Oh, look. Another disclaimer. Just so you know. THIS IS NOT A FUCKING HARRY POTTER FIC. It takes place in the Wizarding World invented by J.K. Rowling, but I will never, ever use Harry Potter. This is an entirely original plotline, it just takes liberties with Ms. Rowling's world. Okay? *grumpy Saa*

"Simple Lines"

Crystalline eyes, the color of an ice storm, something lighter than blue and more vibrant than grey, rested calmly on the plate just beneath her nose.

What, exactly, Alita Therin was concentrating on was of little consequence. What it was about to become, though, meant everything.

A soft hum, musically inclined, and the bean unfolded it's wings, violent red, and took flight - bean to butterfly.

She found it more pleasing than the actual assignment - growing a beanstalk with nothing more than magic and the seed was utterly dull. Instead, she had found lines of magic to transfigure and charm the thing into something entirely new - a bean that, instead of flowering, gave forth a work of art.

"Charming."

The voice just behind startled her only a little, that perfectly angled visage rising, glacier meeting azure and warming within a heartbeat. Everything else, of course, kept the kittenishly vague posture, aloof, distanced from the bustle all around. She was a diamond in the coals, untouched by any heat or hurry.

"Chance." Obvious purring pleasure in her tone, the none-too-subtle shift over, and the allowance of this lavender-scented presence into her personal space was immediate. Alita was a sociable creature by nature, yes, one in her line of business had to be; but Chance Lafayette was allowed privileges that few others were granted. In fact, she could count on one hand the people that she never lied to. Admittedly, she concealed several things from them all, but those were… distinct. Quite personal, really.

Their conversation, the substance of which was unimportant, flowed easily and with absolute grace, as one would expect of the aristocrats. Both parties were involved, teasing and almost battling with words, subtle games played by the rich an practiced with those who knew.

It ended with a kiss, chaste and timed perfectly, and the gentle sway of slim hips as she walked out the door.

There were, of course, some things that Alita tended to each and every day. The quiet conversations on the compact cell phone, conducted in corners and deserted hallways, the careful watch for packages delivered directly to her bed, the inventories, the fraternizing with customers.

One wondered when she had time for personal relations.

Early in the year, though, everything was simple, easy. The sun rose in the east, followed that simple line across the sky, to set in the west.

There would come a time, yes, when such things were a luxury, when a moment of peace and companionship were treasures.

But now, all was, for lack of a more proper term, perfect.

It began with a request - simple, as most are, and straightforward.

They met in one of the Prefect's bathrooms - lush, luxurious like the common room bathrooms were not. Chance was a Prefect, mind, so this wasn't against the rules… in theory.

"How much do you want?" Her voice was neutral, crystal shifting up to rest on his lengthier figure, catlike against the countertop. He was more than a foot taller than she, but her presence exuded a certain authority that none could match - not even Chance Lafayette.

"Half a gram should do it." He managed to match her nonchalance, watching as delicate fingers unwrapped the tiny package, a razorblade finding its way between the pads of those talented digits. Halved with the utmost care, the sticky black substance was repackaged and settled into a lacquered box just beside a custom-tailored syringe. A rabbit marked each package and instrument, the symbol known throughout the school as quality.

The package exchanged hands with a faint tap, and bank notes were placed carefully in the lining of one vinyl boot.

That could have been the end of it, had the girl been entirely proper.

Impropriety ran in her mother's bloodline.

The soft rustle of cloth was loud in the bathroom, the buzz of a zipper perfectly audible, and the soft padding of bare feet almost musical.

"Well. Are you going to stand there and stare, or are you going to join me?"

If she had known exactly what the consequences of that first afternoon would be, she might have left.

But if life were that simple, well, no-one would care, would they?

Comfort was found in the meeting of slick flesh, the embrace of a pair that was more than friends. A bit risqué, of course, but neither Alita nor Chance were the type to complain. And, in all honesty, nothing happened beyond the press of skin, the play of words, and a few kisses that were less than chaste.

Disappointment? Perhaps, yes, but at the time, it had been more important than sex, the exchange of two whose vocabularies were not to be scoffed at.

What really mattered was that both left happy.

Alita would look back on that time while sitting high in a tree, and realize that she should not have taken off her clothes. Perhaps if she had left after selling Chance his drugs, she'd have been spared all the heartbreak.

On the other hand, there were numerous incidents that led up to the crux of the year, and there was always the hand of God, Fate, whatever one believed in.

We can't help but kick ourselves, though, and self-blame was one of those things Alita loved. Cigarettes, booze, sex, and guilt trips let a girl thrive.

A girl like Alita, anyway.