#bewitched elf | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fatecanberewritten-writer · 1 year

Text

Bewitched | Chapter Four: Magic

Stars Series | Bewitched

For some reason, what Narcissa took notice of in that situation was the fact that she could see her breath. It was like a cold, bitter goodbye to summer. A cold, bitter goodbye to a lot of things.

“What d’you mean, you know about magic already?”

She could also see the breath of the wandless woman standing before her. Her blue eyes still wide and fixed on Narcissa, the woman opened her mouth, but didn’t seem to know what to say. Narcissa gripped the wand held at her side more tightly.

The empty sound of rain was suddenly broken by loud voices approaching the alley. In her fright, Narcissa grabbed the woman, put her hand over her mouth in case she decided to make any noises, and Disapparated the two of them to a rooftop on the other side of the street.

Crouching behind the walled edge of the rooftop, she carefully peered down onto the street. She let out a breath of relief as she saw only the four rowdy men from Young Buck’s loudly walking through the rain. She felt herself relax, but then she felt how tense the woman she was holding was, and how fearful her eyes now looked as she met them. Slowly, she removed her hand from her mouth.

“Sorry,” Narcissa breathed. She figured she’d have to obliviate her now anyway, even if she had somehow known about magic.

Petunia Evans seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. “Please don’t obliviate me,” she pleaded. “I really do know about magic - my sister’s a witch.”

For a while, the two only stared at each other, neither having any clue of what to do next. Finally, Narcissa scrunched her eyes closed, let out a heavy sigh, and fell back, sitting with her back pressed against the walled edge of the roof next to Petunia. Petunia let out the breath she had been holding.

Eyes still closed, Narcissa swirled her wand, and Petunia watched in amazement as a clear, shimmering, force-field-like magic formed around the small space the two of them took up, shielding them from the rain. Curiously, she inched her fingertips towards it - daring to touch it, yet still afraid to. As she got closer and closer to it, the air seemed warmer, and the molecules around it seemed to hum. She brought her hand back quickly as she heard the blonde woman scoff.

“If you ‘know about magic already,’ why are you looking like this is the first time you’ve seen it?” Narcissa in a tired voice, though there was still a bit of harshness in it.

Petunia’s eyes were doe-like when she looked at Narcissa. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen it,” she said. “My sister’s still in school, and she can’t use magic outside of it. Something about your laws - ”

Narcissa sighed, catching on. “Ah, yes, underage magic. I forgot how serious that can be if you’re around Muggles.” She took another deep breath, looking back down at the street momentarily before she finally turned back to the Muggle, giving her a haughty look. “So you’re a Mudblood’s sister?”

Petunia’s eyes narrowed a bit, recognizing the term. “I don’t think they like to be called that.”

Narcissa shrugged. “It’s what they are,” she said casually. “They’ve got dirty blood.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Petunia’s face was getting hot, “neither my sister nor I have ‘dirty blood.’”

“Magic is pure,” the witch cut in coldly. She spoke these words as if she was just stating facts. “Those without magic, or those who come from people without magic, are not pure. Now tell me, what would you consider to be the opposite of pure?”

“That’s rich, coming from somebody who’s apparently making her family the laughing stock of Pureblood society,” Petunia angrily snapped.

Narcissa’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing at the Muggle. “Eavesdropping on me, were you?” she hissed. “You’re not giving a very good representation of your kind.”

“Neither are you,” growled Petunia, glaring back. Her eyes widened again, her face paling, as she watched the woman swiftly take out her wand.

“You be careful now,” Narcissa warned, “I can do a lot worse than obliviating you.”

Petunia was silent as she stared at the end of the witch’s dark-wooded wand, a wand that was much more intricate, much more regal-looking than Lily’s. As she watched it, her fear slowly ebbed away, and she carefully looked back up at Narcissa with a daring gleam in her eye. “You’re not going to do anything,” she challenged.

Narcissa’s grip tightened on her wand. “Oh yeah?” she responded, trying to hide the shakiness of her voice. “What makes you so sure?”

“You would’ve done it already,” Petunia answered matter-of-factly, a small smirk across her lips. “A witch like you coming across a Muggle like me? You wouldn’t’ve brought me up here with you. You wouldn’t’ve even lowered your wand. If you were like the rest of them, you’d’ve obliviated me, or worse, right then and there. You’re not like them. You’re not a - ” she paused for a moment, trying to remember the term her sister had told her just this last summer - “you’re not a Death Eater.”

Narcissa was silent, utterly transfixed by this woman and her observations. She knew about magic, alright - a lot more than more than what she figured the sister of a Mudblood would. She was daring, a bit reckless, and definitely over-confident, but more than anything, she was brave. Somehow, this Muggle saw right through her, and Narcissa couldn’t deny the comforting feeling that came with her last musing. You’re not a Death Eater.

She didn’t know when she had put down her wand, but she quickly took notice of the cocky look on the Muggle’s face. She could practically hear her saying check mate. “Alright,” Narcissa gave in, “you’re right about that, I’m not a Death Eater - ” the smug look on the brunette’s face only grew - “but don’t think I won’t still obliviate you. Might just do it ‘cause you’re annoying me.”

