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If there’s one thing that’s common knowledge amongst the Hogwarts student body, it’s that Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin hate each other.
It’s not one of those playful banter, eyerolls, eye-twinkling sort of general dislikes. (Oh, the things the heads of their houses would give...) No. It’s one of those sort of hatreds that brings to mind words like archenemy, nemesis, bloodthirsty, and vicious.
No one can quite remember when it started, just that it is and always has been. The earliest Bellamy-Clarke face off that can be recalled is when they were first years; they literally had to be torn off each other, and Bellamy narrowly missed a hex that would’ve had him in literal stitches.
The latest, well, who knows? As Jasper Jordan likes to say (preferably in a dramatically tragic tone with someone imitating a violin behind him), “Every thirty seconds some poor bastard is caught in the Bellamy-Clarke crossfire. Retweet this to save a life.”
Inexplicably, Clarke is best friends with Bellamy’s little sister, which just means infinitely more danger for everyone else. Professors catch on quickly that the two can only be in the same classroom if they’re as far away from each other as possible.
Once, Professor Byrne makes the mistake of placing them on the same cauldron in potions. Neither of them are present at the time; Bellamy is missing most of the day for Quidditch, and Clarke’s been called to the headmaster’s office for one thing or another. A beat of uneasy quiet goes around the room after Byrne read out the names.
Tentatively, Nathan Miller raises his hand.
“Yes, what is it?”
“That’s maybe not the best idea, professor.”
Byrne frowns. “Why is that, Mr. Miller?”
Nate looks nervous, most likely remembering how Byrne loves to take house points and how Hufflepuff really can’t afford to lose more. “Um, they don’t work…very well…together.”
Byrne stares at him, then at the rest of her wide-eyed, silently pleading students, and purses her mouth. “Well,” she says coolly, “they’ll just have to learn to do so.”
She lives to regret those words. Clarke and Bellamy get the message, but they also get so distracted arguing that they let their concoction boil over into an explosive. The only reason they don’t lose their faces is that he notices the puke color of the liquid and shoves Clarke out of the way at the last second.
Despite the heroics, both their houses lose twenty points, and they fail the project. There is a patch of hair on the side of Bellamy’s head that’s significantly shorter than the rest. One of Clarke’s eyebrows is singed clean off. There is still a large black mark scarring the counter. They blame each other.
“Can’t we just expel them?” Professor Kane is overheard asking in exasperation near the staff common room. “They’re a liability now.” (He’s probably upset over the competition that had erupted during his class; it’d ended with half the books in his room scuttling around on uneven legs.)
“If only it were that simple,” Headmaster Jaha replies.
It’s not that they’re hateful people. Everyone can agree that Clarke Griffin is fairly amiable, at least to those on her good side, and Bellamy Blake is, at his best, at a redeemable asshole.
Clarke hardly ever seems to be anything but bright, despite the talk that surrounds her and her past. If she’s aware of it—and really, how couldn’t she be?—she’s unconcerned with it, as well as with her family name as a whole.
“I heard she’s a direct descendant of Godric Gryffindor,” Fox whispers in the library.
It’s not anything Harper hasn’t heard before. Clarke’s is one of the oldest pureblood names in the wizarding world, and her ancestors have suggested as much. (Gryffindor, Griffin; it’s not a huge stretch.) But Harper frowns, because she doesn’t like gossip. “If that’s true,” she says tonelessly, “why is she in Slytherin?”
Fox scoots forward as though they aren’t the only ones in the library at this hour and there’s no one around to overhear. “Dax said he was in Jaha’s office once and the sorting hat told him she asked.”
Harper’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s not unheard of, of course, but nobody favors Slytherin, especially after the war. “Why would she do that?”
“Her mom,” Fox says matter-of-factly. “Because she…you know.”
Harper knows. Everyone knows. Once a month an expensive snowy owl delivers a creamy envelope to Clarke, and once a month she burns it in the nearest candle flame. It’s only been a few years since the patriarch of the Griffin family narrowly avoided Azkaban via death. The wound’s still fresh. His name’s still taboo.
“Actually,” a dry voice says suddenly, “the hat thought I’d do best in Slytherin, and I trusted its judgment.”
