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It was an open secret at Hogwarts that, right around O.W.L.s, students often snuck into empty classrooms to practice spells past curfew. Unsurprisingly, finding an unoccupied room-- at least, one that wasn't in a drafty tower or a damp dungeon-- could be a challenge, 2 am or not. Students lucky enough to have a space to themselves tended to fall into one of two camps: those who would share, and those who would not.
Clarke Griffin was not a sharer.
It wasn't that she was conceptually opposed, as such. She and Raven Reyes shared scarves so often in the winter that first years had been known to confuse Clarke for a Ravenclaw and Raven for a Slytherin. She and Lexa Woods shared flasks of pumpkin juice during Quidditch practice, even after their wildly contentious breakup in their third year. (Each had been too stubborn to change her habits afterward, lest the other think she was ceding territory. It had morphed into a strange, tenuous friendship built mostly on dry jokes muttered en passant and never talking about anything too important.) Clearly, the principle of sharing was not the problem.
The problem was, as little as she cared about her "image", she preferred to struggle in private. It was one thing to be a good role model and show the littlest Slytherins how to work both hard and smart. It was another to allow someone to watch her cast the same spell over and over again with no improvement. So when Lincoln, her Herbology partner, had mentioned that his quasi-girlfriend's brother knew where the Room of Requirement was, she was hooked. Never mind that she knew good and well that the brother in question was Bellamy Blake.
Her relationship with Bellamy was...stormy. And weird. They'd started out as eleven year-old enemies, her hating his posturing Gryffindor bravado, him resenting the pedigree that showed itself in her new robes and haughty chin. Somewhere along the line, though, they'd become the kind of enemies that relished their conflicts too much to truly merit the term anymore. They sought each other out in classes, issuing challenges and intentionally one-upping test scores. They partnered for projects, because they each knew the other would go out of their way to make their own work stand out. Hell, they were known to walk back to the castle after Quidditch matches together, laughing over who had screwed whom over the worst, each arguing in the other's favor.
On a very real level, one she would never admit to, Clarke knew that if she genuinely needed anything, ever, Bellamy would never say no. She was fairly sure-- or at least hoped-- he felt the same. But their iffy friendship had a strict barter system for anything less than life or death: if you wanted help, you had to pay up...in secrets. Your own. The usual price was the details surrounding the request, no matter how painful or embarrassing.
If pressed, she would say that the system dated back to the first time they had ever been on the same side.
They were twelve, and he was being even more of an ass than usual, but a different kind of ass. Instead of trying to outshine her in Transfiguration, all mocking smirks and lazy flicks of his wand, he was slumped in his chair, refusing to even attempt the assignment. When the professor reprimanded him, he had fired back a retort so biting that it was a wonder he wasn't sent out of class. Clarke couldn't help but take notice, and when he practically bolted out of the classroom, she jogged to catch up.
"What's your problem today?" she demanded without preamble. No sense walking on eggshells with someone who already hated her.
Bellamy just walked faster. "Not today, Clarke. I'm not in the mood."
Merlin, he was dramatic. And he really should've known by then that Clarke Griffin was not one to be shaken off. "Hey!" She snatched his arm and planted herself firmly in his path. "I'm serious. You're being a whole other kind of awful today. Tell me what's wrong."
To this day, she couldn't tell you why she phrased it that way, or whether Bellamy honestly thought she cared. She suspected he just wanted someone to tell, even if that person was her. He ground his jaw and huffed through his nose before gritting out, "I'm in trouble. And they're probably gonna kick me out, so what's the point in trying?"
She hadn't known what to expect from him, but serious, getting-kicked-out-of-school trouble never would've crossed her mind. He just loved Hogwarts too much to jeopardize it. Still gripping his arm, she dragged him into a nearby alcove where they were blocked from view by a statue of Elwyn the Effusive and his eternally flailed arms.
