Chapter Text
Vibrant green eyes flashed in alarm, their depths reflected by the water pooling beneath her irises. The girl's face was round with youth but her cheekbones and jawline were well defined, her skin olive-toned and her hair a mess of dark brown curls that spilled over her shoulders at their leisure. The soft hair at her temples was pulled back in intricate braids, giving the illusion that the rest wasn't tangled and dripping from the storm raging outside. She was small, really small, a couple inches shorter than Clarke, and despite the tears rolling off her long eyelashes and down her cheeks, she stood steady. She bit her lip hard, like she was trying to keep it from quivering, her hands balled into tight little fists at her sides. The girl with the green eyes lifted her chin defiantly and eyed Clarke with measured fear and distrust.
The sound of a door slamming startled them both, and Clarke looked up to the familiar form of Jake Griffin, much resembling a drowned rat as he brushed his sopping hair out of his eyes and shrugged off his coat. His warm gaze met hers and he smiled his smile that stretched the skin around his eyes and made Clarke feel like everything was going to be okay. He kicked off his muddied boots and approached the two girls carefully, kneeling down to eye level.
"Lexa," he spoke in a soft tone, addressing the other girl. "I know today has been really scary but I'd like it if you stayed here for awhile. Is that alright?"
The brunette shifted uncomfortably but Clarke could see some of the tension leave her shoulders at Jake's welcoming expression. She nodded silently in affirmation, her eyes more questioning now than fearful as she turned back to Clarke. She said nothing, though, just trudged up the stairs after Jake, fingers clutching the thin straps of her yellow backpack, damp socks leaving prints on the hardwood floor. Clarke stared at the front door straining on its hinges as the wind whined and howled from the other side and the rain attacked the roof with heavy blows. The entire foundation seemed to shake, thunder rolling in the distance. Clarke wondered for a moment at her mother, caught up at St. Mungo’s and unable to leave in the storm, before her thoughts returned to the stranger.
Lexa, Clarke reminded herself, and the memory of wide green eyes returned unbidden. Clarke and her dad went camping every summer at Shoecraft Lake, and Clarke decided that Lexa's eyes were like the trees off the shoreline. Not the shade of dull green when you looked directly at them, but expansive and shimmering like their reflection in the water; soft ripples disrupting the symmetry, sunlight reflecting on the forest hues and dancing across the waves like little flecks of gold. The trees stood tall and proud, refusing to bend or break, much like Lexa herself.
Late that night, Jake pulled the covers over Clarke and up to her chin, leaving them loose everywhere else because he knew his daughter kicked in her sleep.
"Why is Lexa here?" Clarke asked quietly, eyes drooping in exhaustion but filled with curiosity nonetheless. Jake's answer came with a sad smile.
"Lexa's parents were in an accident, sweetheart. She's going to be staying with us before we find her a more permanent home," and he sighed deeply and brushed the hair out of Clarke's face.
"Did you know Lexa's parents?" Her voice was very small.
"Yes, I did. They were good people." He bent down and brushed his lips over her forehead, wordlessly ending the discussion. His face was rough and unshaven, but the blonde found security in the familiar gesture. Clarke had never seen her dad cry, not before and not then, but his eyes held a certain sorrow and his shoulders were hunched forward, bones much too heavy under the weight of his grief.
"I'm really sorry, dad," she said in her most sincere voice, because Clarke had never met Lexa's parents, but her heart still sank to the bottom of her rib cage, her arms yearning, for the first time, to wrap themselves around Lexa's thin frame and hold her until the pain was gone.
~
Red and gold banners waved spastically from the stands, festooned with roaring lions and words of encouragement as the entire pitch seemed to rumble in anticipation. The sun shone blindingly from its perch in the sky and warmed her face, just enough so she could ignore the crisp autumn air stinging her cheeks.
Octavia stood proudly to her left, chest puffed out and arm raised high to the crowd. Her dark, almost raven hair was swept in a tight braid that must’ve hurt and her nose was slightly pink from the cold, but there was pure, unadulterated joy on her face. Clarke rolled her eyes as her friend blew a kiss to the opposite end of the pitch where her boyfriend Lincoln stood. He winked back at her, the dark skin around his eyes obscured by black paint, a tradition the Slytherin team had adopted several years back.
