Hogwarts School - Elsewhere

Malevolence and amusement intertwined, crashing into a dangerous tango that splayed across red painted lips. The corner of her mouth upturned the slightest, but it was her eyes with their cutting edge that held the violence that played across scarlet.

Laughable, honestly. Downright entertaining to witness this puny little thing scramble for courage and make a show for nothing. Her body followed its motor impulses as her soul withered away. Though it didn’t take Alice’s presence to do that; one look at stutters here and Alice could safely assert that the blonde held not one sliver of confidence.

But how sweet, truly, that she caught a whisper of it and held so firmly to it. Quite a sight to behold. She might have even applauded the girl for her effort.

Instead, Alice stepped closer.

“Very good at your job, are you?”

Another step.

“How foolish of me to doubt you. Quite the backbone you’ve got there.”

She loomed closer, invading her space, siphoning the one drop of bravery she’d managed to muster.

“Funny thing about it though. Spines—”

Limited space pushed the girl until her back hit the bar.

“—can—”

Alice hovered over, closer and closer, forcing the self-entitled barmaid to recoil awkwardly back onto the counter if she sought for space.

“—break.”

Piercing hues stayed firmly on the girl as she reached for the nearest bottle and pushed it off the counter, sending glass and liquid spread across the floor.

“Oops.”

The more the blonde spoke—stuttered, really, the thing barely capable of stringing letters together—the more the sharp angles of her face slacked, sinking into desperation.

“You’re a bartender but you’re not a drinker? What the hell are you doing here?”

Alice gave the bar another look, the disgust evident in her gaze. “Idiots truly are cheap labor,” she mused. Sharp green eyes landed on the child playing adult on the other side of her bar. Slowly, they followed her upper half not concealed behind the counter, noticing every rumple and fold in her clothing, the flat shade of her hair, the cracks in her mask. They dug into her hues as if breaking through her skull, fetching conserved secrets.

“Bet you don’t get any tips,” her voice was husky, the borders between insult and inappropriate blurring. “No wonder, have you even looked at yourself?”

She glanced upward at the menu and another wave of regret for even stepping foot into the establishment hit her. Sunday roast. Might as well advertise that every patron was family—gag.

She badly needed a drink.

Alice walked to the other side of the bar. “Move,” she ordered, swatting the air by the girl’s face. “Your misery is polluting my air.”

---

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.”