"I'm gonna be late for Ancient Runes," Bellamy groused, but he could've shaken her hand off if he'd really wanted to.
Clarke knew this and dropped his arm in favor of crossing hers over her chest. "You don't care. Tell me what happened."
"No."
"Bellamy."
"No. Why should I?"
She nearly growled. "Because! I might be able to help."
Bellamy just radiated disdain. "Oh, because your mom has so much influence, right? Board of governors, best friends with Headmaster Jaha, enough old pureblood connections to--"
He stopped when she shoved him hard in the chest. "Shut up, Bellamy. I know who my mother is. I also know you'd be an idiot to turn down my help. It could mean the difference between you staying and you never coming back here ever again. But I can't help if I don't know what's going on, so just...tell me."
Visibly wavering, Bellamy seemed to weigh his options for all of five seconds before slumping back against the wall of the alcove. "Fine. I have a sister." He said it like it was an admission of guilt. "Octavia. I don't talk about her much, but I think about her a lot, and we write. She's only nine. She'll be here in a few years, but in the meantime, she's stuck at home with our mom and her string of shitty boyfriends. In her last letter, she said this new guy was worse than usual, which is saying...a lot. She wouldn't tell me why."
He paused to take a breathe, and Clarke mulled over how the most Bellamy Blake had ever said to her at once was a long, if frustrated, account of how he was probably getting expelled.
"Anyway," he picked up, "I assumed the worst and took off last weekend. I got one of the seventh-years to Apparate with me home, and he waited down the street while I went to talk to Mom and O."
"Is your sister okay?" He really wasn't getting to that part quick enough for Clarke's liking.
"Yeah. She's fine. And thank God, because it's not like I have anywhere else to take her. But my mom and I had a long chat about the kind of people she brings into the house, and our neighbor said she'd get in touch with me if she saw anything suspicious. So...I guess she's good for now. But I got a note from Jaha saying that he knew about me sneaking out, and my punishment is 'under consideration'. I don't regret leaving, but. It sucks. I don’t even think the older guy is getting in trouble at all."
Clarke nodded slowly. "Have you told him why you left?"
Scowling, he shook his head. "Would it matter? I broke the rules, and we all know Jaha doesn't make exceptions for people like me."
"You're being ridiculous," she said, incredulous. "Of course it would matter. I know you think having any kind of power or privilege automatically makes you a monster, but he's still a human being. He'll understand why you had to do it, for your sister."
Bellamy still wasn’t convinced, but, probably for lack of anything to lose, he let her drag him straight to Jaha's office. He attempted to point out that their skipping class was almost certainly not going to do him any favors, but she pretended not to hear.
Fifteen minutes later, they were sat squarely in front of the headmaster, who was impassive as always. Clarke's mouth was running about a mile a minute paraphrasing the story he'd told her. Eventually, her words became slow and deliberate as she drove home the idea of Bellamy as a selfless brother who had risked his entire future to make sure his sister wasn't in danger.
(Unbeknownst to her, her adjectives were a size too big for Bellamy to wear comfortably, but he wondered if he could grow into them. Inexplicably, he also wondered if she would one day see the fit of them.)
Clarke wouldn’t acknowledge it, but she reveled in the way he looked at her while she talked-- like she had grown a new face, like some hero from a book had leapt forth from its pages and begun cutting down his enemies. Like she was something epic.
Whatever impression she made on Bellamy in those few minutes, she must've also made it on Jaha, because he put up almost no resistance to her idea: that Bellamy be given some nominal punishment for leaving school grounds but be otherwise entirely pardoned, on account of, as she put it, "purity of motive and intent."
After, he didn't thank her. All he said was, "Funny. I never thought I'd see Slytherin manipulation work in my favor."
She shrugged. "We use our powers for good more than you'd think."
Accordingly, she was well aware that if she wanted the Room of Requirement, she’d have to open up the wound on her ego. He wouldn’t poke around inside it or probe too close, but taking off the bandage still stung.