The two jump, then turn identical shades of red as the girl in question steps out from an aisle, holding a large tome she’d just pulled off the shelf. The green and silver crest of her house glimmers on her sweater.
“Clarke,” Fox squeaks. “We were just—”
“—so sorry—” Harper gets out.
“It’s fine,” Clarke interrupts. She looks more amused than offended, but Harper still wants to melt into the floor. “Do you have Potions and Brews by Agatha Godfrey?”
Harper blinks. “Yeah.”
Clarke stares at her expectantly. A pause rolls. “Are you done with it?” she asks finally.
“Oh,” Harper says stupidly. “Oh, shit, yeah.” She rushes to dig into the mass of papers covering the table and grab the book, cheeks burning. She opens her mouth to apologize again, but Clarke just takes the book and disappears into the shelves again, her blonde hair swinging behind her.
“We’re terrible people,” Harper mutters to Fox in horror.
Fox has settled into a mild shade of pink, and is staring after Clarke with great interest. “Huh,” is all she says.
Bellamy, on the other hand, has ditched his early reign of chaos (still recalled by teachers with horror) in favor of a regiment of occasional pranks and fawning girls. To the more scrutinizing eye, though, he’s more than flippant and arrogant. For one thing, his protective instincts seem to overtake everything else; after all, who could forget the time Octavia’s one-time fling Atom spent a night pinned to the ceiling by a sticking charm? Or the near-brawl Bellamy had started with Anya from Slytherin on the Quidditch field in Jasper’s defense? It’s another given: Bellamy Blake’s inner circle is not to be meddled with.
He’s also been known for the rare act of kindness—he allegedly calmed down Amber DiMaggio when he found her crying in the boys’ bathroom last year, and once helped that little third year Charlotte get over her crippling nightmares. These actions seem lost amongst the string of wounded prides and snubbed partners he leaves in his wake; there is a group of them who sometimes takes to trash-talking Blake the Elder in the library in hushed tones.
Maya of Hufflepuff is quick to come to his defense, although no one is quite sure why. Of all the girls Bellamy’s gone off with, she certainly has not been one of them.
“Stop it,” she’ll interrupt sternly. “You don’t even know him.”
“Oh,” one of the girls around her will sneer, “and you do?”
“She wants to,” another will say, and they’ll all dissolve into laughter.
Maya will turn a dark pink and shift away while they laugh. Clarke Griffin, if she’s within earshot, will roll her eyes.
Nonetheless, their virtues hardly seem to matter to them. They appear content with snapping their jaws and shooting insults at each other for eternity.
“I know it was you, asswipe,” Clarke says in the courtyard. Most people would be afraid of her and her narrowed blue eyes, her set mouth, her prefect badge. Most people does not include Bellamy Blake, who is several inches taller than her and is afraid of virtually nothing (or so they say).
“I didn’t touch your art supplies,” Bellamy retorts. “How would I get into your room in the first place? I don’t even know where Slytherin’s dorm is.”
Everyone within a fifteen foot radius knows this is bullshit. Bellamy Blake is no Weasley, but he’s earned himself a reputation.
“Someone must have told you the way,” Clarke snaps back. “Just give them back, you sack of crap.” (This is one of her favorite pejorative pet names for him. Others include assface, dickwad, and dingbat, which is usually preceded by you complete and utter.)
Bellamy holds up his hands in a casual, noncommittal gesture. “I don’t know what to tell you.” Behind him, John Murphy snorts and casts a knowing look back at Nate Miller, who just shakes his head.
Clarke sees both movements and steps closer, raising one finger to poke him in the chest. “I’ll get you back for this, Blake,” she warns.
She turns on her heel and marches off, her skirt fluttering, and he watches her go in amusement. “Take your best shot, princess!” he calls after her. (Of all of his pejorative pet names for her, this one seems to be his number one. Others include sweetheart, golden girl, and pureblood.)
Two days later screams and a veritable stampede erupt in the Gryffindor dormitory, because Bellamy Blake’s bed is spawning snakes faster than anyone can flee them. Nobody can prove it was her.
If she’s being honest, the only reason that Octavia even shows up to Quidditch tryouts is her brother, otherwise she wouldn’t brave the cold for anything.