Petunia’s face instantly fell, and Narcissa smirked victoriously. The witch chuckled a bit, though it wasn’t dark or unsettling to Petunia. It was almost playful. She started to smile.

With a sudden crack, the moment was ruined.

Both girls nearly yelped at the sound, but the yelp threatened to turn to a horrified scream as Petunia saw what had appeared before them. Narcissa was quick with her wand, silencing the girl before she drew them too much attention.

“Litzy,” Narcissa said calmly, addressing the small, frantic House Elf that had joined them on the roof.

“Mistress Narcissa must hurry!” squeaked the Elf. “My Master and Mistress have returned! My mother can only stall them for so long! Mistress Narcissa must return home immediately!”

“Shit,” Narcissa cursed. She thought she’d have more time. She looked from Litzy to the wide-eyed woman beside her and tried to think quickly. Almost reluctantly, she removed the silencing charm from the woman.

“What the hell - ”

“Hush!” she ordered Petunia, and out of shock, Petunia obeyed. Narcissa turned back to the Elf. “Litzy, I want you to take this woman back down to the street.”

“Now hang on just a - ”

Narcissa ignored the Muggle as she tired to cut in. “This is a Muggle street, so you must stay out of sight. There is an alley halfway up the block - take her there.”

The Elf’s large, green eyes flickered over to the woman hesitantly. When she spoke next, it was reluctant, as if she feared punishment for it. “Is the woman a Muggle, Mistress?”

Swallowing, Narcissa looked at Petunia and said nothing.

“Would Mistress Narcissa like Litzy to modify the Muggle’s memory?”

“No!” shouted Petunia, and at the same time, with almost the same amount of fever -

“That won’t be necessary, Litzy.”

The young, nervous House Elf looked between the two women as they stared nervously at one another. She was reminded, very suddenly, of her disowned Mistress, the one she was forbidden to speak of, and the Mudblood that had ruined her.

As if knowing what Litzy was thinking, a wave of fear washed over Narcissa, and she sharply turned back to the Elf. “Litzy,” she started rabidly. “You are forbidden to speak of this to anyone. To anyone, do you understand?”

A fearful look in her eye, Litzy nodded.

“Now do as you’ve been ordered.”

Obediently, Litzy began to move towards Petunia, and Petunia cowered further against the wall, looking frantically at the witch. The magic protecting them from the rain disappeared. “Wait!” Petunia cried to Narcissa. She wasn’t just going to leave her with this thing, was she?

“It’s alright,” Narcissa soothed, placing a delicate hand on her shoulder. Petunia felt butterflies at her touch. “She has to do as I say,” she told her. “She’ll take care of you, but - but I have to go.”

Before Petunia got even the slightest chance to say anything more, Narcissa stood, and with no more than a crack, she was gone. The rain pouring down on her, Petunia stared at the spot the witch had last been, feeling her heart breaking as she realized she’d probably never see her again.

The Elf begrudgingly reached out to touch the girl, and with no warning at all, Petunia felt herself being pulled through the nothingness of space and landed roughly on the grimy, wet concrete of the alley. She felt sick, but whether it was from the alcohol, the magic, or the cold touch of the strangest creature she’d ever seen in her life, she wasn’t sure. She looked up into the glaring green eyes of the creatures called ‘Litzy’.

“Stay away from my Mistress,” growled the creature, and then she too, was gone.

#bewitched #stars series #fatecanberewritten #fatecanberewritten-writer #harry potter fanficion #marauders era fanfiction #marauders era #harry potter rarepairs #rarepairs #narcissa black x petunia evans #narcissa x petunia #narcissa black #petunia evans #oc: arthur baker #oc: roger james #oc: larry bryant #oc: terry taylor #oc: litzy the house elf

0 notes

siopaofrog · 2 months

Text

When There Was You (pt. 1) || Astarion x Fem!Tav

Those were the days, my friend We thought they'd never end We'd sing and dance forever and a day We'd live the life we choose We'd fight and never lose For we were young and sure to have our way… – Those Were the Days, Mary Hopkin

A gravestone is a curious thing.

You could engrave a name, a number — pinch an entire person, a lifetime — into a single slab of stone.

You could carve into it with a dagger, rewrite history, alter its meaning — just as Astarion Ancunín had done many, many moons ago.

You could, he thought. But none of it could spin a tale he told himself into truth. None of it could change fate, or death, or whatever the gods had planned for you.

None of it could bring you back.

The pale elf knew this, even as he knelt by this curious headstone, this thing that was supposed to be you. He knew this, and he hated it.

“Hello again, darling,” he whispered, and placed a single flower on the grass, just as you had done all those moons ago.

It was a glorious time, it was. Adventure. Antics. Heartache and admission. Lust and love. Real love. And warmth. Warmth, too.

He found himself smiling softly.

But more than anything — there was you.