Better to have it off all at once. So, as the Slytherins and Gryffindors coalesced in the hallway leading to the Divination tower, she picked him out and wove her way through the herd. Just before they got to the trap door, she hip-checked him aside.
Bellamy didn’t protest, just cocked his head and gave her his most sardonic look. “Princess. Come to ask for help with the homework? You’re a little late, but if you ask nicely--”
“You know where the Room of Requirement is.” It was not a question.
“Says who.”
“Lincoln.”
He scoffed. “Lincoln, your Hufflepuff best friend who’s creepily dating my second-year sister?”
“As opposed to my other Hufflepuff best friend?”
Shrug. “Wells.”
“Wells is a Gryffindor. You share a dorm.”
“Yeah, but in his heart...”
“You’re trying to distract me, and it’s not working. Don’t Slytherin a Slytherin. The Room of Requirement?”
Finally his challenging stare relaxed into a smirk. “Maybe. Why do you need it? Secret tryst? Because last I heard, you settled for making out in broom closets.”
He was talking about Niylah, Clarke’s short-lived rebound after Lexa two years prior, with whom she’d been caught in a less than dignified position. She had planned to just tell Bellamy why she needed it, but he was so... “Says the guy who got to second base in the Quidditch showers.”
She watched his jaw work, and honestly, he should’ve known Raven would tell her. Fourteen year-old groping was hardly anyone’s dirty secret. Finally, he said, “So? Like I’m the only one. We both know our favorite Ravenclaw gets even more aggressive after games.” It wasn’t accusatory, just a statement of fact.
He wasn’t wrong. She and Raven had done their fair share of fooling around in the showers, after Finn, around the same time as Bellamy, and before Wick. It had cleared the pipes for both of them, so to speak, but had ultimately given way to friendship. And, as stellar as Raven was at fourteen year-old groping, friendship was more their speed.
“First off, Monty’s tied for the honor of being my favorite Ravenclaw. Second, it’s still not working. Do you want to know why I need it, or do you want to keep being a dick?”
“I can multi-task.”
Fine. “I need to practice for the O.W.L.s. And whatever shitty comment you’re about to make, please know that I’ve already thought of it, dismissed it as not worth my time, and moved on. So can you please just tell me where it is?”
To the contrary, he crossed his arms and looked as if he were settling in. “You need to practice? Please, share with the class what it is that has the princess so worked up. Since when have you met a spell you couldn’t handle?”
“Since now, okay Bellamy?” She spread her hands, like a stage magician showing she had nothing up her sleeve. “I’m not kidding, and I’m not trying to hide anything. I just need a place where I can work and have a little privacy.”
He rolled the idea around for a moment, then named his price: “What spell do you need to practice?”
More fool her for thinking that admitting she needed to practice would be enough for him. Maybe the fact that she’d given it away so easily made it seem less valuable. She’d remember that. Clarke made sure not to keep the chagrin out of her voice when she said, “The patronus charm.”
Instead of mocking, his expression went curious. “Really, now? Not what I expected. Why?”
“That’s not what you asked. Where is it?” She’d paid up, now it was his turn.
Bellamy rolled his eyes and sighed. He was still so dramatic. “It’s on the seventh floor, right across from the big tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. I assume you know how to get in?”
“Of course. My dad told me about it when I was little.”
“But he didn’t tell you where it was?”
She shook her head. “No, he did. I just...forgot.”
To her eternal relief, Bellamy must’ve seen the discomfort creeping between her shoulder blades, because he didn’t question why she hadn’t just asked her dad instead. Probably he figured that asking anything else would be over-charging for what she’d gotten. That’s how Clarke would’ve thought of it, anyway.
“Gotcha. Well, happy practicing. I’ve got dibs Tuesday and Thursday nights at two, so plan accordingly.”