There was a loud holler behind her before Jasper rushed ahead, knees bent and arms spread as he lunged across the grass, and Clarke reminisced about her first Quidditch game, four entire years ago, and her narrow victory against Ravenclaw. That had wiped the smug smile off Raven’s face and forged her reputation as the most ruthless chaser in the game. She watched fondly as Jasper’s antics took him to the far side of the pitch where he ignored the Slytherin’s taunts.
A stocky woman with dark skin and scars around her eyes set foot on the pitch, her strides long and forceful, and almost immediately the intimidating sneers dropped off the Slytherins’ faces. Professor Indra refereed most of their matches, and her sharp eyes never missed a thing.
“Linkon,” she said, heavily accented as she pierced him with her stern gaze. “I count only six on your side of the pitch.”
For his part, Lincoln didn’t appear frightened by Indra’s harsh tone, and he met her eyes calmly, undaunted. Clarke wondered, not for the first time, why the hat hadn’t sorted him into Gryffindor.
“Heda should be here any moment.”
Clarke bit her lip at his use of the title. She’d never heard a Slytherin refer to their captain as anything but heda or commander, the former being a Trigedasleng term for the latter. Trigedasleng was a language that had originated in the pureblood families who lived in Polis, and a large majority of the Slytherin house was made up of them. This included Hogwarts’ alumni like Indra, which Clarke viewed as an unfair advantage – even if Indra seemed to regard them all with equal contempt.
Octavia was quick at Indra’s side, crimson robed and huffing in indignation. “I don’t see why Woods has the luxury of being late. They should be disqualified!” Her face was already red with anger and she rocked forward on her heels, meeting Lincoln’s stoic expression with fire in her eyes. Cage Wallace, a Slytherin beater whose nastiness made up for his lack of muscle, curled his lip and retorted, “Your keeper hasn’t been disqualified, and he thinks he can fly without a broomstick!” Clarke glared at him as Jasper rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.
Before Octavia had the chance to retaliate, Indra fixed the group with a dark scowl. “Shof Op! All of you!”
Wallace reluctantly lowered his club.
“Alexandria Woods is not exempt from any of the rules on my pitch. If she’s not here in five minutes, Slytherin forfeits the match.” The Slytherins’ protests fell on deaf ears as Indra swiveled to march off the pitch, but a voice full of authority stopped her.
“That won’t be necessary, Professor.”
Lexa Woods emerged from the far side of the stands, black leather guards on her arms and shins, deep green robes swishing at her feet as she came to a halt opposite Octavia. Her face, much like her teammates’, was decked in immaculate war paint, but it looked more like a mask on Lexa; she was primed for battle. Her wild curls were tamed in their usual braids and the silver fastenings of her robes glinted in the sunlight. Her eyes were all steel, and damn, did she live up to her title.
Only now did the Slytherin side of the crowd make their stand, stomping in unison and chanting, “Heda, Heda, Heda.” It took them a minute to quiet, even after Indra raised her hand in an obvious gesture for silence. Clarke had to appreciate their loyalty.
“I apologize for my tardiness, ma’am, I had a personal issue come up. It is not a reflection of the Slytherin team and it will not happen again.”
Lexa spoke evenly, as if practiced, her voice slightly softer and more feminine than her appearance gave the impression of. Indra nodded stiffly.
“See that it does not. Now, let us get this match underway.”
Octavia looked as if she might argue, but Indra’s eyes scrutinized the pitch, as if daring anyone to speak a word. Octavia was fierce, but she knew when to pick her battles. The small brunette hurried back to Clarke and mounted her broom, mouth ticking up in a half-smile as they rose into the air. Jasper took his place behind their ranks, readily defending their goal, and Octavia’s eyes were already searching the ground below for any sign of the golden snitch.
Clarke surged forward in one practiced motion and gripped her broom handle lightly with her left hand, her right already anticipating the quaffle. Lincoln hovered across from her, signature smirk on his angular face.
At Indra’s whistle, the quaffle was thrown and the players exploded into motion, Clarke triumphantly sweeping past Lincoln with the scoring ball tucked safely under her arm.
