Chapter Text
I.
This is how it all starts for them; eleven years old and on opposite ends of the Hogwarts Express, barging into each other with enough force to send books flying and their limbs sprawling.
The boy gets to his feet first, the concern in his expression morphing into one of contempt at the sight of her neatly polished shoes, the shiny watch clasped to her wrist.
“Be careful!” She says, shrill, nervously wiping at the watch face, checking for scratches.
He scowls over at her, mouth twisting a fraction so he can sneer, “you’re the one with your nose up in the air, princess.”
Her cheeks heat up at that, bristling at his tone, condescending and commanding all at once. “Don’t call me that.”
“If the shoe fits.” The boy shrugs, edging past her carefully, as if further contact could lead to contamination, “see you around, princess.”
“Jerk!” Clarke calls out to the sight of his receding back, marching back to the confines of her cabin. The door rattles loudly on its hinges when she slams it shut.
(She will learn, later, that his name is Bellamy. It’s a pretty name, despite his less than stellar personality, and Clarke will also master the art of spitting it from between teeth for the next few years of her life.)
There is some comfort in the knowledge that he won’t be in the same house as her, at least. He won’t be, she tells herself, as they all file into the great hall, wet and shivering from their boat ride over to the castle. Still, she can’t help but look for him, scanning the crowd on her tip-toes, dropping back onto the balls of her feet when she spots a dishevelled mop of curls, the same pair of too-big glasses that won’t stop slipping off the bridge of his nose.
Clarke holds her breath when the hat is placed upon his head. Up there, he looks smaller than she thought he was, all knobbly knees and restless fingers tapping out a beat against his thigh.
The next time they see each other, there’s a frayed Gryffindor patch sewn onto Bellamy Blake’s robes; a Slytherin one on hers, and she sticks her tongue out the same time he tries to trip her up.
(This, she likes to tell the people that ask, this is how it starts. This is how they begin.)
II.
Her second year at Hogwarts brings about an unwelcome change in the form of drastically different schedule. Tuesdays and Thursdays, once Charms shared with the Ravenclaws- was now History of Magic with the Gryffindors. As was Potions and Transfiguration and even Herbology.
Which meant, namely, that she had four whole shared classes with Bellamy Blake.
Each class started the same way, with him throwing the first punch (a snide princess as a form of greeting) followed by a pointed observation on her part (re: general ineptitude at using a hairbrush, his impulsive tendencies) that promptly led to a rebuttal on his part (more often than not, a challenge on the day’s lessons) which, simply put, led to total and utter mayhem.
Most teachers were smart enough to keep them separated, considering it was a lot harder to cause a ruckus when you were separated by four whole rows of students.
Professor Kane, unfortunately, just wasn’t one of them.
He slides into the seat next to hers when class commences, nudges her in the ribs, hard. “Bet you can’t make a babbling beverage faster than I can.”
Clarke scoffs, averts her gaze back to the neat line of print on her parchment. “You must really like losing, huh?”
“Scared?” Bellamy goes, his gaze simpering, head tilted in mock sympathy.
“You wish.” She mutters, before offering him an outstretched hand for him to shake.
It starts out easy enough: setting out the alihosty leaves to stew, bringing the water to a boil. Clarke hates how it gets progressively difficult to concentrate though; his presence a thorn in her side, niggling her every so often that she finds herself peering over at his cauldron constantly, trying to work out if he’s ahead.
He catches her watching, shoots her a smug, insufferable smile.
“Already behind?” Bellamy goes knowingly, dropping a handful of dried billywig stings into his cauldron. “Ready to give up?”
“You wish.” She says, saccharine sweet, casually flicking the dregs of her leech juice over at him.
He draws back at that, brows scrunching together in annoyance. “Quit it.”
“What was that?” Clarke chirps, stifling the urge to giggle when her next shot splatters the lens of his glasses, bouncing against the rim of his cauldron. “Did you mean--”
His cauldron shudders once, twice, before it goes off with a humongous bang, the desk shaking under the pressure of it. Shrieking, she drops to her knees and under the safety of the desk, pulse racing wildly against her chest.