Clarke wasn’t sure why, but she found herself saying, “I have rounds Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at midnight. I’ll probably go right after I’m done.” Then, “Thanks, Bellamy.”
He shrugged it off. “Don’t thank me-- it’s no skin off my nose.” Before she could say anything else, he pulled open the trapdoor and gestured in front of him, half flight attendant, half bowing courtier. “After you.”
X
Monday and Wednesday nights might never have happened, for all the progress she had made by Friday. Well, that wasn’t entirely true: Clarke had advanced from making a thin wisp of silver float out of her wand to making a slightly thicker shield of silver. Still not corporeal enough to get a perfect score on her O.W.L.s. Not that she really needed an O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts-- going into law enforcement held no appeal to her. She was more a strategist than a soldier, and she had her eyes firmly set on St. Mungo’s anyway. But it was the principle of the thing! Bellamy would almost certainly do it, and by Merlin, there were times when pride trumped logic.
And then there was her fear of dementor’s to contend with.
Either way, she needed to get this done and had fallen into the rut to end all ruts. Which was why it was perfectly reasonable, as she saw things, that when the door to the Room of Requirement creaked open, she fired off a vicious Tickling Charm without waiting to see who the intruder was.
“What the hell,” Bellamy glared up from where he had ducked to the floor, “is wrong with you?”
Clarke caught her breath in relief, but only for a second. “It’s not your night, Bellamy. Get out.”
He stood but made no move to leave. “I said I had dibs on Tuesdays and Thursdays, not that those are the only times I come.”
“I told you I would be here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” she hissed.
“Yeah, but I didn’t really believe you. I figured you would’ve gotten a handle on it by Wednesday at the latest.”
“Well, I haven’t, so if you could go--”
“How are you practicing?” He surveyed the room: at present, it was small, spartan. Wooden floor, white walls, two soft chairs placed at random, one of which had a Slytherin robe and tie tossed over its back. “There’s nothing in here.”
“I’m just,” Clarke shrugged, “doing it. The spell. Over and over and over, not that it seems to be helping.”
Bellamy shook his head. “You are Einstein insane.”
“Einstein was a genius,” she shot back, deadpan.
“No, I mean, you are Einstein’s definition of insane. ‘Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.’ That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“Well, that’s the shitty thing about magic-- it’s not like you can really come at it from different angles. Not without doing a completely different spell than you meant to.”
Bellamy made an indecisive sound. “Not necessarily. You can’t change the spell, but you can change you.”
A beat. “My frame of mind, you mean?” She didn’t wait for him to answer before saying, more to herself than to him, “Spells are extremely dependent on intention and emotion, the Patronus Charm maybe more so than any other.”
“And,” Bellamy chimed in, arms folded innocently behind his back, “you should probably deal with whatever’s tripping you up in the first place. But something tells me it’s all linked.”
Clarke just sneered at him. “You don’t know anything about it.”
He hummed in agreement. “I don’t, but if I did, I could probably help.” At her stone face, he fixed her with a flat stare and huffed. “So you’re willing to admit you’re struggling but not willing to accept help? Not very Slytherin of you, refusing to take advantage of a resource.”
He had a point; she just hated it on principle. Asking Bellamy for a favor within a predetermined bargaining system was one thing, but him offering to help without prompting was another altogether. But then...hadn’t that very first favor been offered without asking? Hadn’t Clarke actually butted into the situation, completely unwanted, and insisted on helping for no good reason? Honestly, she still didn’t know why she had been so adamant that first time, and it didn’t matter: it made what was happening right now okay. Maybe he was just settling up once and for all. Good. Good for him.
“Fine. What do you want to know?”
Cracking his knuckles, Bellamy bit back on what was obviously the makings of a smug grin. He settled into lecture mode, his flair for which was known throughout the entire student body. “Well, the charm’s complicated, which is why they only recently introduced it to the fifth year pre-O.W.L. curriculum. But at the heart of it, it’s most heavily based on calling up some happy memory, right? I think that’s your problem, and I want to know why.”
