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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Author’s Note: This will be my last chapter for the weekend. Back to work in the morrow! As earlier noted, this is my first story so I know there are rough edges, but I hope it’s been thus far enjoyable. I promise in my next writing marathon there will be graphic material. Onward!
Not far from Diagon Alley, about two and half miles in fact, stood the former Imperial Chemical Industries building – as of a few years ago, it was now headquarters to the United Kingdom’s Security Service, or MI5. An impressive neoclassical structure, Thames House as it was called served as the seat of counter-terrorism and espionage within the country.
The Prime Minister had become a frequent visitor – he considered this an unfortunate outcome of a catastrophic term of service – so once again, he left Downing Street, bypassed Parliament, and went straight to the hub of their intelligence agency. He, along with his new secretary, Kingsley Shacklebolt.
It was there, on the flat rooftop, that they were greeted with the high, whirling winds of rotating blades as the helicopter touched down on the helipad, guided in by one of the staff in a reflective, red vest.
“You should know,” the Prime Minister shouted to Shacklebolt at his side, the loud thrum of the helicopter’s rotors and gusts making it difficult to hear, let alone stand as the aircraft made its landing. “I don’t care for this man.”
Shacklebolt grinned but said nothing. Three men emerged from the helicopter just as the blades began to slow, but still each in their suits made sure to hold onto the button securing their jacket closed. The Prime Minister and who was now his magical advisor approached to meet them half-way, extending their hands in formal salutation.
“Gentlemen, I see your flight from Heathrow was quick, I imagine you’d like to get down to business,” he said to them all, but it was the man shaking his hand that had his attention.
“Thank you, Prime Minister. I realize this is a matter for my State department to handle, but …”
“No need to explain, Senator Hayes. I understand this is personal. You were right to have the President call me, and I assure you we are doing everything we can to locate your daughter and return her safely.”
The American he addressed looked weary but relieved. In his early sixties, Richard Hayes had the lines and grey hair expected of him, but there was strength in his build, never lost from his school days, which made him a formidable presence even amidst those half his age. He was by many in his party considered to be their candidate for the next presidential election.
The gravitas in his voice indicated he knew it. “Good. Then you understand I have with me additional assurance. Mr. Petnum here is one of our finest,” he indicated to his right a man in his mid-thirties with an expression and stance irrefutably martial. “And Mr. Quann,” he then gestured to his left, the Asian-American man tipping his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. “He’s here for … special reasons, or so I am told.”
The Prime Minister smiled to them both, but before he could introduce Kingsley, Shacklebolt cleared his throat, “We should move inside, it’s about to rain.”
The men headed down the stairs leading from the roof just as a deluge dropped upon the city. “Good call, Kingsley,” the Prime Minister remarked as they stepped out into the hall lined in offices. “We will be …”
“Mr. Quann and I will meet you after you debrief the Senator,” Shacklebolt finished, and with a slow eye crooked to the American agent, the Prime Minister conceded and turned to lead the other two to the large conference room at the end of the corridor.
Once alone, they headed in the opposite direction, Shacklebolt’s hidden wand casting a silencing spell around them so as to prevent being overhead. “The senator’s daughter found the barrier.”
“What? I didn’t think that was possible. No no-maj has ever entered our world unaccompanied. Are you sure that’s what happened?”
“Witnesses corroborated at the scene. Shortly before the Deatheaters blew open the door to our concealed entrypoint, she entered on her own. Tom, the barman at the Cauldron, said she was looking for the lavatory. In the madness, another wizard confirmed he saw her being taken into Diagon Alley.”
“Taken? Someone took her?”
“Not yet identified, but someone in league with the Dark Lord’s followers. He was seen conversing with them moments before they abducted the wandmaker.”
“Then should we assume He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is aware of her?”
“Uncertain. If He was aware, all manner of devastation would be overtaking Britain, and it wouldn’t be stopping there.”
Mr. Quann nodded solemnly. They had reached the end of the hall. Kingsley reached for the door, and with two quick twists of the brass knob and a tap of his wand, it opened to the great hall of the Ministry of Magic.
“Once He learns that the mist is falling …”
Kingsley gestured for Mr. Quann to step inside the grand atrium, only to interrupt, “then nothing will stop Him from making our war … a world war.”