Everything dissolves into chaos at that, and she registers, faintly, Professor Kane’s attempts at restoring order, along with Bellamy’s uncharacteristic silence. Taking a deep breath, she steels herself, emerging as quietly as she can.
The first thing she notices is the cauldron, or, well, at least the charred and twisted remains of it. And standing over it, one shellshocked Bellamy Blake with soot covering the entirety of his face and arms.
His brows, she notes, choking back a small, helpless laugh, are singed off.
A beat passes before he turns over to look at her, his mouth hanging open comically before he snaps it shut with a decisive click.
“Clarke,” he says, unnervingly calm in a way that makes her wince. (Honestly, the use of her actual name is enough to scare her.) “Did you just attempt to blow my face off?”
They both get a month’s worth of detention for that, and she suffers his cold shoulder for the next two weeks. It distresses her enough that she actually considers apologizing, which was pretty much unheard of in their quasi-friendship.
Clarke could handle him hating her, she thinks, mournfully. But ignoring her? Definitely not.
It lasts all the way to the last Transfiguration class of the month, with the entire situation being distracting enough that she actually gets stumped on the simplest of questions on vanishing spells, staring blankly at the parchment in front of her--
Then, so lightly that she almost misses it, “evanesco, princess.” A kick at her ankles, her chair jolting at the force behind it, “what are you, stupid?”
It’s hard to wipe the grin off her face after. Especially when he hexes her, right before darting out of class.
III.
Clarke is thirteen when she finally puts a name to the nameless, faceless prince of her countless fantasies.
His name was Finn Collins, and he was dreamy.
(Sometimes she looks back and wonders if his appeal lay in his inoffensiveness, in that ineffable, unflappable charm; the human equivalent of a cupcake with inordinate amounts of frosting and a styrofoam base.)
She couldn’t believe that he noticed her at first, let alone liked her- but he started bringing her wildflowers by the lake and taking her on walks around the quidditch pitch- and suddenly they were dating, all stolen kisses between classes and giggly, love-sick letters sent to her mother.
The plan was to bring him home for the summer; one month at her place and one month at his before reconvening at Hogwarts, recharged and ready for the next school term.
He leaves Hogwarts two weeks before summer commences.
The circumstances of his leaving was suspicious enough- Clarke was definitely already privy to her mother’s interfering ways, at this point- and it was only worsened by the sudden revelation that she hadn’t been the only girl he was seeing. (The Ravenclaws had been all too happy to remind her of that, and she had studiously avoided all of their usual haunts for the remaining weeks.)
Needless to say, it was a terrible couple of days.
She had taken to spending all her time by the lake instead, eating her meals with her feet dangling in the water and occasionally letting herself cry in the safety of a grove of trees. None of her housemates could witness her humiliation here, at least, and it made her feel better.
And that, unfortunately, is how Bellamy finds her.
“What?” She snaps, wiping at her face before shoving her palms under her thighs to keep them from shaking, “just-- stop staring at me already.”
He recovers slightly at that, swallowing audibly before taking two steps forward. “Is everything okay?”
“What do you think?” Clarke bites out, hitching her knees up to her chest. “Don’t act like you don’t know what’s been happening.”
The shrug he gives is a full-bodied one, clumsy and awkward all the same. “I’ve heard bits and pieces.”
Sniffing, she cuts her gaze away from him, working to tamper the sobs building against her chest. “If--if you’re just here to gloat, then just get to it already, okay? I’ll just--”
It’s almost impossible to get a word out after that, so she just buries her face into her sleeve. Maybe the promise of an emotional breakdown would send him scattering and she could go back to mourning the loss of her social life with some dignity--
She startles at the warmth of his palm when he curls it over her shoulder loosely, and distantly, she recognizes the creak of his knees when he shifts his weight to the other foot. Stilling, she raises her chin so she can look at him, resting it against the jut of her knee instead.