He didn’t, she noted, ask for confirmation of his hunch and instead assumed that he must be right. What a Gryffindor. But all the same, he wasn’t wrong. She shifted on the balls of her feet. “I’m having trouble thinking of a good one. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty. I just don’t think any of them are good enough.”
His mouth took on a wry slant, and she could practically hear his retort-- You’re kidding. Why would the princess have anything but perfect memories of a perfect childhood? But it never came. Instead, he suddenly turned thoughtful. “Okay. What’s your best memory, do you think? Or at least what are your best ones like? There’s gotta be something good in there.”
“Some are about art. The first drawing I was ever proud of-- that’s a good one. But I haven’t really felt like drawing in a while, so it’s kind of...tainted, I guess? None of my relationships have ended well, so those are ruined too.” Clarke sucked in a breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I can’t think about my friends, because all I can focus on is the fact that I’m keeping secrets from them. And my family, my childhood, the stuff that should be the best? All that’s more fucked up than anything.”
She shook her head and cleared her throat, trying to work out the hoarseness that had crept into her voice. “So, anyway. I’ve got good memories. Just none that are good enough.”
For a second, Bellamy didn’t say anything, just nodded and looked at his hands. When he raised his eyes again, his face was more open than she’d seen it, and his voice was soft. “Your family?”
It was her turn to study the ground for a moment before giving him a questioning look. You’ll keep your mouth shut? Clarke could feel the vulnerability in her face but couldn’t clear it away.
He just tilted his head impatiently. Of course I will.
Fine. “It’s my dad. He died over the holidays.” Before Bellamy could ask, she said, “He worked for an engineering firm that was working on making expansions to Ministry headquarters. In the process, he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see in the Department of Mysteries. I overheard him talking to my mom about it. He wanted to talk about it, tell people. It got pretty heated, and...a week later, he was gone. The medical examiner said there were traces of dark magic on him. Maybe not an Unforgivable, but something bad.”
Bellamy hesitated before asking, “Isn’t your mom--”
“An Unspeakable, yeah. That’s why he went to her. I don’t know what all she said to him, but I did hear her say that he shouldn’t tell anyone about what he saw. That if her superior asked her if she knew anything about a security breach, she wouldn’t be able to lie. She was suspect number one for a long time.”
“Did she do it?” A bald question, but one Clarke expected.
“No. They kept her in Azkaban for a while during the investigation, but in the end, they questioned her under Veritaserum and dropped the charges.” She didn’t mention going to collect her mother from the prison, feeling the icy pull of the dementor guards sucking the feeling from her fingertips. That feeling played a strong part in her need to master the Patronus Charm.
Worrying his lip, Bellamy asked, “How did people not hear about this? Even with the dropped charges, an Unspeakable suspected of killing her husband would’ve been news.”
“Her family spent an ungodly amount of money to keep the Daily Prophet quiet. And the Department protects their own. That’s why I don’t think her hands are clean.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head. “No way. What he saw was the only thing that could’ve put him at risk, and she was the only one who knew. There are spells to keep her from lying to her boss, I know that, but she had to know what they were going to do to him. And if she didn’t, she put the pieces together after and hasn’t done anything about it. At best, she’s complicit. At worst, she thinks it was the right thing to do.”
Bellamy stared at her a while, his jaw working. Clarke hadn’t told anyone else about this, not the part about her mom anyway, but she figured this was a probably the reaction she should’ve predicted. Less predictable was what he said next, seemingly on impulse. “Do you want to know what my best memory is?”
At a loss, she shrugged helplessly and said, “Sure.”
He turned and raised his wand. “Expecto patronum!”
From the tip of his wand fluttered a butterfly. Not a swarm, just one. Not particularly large, but tinged with a faint, glowing blue.
Clarke couldn’t help but bark out a single unexpected laugh. “Seriously?”
