She grew up in a muggle orphanage. It's something that came out without her permission in her third year when some Slytherins announced it to the entire school before a big quidditch match to try and throw her off her game. It didn't work.
But her upbringing has rubbed off on her more than she'll ever admit. She does these little things that make your heart practically flip. Like sometimes when you're working late in the common room -you with books spread in front of you across every available surface and her curled up in a squashy armchair with books stacked precariously on the edge- she will get unreasonably and inexplicably mad at her quill.
She will pull a face at it, and toss it angrily into her bag, forcing the cork back into her ink pot which has been balanced carefully on her knee and throw that into her bag too. She will rummage around for a moment before producing a ballpoint pen and continuing to scrawl her essay out with that instead.
Tonight though, you aren't marveling at her writing habits. Rather you're watching critically from beside a pillar in the courtyard. It is snowing lightly and you're regretting not wearing a shawl or something, you had been petty when getting dressed for the Yule ball and you had wanted to show off your shoulders in your strapless gown.
Now you're cursing your stupidity because you're shivering in the snow.
But she's not shivering and her gown is strapless as well, it's a beautiful red that goes so well with her tan skin and her hair is in this braided bun updo that you know Raven must have done for her (she always braids everyone's hair before quidditch matches). She is sitting on a step at the edge of the courtyard so you can just see her profile as she brings a cigarette up to her lips and inhales. It's a move so graceful it doesn't match the sour smell of smoke you can catch from your position. But you smile nonetheless because it's your fifth year which means it's her sixth year which means she was barely of age when the tournament began and she had put her name in the goblet of fire.
You had been there at the front of the crowd watching skeptically as the rest of the Gryffindors cheered Lexa on when she crossed the age line and dropped her name in the goblet.
The champion selection was one of the most stressful evenings of your life, you had sat there in the great hall beside her, fingers crossed out of sight beneath the table praying that she wouldn't be chosen.
She wasn't. She is here with you safely ruining her lungs in the courtyard. This is the first time you've ever caught her smoking and it takes a minute for you to pull this term from the recesses of your mind- wizards don't smoke save for the occasional older man with his pipe.
She taps off some ash and you square your shoulders to walk over to her. You drop down beside her, smoothing out your skirt- the dark blue rests just beside the crimson of her gown.
"You're missing the party." You say.
"So are you." She counters with her damn thin smile. The teasing one that encompasses every wanting look and lingering touch you've been trading like playing cards the past five years.
"I'd rather be out here." You hedge thinking this will be it. Tonight you will lay everything on the table, you will cut through the game you've been playing and finally come clean.
She sizes you up, apparently sensing the turn this conversation is taking, "So would I."
You breath a slight sigh of relief, you had been ready for her to deflect any seriousness and diffuse the conversation like she is so good at.
You don't say anything further yet, afraid of scaring her off and erasing any progress you've made. She stubs out her cigarette on the stone step beside her.
She knots her fingers together, a nervous habit you've picked up on from countless quidditch matches, and final exam seasons. She stands and holds out her hand to pull you up. You allow it and when you're both righted, she doesn't drop your hand but uses it to lead you out of the courtyard. You walk hand in hand through the lightly falling snow until she has somehow led you to where the carriages have been parked and she leans against one.
You lean watching her while she watches her fingers linked with yours, you can hear the music drifting out of the great hall somewhere behind you but it is muted and soft.
"You agreed to go to the ball with Finn." She says so quietly you almost miss it.
"You went with Fred." You reply quickly.
She shoots you a look that says 'that's not the point' and you know it isn't, because Lee Jordan had been asking her for weeks and because you'd accidentally caught her one time fourth year in a hidden stairway with a girl from Ravenclaw so her going with one of the Weasleys really is not the point.
You wish it was.
"The person I really wanted to go with didn't ask me." You finally allow in a shy voice.
"Who did you want to go with?"
You drop your eyes to your hand still held in hers. You've learned by now exactly what her hands feel like, her soft-rough palms from grasping her broom, her hand is the perfect size to slid yours into.
You give her hand the slightest squeeze and it's all the answer she needs. Before you can process what's happening, she's moved. She presses her free hand to your hip, spinning you so your back is flush against the carriage, she steps into your space, your breath mingling while her hand moves up from your hip to cup your cheek. She looks into your eyes for a moment of hesitation and all it takes is a reassuring smile before her lips are on yours.
And suddenly every loaded glance, every prolonged silence, every late night conversation and private smile explodes in this moment of yes and soft and perfect.
The snow is still falling and you can see the flakes in her eyelashes when she pulls back far enough to shoot a quick glance around the courtyard full of carriages and use your still joined hands to urge you to climb into the one you had just been pressed up against.
You scramble in as quickly and ungracefully as you can manage and she follows. In an instant the door is shut and she is pursuing you again. You hardly have time to contemplate how five years of buildup has culminated in making out in the back of a carriage at the Yule ball, because her hands are on your waist and in your hair and her tongue is gentle against your lips and you are parting to allow her access.
She pulls away from the kiss only to encourages you to lay down on the bench and she maneuvers herself over you, painfully graceful in her gown and somehow her hair isn't at all messed up and her lipstick is hardly smudged and you're sure you must look like a mess but she is kissing down your neck and you can only process relief that you chose to forego a shawl that evening because her mouth on your bare collarbone is sinful.
You can't have been shut up in that carriage for more than ten minutes- Lexa's hands have hardly managed to stay in the same place for more than a few seconds at a time, she seems so eager now that she's been given permission to explore the territory just beyond the range of platonic that she's been confined to for the last five years- when the door is blasted open.
She shoots upright and her head snaps around to the intrusion behind her. You can't see who is in the doorway but you hear them clear as day when he says, "Out! Ten points from gryffindor Ms. Woods."
She guiltily untangles herself from you, a blush rising on her tan cheeks and you follow her out of the carriage to be confronted with none other than professor Snape. When his eyes land on you, they widen in surprise. He recovers quickly though, shaking his head. You swear you see a slight grin on his lips when he says , "That's ten points from Gryffindor for you as well Ms. Griffin."
"Yes sir." You murmur.
"Now I suggest you rejoin the party before I decide to add detention too."
Lexa's hand creeps into yours again and she pulls you away from the scene. She doesn't stop at the great hall, rather she leads you all the way up to the Gryffindor dormitory.
You share small laughs and smiles, and the entire way up her hand stays firmly in yours.
A/N- Thanks for reading/ reviewing. Lemme know what you thought!