the wash cloth went straight for the apex of her thighs, and her forearm flung across her breasts.
“Jesus Christ!”
Scabior, only a few seconds free of his deep thoughts, chuckled and shook his head. “Exactly, he’s to blame for all this.”
And by all this, he gestured to her naked form, though in truth he meant the dilemma they both found themselves in. Afterall, it was a Christian maiden’s betrayal that lay cause to there being two worlds in the first place.
Which, now that he thought about it, was more troublesome than he cared to admit. If not for the mist, there’d be no purebloods or muggles. By now, we’d be …
Scabior was not the sort to worry over worldwide implications. Right now, he’d rather focus on the fact that she was still standing there, naked and wet, and at no point was he revolted by any of this.
She backed away, thoroughly aware that turning around would reveal her backside to him. Embarassment reigned above fear. Aside from being held against her will, he had given her no reason to fear him. Harm was restricted to the crappy food he dropped off once a day.
“Mind …?” she didn’t know – mind closing your eyes, looking away, leaving?
“Oh, right.” He unearthed his wand and flicked. The wash cloth still nervously held against her groin fluttered in size, expanding in her hand until it was a bathsheet, the terricloth texture soft between her fingers. Had this been day-one, she would have gasped in shock, but like a true magical veteran, she just smiled in elation and lifted the towel around her, carefully wrapping in such a way that no prying eyes had a chance.
“I figured, seeing as there is no end in sight between us,” she began just as the towel end came tucked beneath her arm, “that one of us should clean up.”
At this he huffed, and with a muttered Scourgify, whatever layer of mud, grit, and grunge had settled into his hair, pores, and clothes was immaculately eradicated, revealing to her a still life-worn man, but unadmittedly, staggeringly improved.
“Better?”
“Seriously, man,” Alison headed for the bed where she left her jeans, camisole, and jacket – she collected them in both hands and shook them in front of her. “You have the power to decimate, you can disappear in the blink of an eye, you can do whatever you want, and you couldn’t clean my clothes?”
“Scourgify,” he seemed bored in its utterance, but the fact that she was visibly in awe – her smile originating from the simplest magic – had him actually wondering why he didn’t find it as equally amazing. Most wizardry was as prosaic to him as the marvels of toothpaste were to muggles. No wonder we think them inferior.
It was a sobering thought, another one of many now infiltrating his assumptions about muggles. It was annoying.
“There will be an end, love,” he grabbed at the back of his sole kitchen chair and pulled it around so that he could settle and lean forward against its back, a keen eye maintained on her as she folded the clothes neatly.
“But let’s get back to the beginning, shall we?”
“I told you, I don’t know how I ended up in that damn pub,” she exhaled, the rise and fall of her chest was all of a sudden a noticeable point of interest for him now that the crest peeked through the towel, no longer concealed by clothes.
“I meant your name. I never got it.”
“Ah, my name,” she stalled; she had hours of contemplation to prepare for this moment, and yet still she was unsure of whether a lie or her continued honesty would best serve her, or better yet, impede him. She was no better off knowing what his plan was – all she knew was he wanted to figure out how she was even here.
The awkward silence had lasted too long, he was certain to grow suspect, so without actually making up her mind, she blurted, “Rachel.”
Rachel was the most popular character on the most popular television series. Alison wanted to murder herself. But the look of satisfaction on his face quelled her panic. She lowered onto the bed next to her folded pile of freshly clean clothes.
“A pleasure, Rachel. Now get dressed, it’s time to go,” he hopped off the chair.
“Go? What do you mean go?”
“It’s time for some answers, and as neither one of us knows shite, we need to ask someone else.”
Alison hesitantly rose, holding the bath towel in place against her front with crossed arms. “Who?”
Scabior angled about the chair in his approach, not ceasing until he was directly before her. He knew it made her nervous, and with him for all intents and purposes unsoiled, he could tell his unmasked scent was a bit distracting. She nearly fell back, but managed to steady herself with one hand reaching for the mattress behind her, the other demurely clutching at the towel.
He smiled at that.
“My mum.”
- 7
- 8
- 9
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Other Magic