He took his eyes off the butterfly long enough to shoot her a sidelong, trust me, I know smirk. “Seriously. It’s because of Octavia. They’re her favorite.”
He smiled more gently, just to himself, as the butterfly lit on his arm. It cast a cool silver glow over his warm brown cheek. “There was this one time, when she was little. It was when her dad was still around and Mom had her shit together. They saved up some money and took us to this big botanical garden for her birthday. I think she was four. We’ve never lived anywhere remotely...pretty, so it was the first time O ever saw a butterfly in person. She was completely caught up with chasing them, but I kept up. She never left my sight. Between the flowers fencing us in, Mom and her dad being there, and the fact that I could always see her, it was like she was completely safe. It’s the least worried I’ve ever been about her.”
“Even now?” She couldn’t help but ask. At Hogwarts, everyone was safe.
“Even now. I’ve stopped having to worry about Mom’s boyfriends, sure, but now she’s old enough to get into trouble all on her own.”
Clarke let out a soft laugh. The tiny Gryffindor already had a reputation for being a spitfire. It must run in the family.
Bellamy vanished the butterfly away with a swish of his wand. “So yeah. Even though we went through some rough times, and even though I still worry about her, there was a time when I didn’t. When everything was good. And nothing that happened afterwards can change that.” Turning back to face her, he asked, “Any chance you have something like that?”
In lieu of a reply, she thought, really thought about it. Any time that didn’t make her think of secrets or conspiracies or the mysterious tangle of her mother’s loyalties. A single memory glimmered under the surface, and she clenched her eyes shut trying to drag it to the surface.
She was little. Five, six at the most. Her father was reading in the giant, plush armchair in their living room, the one piece of his own bachelor furniture he’d insisted on keeping when he and her mother first moved in together. It wasn’t quite a loveseat, but it was definitely big enough to accommodate a person and a half-- or a grownup and Clarke. Accordingly, she ducked her head under his book and gave a little hop-wriggle to settle into his lap. Her father gamely lifted the book and crooked an arm to snuggle around her back.
“What are you reading?” she asked, squinting at the pages. She could read as well as anyone in her class, but these weren’t words she knew yet.
“It’s called Built to Last: Magical Architecture and the Preservation of Historic Landmarks. Sound like something you’d like?” His breath tickled the little hairs that curled at the crown of her head.
“Yeah,” she lied, always eager to share his interests. “But I can’t read it.”
Purposely misunderstanding, her father pulled off his reading glasses and settled them onto her nose. “Does that help?”
Clarke turned her face up to him, eyes blinking owlishly huge as she gave him a look. “No!” She removed the glasses and hooked the arms primly over her father’s ears, only poking him in the eye a little. “I can see the words, they’re just too big. Can you read it to me?”
“Huh!” he exclaimed, as if it were the newest, smartest idea in the world. “Now that you mention it, I think I could.”
Satisfied, Clarke settled her small head against his shoulder and listened. Most of the words might as well have been another language, but she basked in her father’s voice, low and soft and rumbling against her side. At some point, she dozed off, but when she woke up, the book was tucked into the chair next to her. In it was a bookmark, a note with words she could read: Don’t lose our page! We can finish tomorrow. The bookmark was between pages ten and eleven. The last page was marked four hundred and thirty-two.
Clarke opened her eyes, a smile dawning across her whole face. Biting her lip, she pulled her wand out of her waistband with more determination than ever, and more hope. He father had always had so much faith in her, had seen so much potential and always treated her as if she had already lived up to it.
She looked over at Bellamy. “I think I’ve got it.”
“I can tell,” he chuckled. “You look like you’re ready to fight a troll. Relax a little.”
Holding up her wand arm in what she thought was a relaxed grip, she said, “I am relaxed!”