“And there’s Griffin, already with the quaffle! Some drama on the pitch before the whistle, but after last year’s battle for the Cup, I would expect nothing less!”
Raven Reyes’ voice sounded over the pitch, full of enthusiasm. The Ravenclaw prodigy had always had a love for the game, but a Quidditch accident in her fifth year paralyzed her right leg, and Headmaster Jaha let her take over as announcer. Raven had been the only student since Harry Potter to play Quidditch as a first year.
The wind whipped around Clarke as she cut to the left to avoid a bludger – almost pausing to curse Wallace – and she neared the Slytherin goalpost, tuning out the stadium noise. It was just her and the goal.
Well, and Lexa.
The Slytherin keeper dropped a couple feet in the air, locking eyes with Clarke, who suddenly felt like prey despite the fact that she was on Lexa’s turf. And she could claim that Lexa’s gaze was cold and full of malice, like the rumors said, but that would be a lie. The chaser saw determination, confidence, and maybe a little bit of something else she couldn’t place.
Clarke wasn’t going to wait around for Wallace to pull his head out of his ass and knock her off her broom, so she pulled forward and to the right, launching the quaffle at an angle.
She held her breath.
Lexa roughly swerved up, hand outreached, and gripped the ball with all the reflexes of a snake poised to strike. Clarke exhaled in disappointment as the commander effortlessly passed the quaffle to Lincoln, who was already barreling down the pitch toward Jasper.
The match went back and forth, and there were a couple close calls with bludgers, one with Wallace’s outstretched club that Indra fouled him for. Clarke was tailing a Slytherin chaser, and she cringed when Raven called her “Princess” again over the loudspeaker.
The score was 60-40, Slytherin in favor, mostly because Lexa kept saving goals in outlandish manners, and Clarke would be rolling her eyes if she wasn’t so frustrated.
Her seventh year hadn’t been going as expected. It started when Bellamy left for the Ministry of Magic to become an Auror, leaving Octavia with his blessing to take up the helm as Quidditch captain, and Clarke couldn’t help feeling a little betrayed. The younger Blake sibling was undoubtedly a talented seeker, but Clarke was being scouted professionally. She’d been arguing with her mother all summer because Abby didn’t consider Quidditch a “practical” career, and she thought maybe being captain would make it worthwhile.
The icing on the cake was right before term. Wells Jaha’s snow-white owl had brought a letter embellished with the Jaha seal – Wells’ father was the headmaster. Inside had been a picture of Wells, smiling broadly and dressed to the nines in his Hufflepuff robes, the shiny head boy badge pinned to his chest.
Clarke had received her Hogwarts letter the day before with that year’s prefect badge sealed within, and hoped maybe head girl would be waiting for her at the school, but she knew then. Alexandria Woods had been gunning hard for head girl, and Alexandria Woods always gets what she wants.
The Gryffindor chaser groaned as Lincoln knocked in another ten points, right through Jasper’s hands, but then the stands erupted in cheers and Raven’s voice shouted excitedly from above.
“BLAKE CAUGHT THE SNITCH! RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER BLACK’S NOSE, OCTAVIA BLAKE CAUGHT THE SNITCH! FUCKIN’ GET IT, O!” Clarke laughed as she saw a tall blonde girl in blue robes slap Raven upside the head and wrestle her away from the announcer’s stand.
She dismounted as quickly as she could to join the dogpile of crimson robes on top of Octavia, the bitterness that’d been swelling in her chest now deflated. She spotted Ontari Black storming off the pitch out of the corner of her eye, Cage Wallace following close behind.
“FIRST MATCH OF THE SEASON IS OURS! WE’RE BACK, BITCHES!” Octavia’s voice carried from the bottom of the pile. Clarke straightened, grinning, as Lexa approached, sticking her hand out in a sportsmanlike gesture. She moved to grip Clarke’s forearm as she’d done with Bellamy countless times.
“Good game, Griffin,” she said gruffly, though she smiled good-naturedly. Lexa’s hand was warm against Clarke’s skin. Her eyes were like beacons of light, outlined by the smudged black paint, and Clarke was drawn like a moth to the flame.