Astarion had finally conquered his master, Cazador. He had finally, truly, found freedom — the freedom to do whatever he wanted, and to love whomever he wanted.

He had sliced his dagger into the crazed vampire lord, a dozen thrusts that ended with a final, soul-searing scream that sent you to his side at once. There you cradled him, he a blood soaked mess, spitting, sobbing into your neck. You held him like that for a long, long while. Hushing him gently, kissing his forehead, caressing his silver curls.

That night in Baldur’s Gate, he knew a display of his gravestone and the dark story that came with it would be morbid or trite to someone else — but you understood. Astarion finally allowed himself to want you, to love you, and you accepted him wholly for it. In fact, to his delight, you wanted him, too.

Five decades later, and here you were. Sitting in your own grave. But you did not crawl out, emerging from death caked in dirt and grime, as he once did.

It was cruel, he thought. Cruel that he was dead and yet not — undead, immortal, of a heart that did not beat. Yet yours did not beat either. Yet, you were the one buried beneath a mound of dirt.

“Your heart quickened just now,” you had whispered one night, as you rested your head upon his bare chest.

“Did it?” he mumbled, half asleep.

You hummed with your eyes closed. Your hand sweeping across his skin, up his collar. You felt the two little scars on his neck, brushing a thumb over them thoughtfully.

“You have a wild heart. Emotional, easy to read,” you said. “It is almost in tune with my own.”

He chuckled lowly, softly. “My darling, did Halsin set you up to this? This sounds like something he would…” Then, upon feeling your hand on his neck, your body atop his, and the seriousness of your words, he swallowed. “Tav.”

You pulled your hand away and perched yourself up, forearms resting on top of him. “Yes, love.”

His dark eyes watched yours for a time. “My body is cold and dead. I pretend to breathe so I may pass as an elf. I wear perfume to smell alive. Gods.”

“And what of it?” you said, unfazed. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t living.”

You sat up in the grass and took his hand, placing it on your chest. You placed your own on his.

“You don’t feel that? Those vibrations in your chest, our chests, in unison,” you said. “Soft… throbbing. Pulsing. A wave of it just rippled under your skin.”

“That might not be my chest, darling,” he said, and you hit him lightly for the jest.

“I just want you to know you aren’t simply undead, Astarion. You are very much living, thriving. You are not… a monster.”

The vampire spawn blinked at you then. Enamored. Bewitched, really. Even as his lust for blood (yours, particularly) swelled in recent times, he might agree for a moment that he was in fact not a monster. He didn’t want to believe it, anyway. Not anymore.

It’s cruel, he now spat in his head, staring down at your tombstone with a bitterness that clung to his clenched hands and gritted teeth.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” a high, pinched voice echoed behind him.

“My gods,” said Astarion, glancing over his shoulder, “you are an old man and you still sound as smarmy as ever.”

“You wound me, old friend.” Gale ambled towards the pale elf, a good-natured smile on his lips. “I’ve never been smarmy to you. Not ever.”

The elf stood up and the two hugged, a lifetime of battles and camaraderie etched in their brows as they parted and looked at one another. The wizard now had silver hair neatly slicked back, a long wiry beard, and a staff he used more like a cane.

“My, you did get old,” Astarion said with a smirk.

“Ha! And you haven’t changed a bit.”

The elf placed a hand on his chin, nodding. “I see you finally decided to try silver on your head. Rather dashing, dare I say.”

Gale laughed, but he was staring at your grave now, the sparkle in his eyes suddenly subsiding. He was old, to be sure, but he was still sharp and clear-minded. He saw the loss in the elf’s eyes. He has known his own loss, too. You were not his lover, but his adoration and admiration for you knew no bounds.

“Ah… What a warrior she was.”

“Yes. And so much more.”

“You’ll never get over her, will you?” Gale asked, and he meant it in kindness.

“Well. Evidently not,” Astarion said lightheartedly.

Many of their companions had either fled to make a new living, or died in battle, or were simply never to be seen again. For all of their jests, all the boring wizardry and debates and banter — Astarion appreciated Gale. He would never tell the man that, of course, but he was sure Gale could see it nonetheless.

The elf was teary-eyed, for gods sake.

“I never did ask… How did you and Tav meet?”

Astarion grinned. “Once upon a time, in a little tavern, of all places. She tried to kill me upon our meeting, actually.”

“Fascinating. I didn’t take you for a vampire pining for the one in a drunken haze.”

“I didn’t. We were sober. Too sober for that crowd, I might add. And she was…” He didn’t realize it. He had far too many things to say about you, far too many compliments, fondness and feelings straight from romantic literature.

“Unlike anything you’ve seen before.”

“Yes,” the elf said, settling for that. He pressed his lips together, licked his teeth in thought. He felt the wizard’s eye on him.

“Well now I must know, Astarion.” Gale knelt by the grave, placed a hand on it. Ran his fingers across the cool stone.

The elf raised a brow.

“How would you like to see her again?”

#baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion x reader #baldur’s gate fanfiction #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate tav #astarion x you #fanfic #baldur's gate 3

82 notes · View notes