It would have been a pretty funny sight if she wasn’t so upset, really. Bellamy, nervous and shaky, balancing precariously on his too-long legs just so he can pat at her back in what she assumes is supposed to be a soothing motion.
Choking back a laugh, she sputters, “are you-- what?”
“This normally works,” he tells her, indignant, his mouth working its way into a scowl. “Well, it works on Octavia, at least.”
Wrinkling her nose at him, she asks, “your cat?”
“My sister.” He mutters, drawing back and settling down next to her instead. Instinctively, she moves closer, brushing her arm up against his before dropping her head down to his shoulder. (Wells never minded when she used to do this. The ache in her chest throbs at the thought, and she hopes that he’s at least having a good time over at Durmstrang.)
Bellamy stiffens- just for a fraction of a second- before he relaxes, lolling his head back and resting his cheek against her hair.
“Tell me about her.” She manages, her voice small. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a brat, that’s what.” He huffs, the fondness in his tone belying his words, making her smile as she shifts closer to listen.
IV.
It was not a part of her plan to join the Quidditch team, but Anya had convinced her.
She didn’t have the raw talent that Raven did (seeker, Ravenclaw) or the half-crazed determination to win every match like Lincoln did (beater, Hufflepuff) but she was decent enough. Playing keeper looked good on her transcript anyway, and it was nice to feel like she was a part of a team.
Their next big match is a week away, and Anya has them running laps and practicing flying formations when it happens.
A swarm of red and gold descending onto the field, hollering and yelling, creating an absolute ruckus.
She pales, swearing under her breath.
“What’s wrong?” Clarke asks, automatic, drawing up next to her.
Giving a sharp, irritable jerk of her head, Anya sighs. “They must have found a new replacement seeker. Dismount.”
She gapes, nearly falling off her broom in her haste, “so we have to give up our practice time, just because?”
“I can’t do anything about it if they have a note from their head of the house,” Anya hisses in response, her eyes narrowing into slits when Miller peels away from the crowd, grinning, a scrap of parchment fluttering innocently in the breeze as he waves it past their faces.
“Sorry,” he says cheerily, sounding distinctly non-apologetic. “Special exceptions have been made so we can train up our new seeker.”
Clarke eyes the tiny form practically drowning in her set of red and gold seeker robes, snorts. “Yeah. You guys definitely seem to need it.”
A laugh rings out at that, dark and rich and familiar, and she startles when Bellamy shoulders past Miller, the lone figure in his dress robes in a sea of red. “That’s rude. I know you’re feeling threatened, princess, but you don’t have to go on defensive here.”
She scoffs, scrambling to find a witty response to his statement, trying not to get caught up in how he seemed to have put on some muscle during the summer, filling out his uniform in ways that she’s never noticed before. Blustering, she goes, “what are you even doing here, Blake?”
“This is Maya,” he says, nonchalant, gesturing to the aforementioned seeker. “We’re friends, so I’m here for moral support.”
“Oh.” She manages, her cheeks flaming sudden and hot at the tilt of his chin, the slow smile spreading over his face. “Fine then.”
“I’ll escort you out.” He declares, smile widening into a full-blown grin when she rolls her eyes at him. “Come on, are you really going to deprive yourself of my excellent company?”
“Clearly, we have different definitions of what’s considered excellent.” She mutters, sneaking a peek at him from the corner of her eye. His hair was longer now, too, brushing against the collar of his shirt and curling sweetly past his ears. It was distracting. “What subjects are you taking this year?”
Bellamy shrugs, winding his thumbs around the belt loops of his pants. “The same ones as you, most probably.” Then, at her arched brow, adds, “I take my life mission of beating you at every one of your classes really seriously.”
“You need a hobby,” she retorts, elbowing him in the ribs lightly. Such playful, teasing touches wasn’t something new when it came to them, but this felt different somehow; a poorly disguised attempt at flirtation that made her want to bury herself into a hole and never emerge, because Bellamy Blake, of all people--
He gives a mocking gasp at that, clutching at his chest, “after I’ve invested so much time into this? Never. Besides, I think you’ll miss me a little if I was just to up and leave.”