She catches sight of his familiar form on the green, clad in red-and-gold—finally captain—and waves until he waves back. Small figures line up in front of him like tiny birds, cowering under his gaze. It’s almost funny, because to them he’s big and bad and mean, but to her he’s just Bell, a boy who memorizes as much history as he can and misses denim jeans.
She’s more than a little surprised to find Clarke in the stands, bundled tightly into her robes with her silver-and-green scarf pulled up over her chin. Clarke doesn’t care about Quidditch or any other sport; she spends more time in the library and the hospital wing than in her own dormitory, determined to claim a spot at St. Mungo’s straight away.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, bumping the other girl purposefully as she sits.
It might just be the cold, but Clarke looks a little pink. “I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” she says.
Octavia buys it for about twenty minutes. Somewhere between making comments about the players and yelling sisterly, semi-supportive things Bellamy’s way, a first-year loses control of her broom and goes smashing into him, not only toppling him off his broom but landing on him as well.
Octavia shoots to her feet, his name in her mouth, and Clarke—Clarke goes rushing out of the stands, Octavia on her heels, straight for the small crowd gathering on the field.
Bellamy is hissing out a string of curses as they pull the first-year girl off of him. Octavia’s gaze zeroes in on the very wrong angle of his arm, and she gets that horrible feeling she always gets when he’s hurt. Clarke shoos several people away so she can examine the obvious break.
The first-year is hiccupping a stream of blurring apologies, and with his good arm Bellamy reaches toward her. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay. I break bones all the time. Don’t worry.”
The girl sniffles. She’s a Muggle-born like Bellamy and Octavia, from a world where broken bones mean months of long, painful recovery. “Really?”
“Really,” he says. “Clarke’s the best healer I know. She’ll fix me up.”
It’s one of the rare times he pays her a compliment, much less calls her by her real name, but Clarke doesn’t react except to say, “It’s an easy fix.” She pulls out her wand in a smooth motion and murmurs a few words—a pain killing charm, probably, because Bellamy exhales long and drawn, and his grimace smoothes out. Octavia mimics the action.
Jasper and Roma pull him to his feet, where he stands unsteadily, his arm cradled to his chest. He levels a finger at Jasper. “I’ll be back in twenty-five minutes,” he says. “Until then…” He waves his good hand vaguely.
Jasper nods. “Let’s go!” he calls to the group. “Back up in the air!” He had never really outgrown his skinniness and abundance of awkward, jutting bone. He’d just grown taller. He’s a comically insufficient authority figure after Bellamy’s broad-shouldered, thick-armed, deep-voiced presence. But the little birds listen to him, scrambling to mount their brooms.
“Let me see,” Octavia says, hooking her fingers into Bellamy’s robes.
He waves off her hovering hands. “I’m fine, little sister,” he says dismissively. “No big deal.”
“Uh-huh,” Octavia says skeptically, because yeah, she’s overreacting. If their places were switched right now he’d be insisting on carrying her and snapping at every hand that tried to touch her. “Whatever. Have fun getting that set.”
He offers her a classic Bell half-grin before he turns away. It’s very hard not to notice that when Clarke falls into step beside him, levitating his broom between them, he doesn’t protest.
The other thing that’s common knowledge amongst the Hogwarts student body is that Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake are secretly dating.
Well. No one can know for sure. More often than not they’re arguing—in the hallways, in the owlery, on the fields, in Hogsmeade—or glaring. God help the unfortunate soul that gets stuck between them. Only Raven Reyes and Octavia Blake seem able to get them to stop, with a snapped shut up or a quipped I will put a silencing hex on you both.
Something seems to change over the holidays, though. As is tradition, the majority of the student body takes the train home to bicker over Christmas dinner or rip open Hanukkah presents or, in some cases, celebrate nothing at all. As is tradition, the usual students stay behind. Rumor says Clarke Griffin doesn’t go home because of bad blood between her and her mother. It says the Blakes don’t go home because they don’t have one.
Little Charlotte is lucky enough to be walking by when they emerge from the east wing, walking in sync despite his legs being longer than hers. They make an odd picture when juxtaposed: he’s long and lean, she’s short and broad. He’s summer-tan over his already olive skin, she’s pale from her hair to her eyes to her skin. He’s Gryffindor, she’s Slytherin. So it goes.
