Hogwarts School - Elsewhere

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Her hip pressed into the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, the slit of her dress hiking up her thigh exposing soft skin. Alice smoothed the red silk that adorned her curves; call it her work uniform, a reminder to these pitiful men that she bathed in money and elegance, and that their power was a joke compared to the influence she had in the criminal underworld.

”That all twenty vials?”

“Need me to count for you, big boy?” she drawled lowly, eyes admiring freshly manicured nails.

In the corner of her eye, he bristled. ”And these’ll work?”

Light eyes flickered up to meet the man whose flush was apparent even in the dimly light storage room. Her head tilted, golden waves covering one eye. “Are you doubting my capabilities?” her smooth smoky voice asked, betraying the sharpness in her gaze.

The boy—and really that was what he was, a boy—shriveled. ”N-No, ‘mam. The boss was just—“ he gulped. Paused, continued, “The boss’ll be happy,” he stammered, dropping a bag that sounded heavy from the sound it made on the counter.

She hummed. “Tell Howard I miss him, will you?”

She stepped towards him, and she could hear his heart race in the distance she swallowed between them. Her mouth quirked up, kind and loving as her knuckles traced his cheek, running down to his lips and stopping at his chin. She could feel him press into her touch, his eyes glazing, spine curling to get closer.

“And tell him next time he questions my skills—” Suddenly, her claws sunk in his jaw, enough to leave half-crescent moons on his skin. The sweet illusion on her lips faded leaving viciousness to take its place. “I’ll feed his potions to his messenger boys.”

The boy’s face blanched, infatuation completely smothered by her threat. In a haste, he dashed out the stockroom, causing a low chuckle to tickle the back of her throat. Grabbing her wins, Alice walked to the front of her closed shop just as the front door opened.

Well, someone looked like shit.

In a quick calculated glance, her eyes assessed the woman’s clothes and composure. Pathetic street rats always came crawling when in need and she didn’t seem any different than the others who would get on their knees and beg for any kind of work or product she could give them.

But there was always a price, and she wondered, looking at this miserable excuse of a woman before her—they had their stench, these lowly people, and she felt it permeate the air—if she could afford whatever she came asking Alice Swan.

(They rarely could; now that was the fun part.)

Her heels clicked against the floor as she rounded the counter and leaned back against it. Predatory eyes latched onto her prey.

“Name your vice.”