“You wish,” she says hotly, ducking her head when she feels a familiar slither of heat gathering at the base of her neck, flooding her cheeks. It was irrational and stupid, but here she was, actually blushing at his terrible attempts at humor. God, she needed a minute.
Humming in response, she catches his gaze flicking down to her legs, skittering away almost as quickly. “Whatever you say, princess.” He chirps brightly, taking a pointed step off the grass and onto the concrete, “I’d watch where you’re stepping, though.”
Clarke frowns, confused at the abrupt change in topic just as her boot lands heavily onto the ground, mud splashing up onto her ankles, her knees, and she springs back onto the grass, sputtering--
He bursts into laughter at that, side-stepping her carefully and giving her a sarcastic, mock-salute of sorts, “it’s not like I didn’t warn you, princess.”
She glares- okay, crush over- flipping him off with as much dignity she can muster while he walks away, whistling obnoxiously loud.
V.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
Drawing away shakily, she loosens her grip around his neck, taking another pointed step back. God, it wasn’t even supposed to happen at all.
One minute they had been shouting at each other about today’s Divination lesson, saying stupid, horrible things to one another, about blood status and money and privilege and then they were kissing and it felt like a dream. Or a nightmare. Clarke didn’t know what to make of it, not any more.
His eyes are still closed even after she steps aside, mouth swollen and hair askew, and for half a second, she’s almost tempted to dive back in- consequences be damned- but there was her mother to worry about, and they were right here in the open, and--
She presses her palm against his chest when he pushes forward on his toes, chasing after her mouth.
“Bellamy,” she breathes, barely managing to get the words out when he starts to trace at her cheekbone, the look in his eyes immeasurably soft but apprehensive too. Clarke shudders, grants herself three more seconds, leaning into his touch and savouring it while she can.
Swallowing, she steps out of the circle of his arms, her feet poised to run. “It’s not about your blood, status, okay?”
His lips part ever so slightly, brows furrowing- the tell-tale signs that he was about to argue about this with her, make an impassioned speech, maybe- and she bolts before he can, elbow slamming painfully against the banister when she barrels down the stairs.
It’s not like she manages to go far anyway; her legs give out sometime around the third floor, right along the tiny alcove that Monty liked to hide in when he was homesick. It’s a tight squeeze for her but she manages anyway. Swearing, she works to calm the racing of her pulse, the sound of her breath harsh and loud even to her own ears.
Figures, she thinks, grim, after having calmed down about the entire matter at hand. There was only one person in the world who could so thoroughly fuck up all her plans, and she now knew for a fact that his lips tasted (distractingly) like cinnamon.
Shaking her head to rid herself of any more thoughts of him, she slides out of her hiding place, marching down the corridor defiantly. Whatever had happened between them was terrible and unthinkable and impossible and it was not happening again, not ever.
(It’s a little difficult to remember this when he has her clawing against his back just two weeks later, kissing her hard enough to make her lightheaded, but at least she tried and that’s really all that matters, right?)
VI.
Clarke never really thought herself to be the jealous type- even the whole Finn revelation didn’t make her feel envious in the slightest towards Raven- and she never really understood what it was like to feel possessive or territorial over a person. Wells always made her feel secure in their friendship, and she never quite liked anyone else enough to feel that degree of emotion.
So it takes her a while to identify the emotion she’s feeling right now, watching Roma flirt blatantly with him over dinner.
(Logically, she knew that nothing would come out of it. She knew how Bellamy felt about her, after all- how they felt about each other- and she trusted him beyond anything, too. Still. It stung, having to watch Roma trail a finger up and down his arm while he had squirmed away, looking increasingly uncomfortable.)
She lurches into his arms the minute he comes through the door, trusting him to catch her as she winds her legs around his waist, kissing him greedily.
Bellamy laughs against her mouth, ducking down so he can nuzzle the crook of her neck. “I haven’t been gone that long.”