“I don’t want it,” Clarke is saying. She’s probably talking about the silver package under her arm, which she holds like it’s a bomb. “I don’t want anything from her.”
He looks at her, and Charlotte will later struggle to find the words to describe his expression. Soft, she’ll decide on eventually. “You only get one mom, Clarke,” he tells her. They round a corner, and Clarke’s response, if she has one, is lost.
Other than that, few are there to witness whatever happens between them, if anything happens at all. But: there is a notable change in their bickering.
“Shut up, Blake,” she says, and he suppresses a smile instead of scoffing.
“Yeah right, princess,” he says, and it doesn’t seem to carry the acid it did before.
Their peers watch their exchanges like tennis matches, brows bunching, eyes narrowing, mouths pursing. Nobody says the word flirting; it flies around in thought instead of voice. The fact is, Clarke hasn’t been out with anyone since her falling out with Finn Collins and her subsequent best friendship with Finn’s other girlfriend.
“Relationships are a bad idea,” she allegedly declares when trying to turn Lexa down.
Lexa reportedly raises an eyebrow. She is as beautiful as she is terrifying, well-suited to her house. “Who said anything about a relationship?”
(This can’t really be counted as going out since it lasts for about a week. It being a few casual hookups in the bathroom and in the Slytherin dormitory.)
If Bellamy sulks for the duration of that fling, no one can tell. He has been seen over and over again with multiple girls, mouth always quirked in that charismatic Blake smirk, posture always casual and inviting. His name gets whispered and giggled over in the corners of classrooms and in the alcoves of hallways like a dirty little secret.
“It’s like watching mice get taken out by a hawk,” Raven says with distaste as they pass him in the courtyard, leaning over a giggling Ravenclaw girl.
“That was you last year,” Octavia points out, tugging at her red-and-gold scarf. If you looked at her now, mouth set, chin high, knuckles scabbed, you’d never guess that she was Bellamy Blake’s flighty little sister circa three years ago.
“Yeah,” Raven admits. “But I woke up.” She is, of course, referring to the groups of girls who follow Bellamy’s every move, all hoping to be more than a Quidditch match or a night in the owlery.
“Well,” Octavia says, “you know how good he is at pretending.”
Together they spot a bright head of blonde hair waiting for them in front of charms, and they share a look before lapsing into silence.
It’s a mystery. Only a few lucky individuals catch them in compromising positions, and even they’re not definitive.
Jasper Jordan claims he saw them together in the library, most definitely alone and most definitely not clawing each other’s eyes out. According to him, they were standing in the transfiguration section, Clarke’s nose buried in a textbook and Bellamy’s shoulder leaned against the shelf beside her. They were both smiling.
“Smiling,” Monty repeats skeptically. “Like, with actual teeth?”
Jasper shakes his head, mouth full of steak. “More like smirking,” he says.
The others share dubious glances. But they can’t pretend they don’t see the very duo arrive in the Great Hall within seconds of each other. Head held high, Clarke goes to sit by Lexa and Anya, who are heatedly discussing ancient battle tactics. Hands in pockets, Bellamy lopes over to Octavia and Fox, who aren’t saying anything at all.
John Mbege insists they were holding hands under their chairs in charms, but this seems just as unlikely as them snogging. Emori from Ravenclaw remarks that she thought she saw them sneak off during a Quidditch match—you know, the one after Bellamy got benched. (But Emori can’t be trusted; she’s dating John Murphy, for Merlin’s sake.)
When they’re asked about it—by the people closest to them, as is the only way—they dispel the rumors impatiently.
Clarke looks at Raven as though she’s grown a third eye. “Did you inhale the fumes?” she asks over their cauldron.
Bellamy blinks at Octavia blankly. “I am not dating the wicked witch of the west,” he says around a mouthful of food, which is only a reference that they understand.
But, as Raven would later point out, neither of them said no directly. Clarke fails to realize she’s stopped referring to Bellamy by anything other than his first name. Bellamy does not prove his point by sleeping with anyone.
As far as anyone can tell, Clarke Griffin is a self-righteous golden girl, Bellamy Blake is an arrogant asshole, and both of them are, for all intents and purposes, on the market.
At least, everyone agrees, for now.