“What are you wearing? Is this how muggles dress?” he eyed her as they walked side by side up a set of outside steps, framed in manicured shrubbery and ivory flowers. The terraced house stood amongst a row of near mirror homes, each beautifully maintained and overlooking Holland Park in Kensington. Alison just stared at him, and then motioned to his sullied leather coat, beaten boots, and anachronistic buttoned waistcoat. She then settled on his plaid trousers.
“You’re kidding me, right? And why do you care?” She noticed he hadn’t knocked on the door yet. With clouds looming overhead, there was no earthly reason he was stalling, unless …
“Haven’t seen your mom in a while, have you?” That earned the expected response, and so while she smirked, he sneered, and then curtly rapped on the door.
A few moments later the door opened. She was several seconds delayed in looking down, but he was already glaring at the butlering house elf. “Master Scabior, I … the Lady Scabior is not expecting you.”
“I know that, Drazz. Should make for a fun reunion, no?” he shoved passed the short-statured creature. Alison’s jaw felt numb, but her shock was fleeting, as was the norm these days, and she abided once beckoned inward from where he stood in the warmly lit foyer.
“Rachel, wait here,” he moved, but her hand fell swiftly to his forearm to still him. It was his turn to appear surprised. “I’ll be right back,” he could tell that declaration wasn’t assuaging her fear of being left alone in yet another foreign, magical place.
He leaned down and toward her, eliminating the space their two heights upheld. “I promise, love.”
She let go, though by how slowly her hand relinquished its grasp he sensed it was with reluctance. That was new.
Also new was the fact that he forgot for a moment that she was a muggle, and that by bringing her here she was inherently in danger. Scabior didn’t come from a family of vehement Voldemort sympathizers, but neither were they a line of blood traitors by any definition. They had their pureblood prejudices, as shown in his own challenged beliefs about the woman standing beside him.
As Scabior disappeared into another room, the one called Drazz having already blinked away with a snap, Alison looked about the lovely home. It was not what she expected. Sure, there were moving portraits that at first notice made her heart leap into her throat, and nevermind the odd howl coming from somewhere in an upstairs bedroom, but that wasn’t what took her breath away.
This man – this scoundrel who was more at ease on the streets – came from an inviting, seemingly patrician home of privilege, status, and stability. “And I’ve been eating toast for three days.”
The staircase was the crowning achievement of the first floor. It greeted visitors at the end of the foyer and wound its four flights in wooden craftsmanship and grandeur, with a glass ceiling at the top to welcome her gaze in diminishing sunlight. The clouds from before were moving northward, and seconds later she heard the violent beat of thick rain drops on glass and rooftop.
As well as the violent outburst of shouts from the other room. Just as soon as she took a step in that direction, Scabior skidded across the hardwood floor, his wand raised and a look of mild irritation on his face.
“Now mum, I think,” smash went the vase of tea roses behind him, a disarming spell he dodged, only to arrive face to face with a wide-eyed Alison. “I really think you should give her a chance!”
Another air-piercing burst shot through the doorway, this time catching him on his shoulder. His free hand clenched his arm in pain, and she hurried to steady him with a press of palm to his chest and side.
“I will do no such thing!” Emerging from the parlour, a woman in dark crimson robes trained her wand upon him. Lady Scabior was much more in line with what Alison expected of the occupant of this house: dignified (except for injuring her son), well-dressed, and lovely with her deep chestnut tresses, a sliver of grey at its center, pinned high and neatly upon her head. She reminded Alison of Cinderella’s step-mother.
“You expect me, after a decade of your indiscretions and crime, to welcome in my home another one of your---oh.”
Her wand lowered and she looked perplexed, first at Scabior, then at Alison. “I wasn’t … I didn’t expect this.”
He had his back to her, preferring Alison’s gentle clench over tempting another hex thrown at him. He shifted just enough to look over his shoulder to the older woman, “Mum, this is Rachel, and yes, she’s a muggle.”
“Drazz,” Lady Scabior called and the house elf appeared. Alison couldn’t keep her eyes from darting from his mother, back to Scabior, and now to the mythological being.
“Tea.”
- 8
- 9
- 10
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Other Magic