“You took your sweet time.” She retorts, scrambling for a secure hold around his shoulders before biting down at the skin behind his ear, playful, “though I can’t say I blame you.”
He stiffens at that, pulls away gently so he can look at her. “Are you-- is this about Roma?”
“Kind of,” she shrugs, reaching over to brush his hair out of his eyes. It was getting stupidly long, and he spent more time pushing it out of his face than anything, “but I’m not mad, or anything. Hell, I would have flirted with you if I thought you were single. You know, our entire past rivalry aside.”
“I would have been really flattered, probably.” He deadpans, taking her hand and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “Seriously, though. I uh, made it pretty clear that I wasn’t available or anything like that. So you have nothing to be worried about.”
“I wasn’t worried about anything happening,” she manages, worrying her lip between her teeth, “it was more like, annoyance at the whole situation, you know? I hate having to keep us a secret. I hate having to duck into an empty corridor just to hold your hand, or kiss you only when--”
He leans forward, grunting slightly as he shifts her in his arms. “Or maybe we could just come clean.”
Clarke blinks, disentangling herself from him fluidly. “I told you about my mom, right? About what she did to Finn, and everything else--”
“I don’t care,” Bellamy interrupts, mild. “I mean, do I believe that she could make my life hell? Absolutely, but, well.” He meets her gaze steadily, presses their foreheads together. “It won’t be enough to make me go away. I’m with you, Clarke. I’m always going to be with you.”
The emotion in his voice is enough to make tears spring into her eyes, breath seizing in her throat and making it hard to breathe. “As I am with you,” she manages thickly, suddenly and stupidly fond of him, of her person, her confidant and best fucking friend, and--
Rising to her toes, she kisses him, feeling the tension drain out of his body as he relaxes into it, hands grabbing at her hips and keeping her close.
“So, what?” He asks breathlessly, nipping at her nose before backing up and caging her in against the wall. “How do you think we should do this?”
She laughs, working to unbuckle his belt and yanking his shirt up and over his head, “are you really asking for instruction on how to do this?”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He grumbles, nosing her bra strap out of the way. “But fine, be a dick about it. I don’t care.”
Humming, she goes back to the spot behind his ear, biting down hard and sucking; the hot, helpless noise he makes only spurring her on as she drags her mouth down to the hollow of his throat, the jut of his collarbone.
“I’ll come up with something.” She promises him, grinning, before unwinding his scarf and letting it fall to the ground.
VII.
This is how it all starts for them: seventeen years old and on opposite ends of the Hogwarts Express, meeting in the middle as the train left the station.
The boy smirks over at her, “fancy meeting you here.”
“Nerd.” The girl shoots back, lacing their fingers together and dropping her head against his shoulder. The world was an unfamiliar blur as the train thundered down the tracks, green and blue, then blue and green all over again.
She feels him swallow, carding his fingers through her hair. “I’m going to miss this place.”
“Yeah,” she agrees, turning to press a kiss on his shoulder. “It was home for the longest time.”
He arches a brow over at her, curious. “You’re not upset.”
“No,” she admits, taking a deep breath to steady herself, pressing her weight against him when the train gives an almighty jerk, “I mean, I was at first. But then I realized something.”
His elbow pokes at her ribs gently, his voice teasing, “and you’re not going to share with the class?”
She pokes her tongue out at him, “I was just getting to it, you ass. Be patient.”
The boy snorts, but falls silent anyway, expectant.
“It’s simple,” she tells him, squeezing his palm as they barrel further and further away from the castle, the sun glinting off its turrets, casting it in an otherworldly glow, “Hogwarts was what brought us together, but you? You’re my home. And as long as we’re together, well. I have nothing to worry about.”
His exhale is shaky against her forehead before he kisses the space between her brows, voice hitching when he says, “god, when did you get so wise?”
The girl snorts, “I’ve always been, you dummy.”
He makes an agreeable noise, absent minded. “I like that this is what we are to each other.”
“It is.” She says, watching as the castle disappears from view, a flock of owls rising to the sky before it all goes away.