He scoffed, still smiling. “No, you’re really not.” Closing the distance between them, he put one hand on her shoulder and another on her outstretched arm. The heat of his hand seeped through her thin shirt, and despite her initial instinct to tense up, she couldn’t help but let the muscles around her neck go a little looser. With his other hand, he brought her wand arm down a fraction, and closer, coaxing her elbow into a deeper bend.
As he let her go, she heard his sharp exhale, a quick rustle as he gave his head a little shake. It sent a spark of gratification through her, which she absorbed without question.
“Try now,” he prompted from behind her.
Deep breath. Her father’s voice reciting nonsense. “Expecto patronum!”
No smoke or shield rose from her wand this time-- instead, out flapped a long, sleek bird that flew in lazy circles around the room. An owl.
Bellamy gave a disbelieving little laugh. “Of course it’s an owl. Get a load of Athena over here.”
Clarke was too enraptured with the bird, its long wings, and its sharp talons to snip at that. “You don’t think Athena would be more of a Ravenclaw goddess?”
“Definitely not. Smart, diplomatic, and cunning in battle? She’s a Slytherin patron all the way.”
And a rivalry with a brash god always spoiling for a fight, if I remember correctly. Sounds familiar, she thought but didn’t say. Instead, she said, “Maybe you’re right. Ravenclaws would definitely be closer to Hermes, I think. He was the one with tricksters, right? Athena for brains and cunning, Hermes for brains and creativity. But hey, what would Athena want with a dumb blonde?”
He ignored the reference to the taunt he’d once thrown her way. “Actually, depending on the source, Athena was supposedly blonde.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yeah. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid called her ‘flava Minerva’, and ‘flava’ pretty much means blonde.”
“Wow. The more you know.” Still a little distracted, Clarke finally flicked her wand, dispersing the owl into vapor. Glancing at Bellamy, she laughed and said, “You know, between the two of us, I think we might have two of the weirdest patronuses in school. Or is it patroni?”
“You haven’t seen Derek’s whale. It takes up the entire room and then some. And it is, but not how you’re thinking.”
“Okay, yeah, that’s weirder. And what do you mean, not how I’m thinking?”
“You’re thinking patroni like cacti and octopi, am I right?” At her nod, he explained, “It’s actually patronae, as in patron-a-e. Patroni with an i would work if it were a different declension, but ‘patronus’ is actually a Latin word that means ‘protector’, and the declension it’s in, the correct plural would end in -ae.”
“Closet Ravenclaw!” Clarke accused with an incredulous grin.
Bellamy just shrugged, his grin the wicked twin of her own. “Did you know that ‘Expecto patronum’ means ‘I await my protector’? Because ‘expecto’ is the first person singular present active of expecto, expectare, and ‘patronum’ is the singular accusative of patronus. I’m not sure if it’s male or neuter, but--”
“Get away from me,” Clarke held up a hand, the other grabbing her robe off the chair and folding it over her arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you never took an interest in spell linguistics.” He fell into step with her as she made for the door.
“No one takes an interest in spell linguistics.” She lowered her voice as he held the door open and they left the Room of Requirement behind.
“Whatever you say, princess.” Bellamy started to head for the staircase opposite hers. “Don’t you know that knowledge is power?”
She ignored him as she slipped her robe back on, the drafty hallways too cold compared to the warmth of the Room. Before she turned away, she called his attention back with a whisper-shouted, “Hey!” When he was facing her again, she stared at him with all the gravitas her suddenly sleepy eyes could muster. “Thanks for your help.”
Surprise registered for an instant. They didn’t thank each other. Never had. Just acknowledged the favor and kept up their arrangement. But they also never offered help when the other hadn’t asked, so maybe tonight was a good night for breaking precedent. “Anytime, flava Minerva.” Bellamy batted a conspiratorial wink before stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning to round the corner.
Shaking her head with a tired laugh, Clarke muttered, “Fucking nerd,” and allowed a painting of a scandalized Victorian lady to chastise her for her language.