“Uh,” she stammered, breathless for a moment. “You know I’m not captain, right?” Lexa laughed, and Clarke’s heart stopped at the sound.
“Maybe not in name.”
And that was the closest thing she would get to a compliment from Lexa Woods. A bright banner with the word ‘GRIFFIN’ in gold caught Clarke’s eye and bolstered her confidence.
“Well I suppose I can sleep easy now, knowing the commander sees me as her equal,” she smirked, earning her a raised eyebrow. All at once Lexa was in her space, so close she could feel the brunette’s breath on her cheek as she spoke.
“Nobody is my equal on this pitch, and you would do well to remember that, Clarke.” The brunette’s voice clicked on the ‘k’ and delicious shivers danced up Clarke’s back.
Octavia’s hand was suddenly on her shoulder protectively, the seeker haughty, her chin tilted up in victory. “What was the score, Woods? 190 to 70? Watch out, the Cup is ours this year,” and with an exaggerated wink, the younger Blake was dragging her off to the locker rooms.
“You know your stern face is adorable, right?” Clarke called over her shoulder, glancing back just long enough to see Lexa’s face flush.
She felt green eyes on the back of her head until she was inside.
~
The hulking man had a beard that laid across his chest like a pillow and hands like frying pans, scarred and calloused. His robes were the blackest black that Clarke had ever seen, accented by a rich emerald tunic underneath, and shining boots that planted him firmly to the doorstep. He unfroze, suddenly, startling the small girl, but it was only to kneel to her height in a way that reminded her of Jake.
“Do you know a person by the name of Jake Griffin?” The stranger asked, his mouth curling as he gently smiled, encouraging trust.
Clarke nodded, eyes big and blue and curious.
The man’s chocolate gaze flicked above her head, and then Jake’s steady hand was on the back of her shoulder as he reached over her to shake the stranger’s.
“Gustus Woods,” the man introduced, stretching to his full frame and unintentionally dwarfing her father. His hair was contained in a thick tie at the back of his head, but Clarke recognized the chestnut locks that so resembled her newest friend’s.
“Jake Griffin,” her father spoke warmly, “but I suppose you already know that.” He ushered her to the side as Gustus breached the threshold, his footsteps surprisingly soft for a man of his stature. Behind him, the torrential rain had finally slowed to a delicate mist after a week of its onslaught on Arkadia, and shy beams of sunlight were breaking through the cloud cover. The door shut.
Clarke suddenly turned and tiptoed around the men and to the staircase, old enough to know that it was rude to leave without excuse but young enough to get away with it. She bounded anxiously up the stairs and around the corner to her bedroom, her toes meeting the plush of the carpet.
A tiny lump under the covers was the only indication of a presence in the room.
“Lexa,” she whispered, her voice urgent as she prodded the sleeping girl between the ribs. “Lexa, wake up.”
Something akin to regret welled inside of her as the girl’s verdant eyes blinked into consciousness, as this was one of the few times the blonde had seen them closed peacefully. Lexa fixed her with an inquisitive stare, her nimble fingers worrying the edge of the blankets.
“A man named Gustus Woods is with dad, and he’s big and scary and his hands are huge but his hair is the same color as yours even though his eyes are brown,” Clarke rambled, tucking a strand of wild hair behind Lexa’s perfectly shaped ear, biting her lip with nervous energy.
The waking tension in the brunette’s body that had set her back rigid and her jaw tensed since the day of the accident disappeared. A wave of relief seemed to wash over her, though her delicate features relaxed into a tiredness that was absent before. “Uncle Gus,” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible.
Two blonde eyebrows furrowed in concern.
There was a creak as the door was swept open, a looming figure crouching inside of the frame, carefully placed feet shuffling until they rested next to Clarke’s.
All at once, Lexa was out of the covers and in Gustus’ large embrace, his arms cocooning her little body, his lips whispering comforts into her hair. Clarke observed wide-eyed as her friend was carried from the room and down the stairs, out to the doorstep after a hurried “thank you, so much,” was given to Jake. A sharp pop resonated as the man with the flowing beard apparated away to some unknown place. Clarke wouldn’t see Lexa again until the Sorting.