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“Okay look, I’ve tried basically everything else. Mostly a lot of Muggle booze, because it doesn’t do anything weird to you, and I’m a pretty simple drunk. What is the appeal?”
Bellamy groaned and starfished even wider, taking up the entirety of the couch in their shared Head common room. “Because it’s fun, your highness.” His smile, even with its touch of mocking, took the heat out of the nickname and made it almost fond. “I know you’re at least familiar with the concept in the abstract.”
She narrowed her eyes and narrowly avoided sticking out her tongue. “I’ll have you know, I’m very fun. I can drink half my house under the table, and Lincoln too. He’s huge.”
“One,” he ticked off a finger, “Slytherins are way too cautious and paranoid to get properly drunk. Second, Lincoln is definitely part giant or something, but ninety-nine percent of his body is muscle. He metabolizes alcohol too fast to count. You need to go up against somebody with some meat on them, or at least somebody who’s that weird kind of skinny-fat where they’re small but have no muscle tone.”
“So, Jasper?”
“Yeah, basically. We’ve had a common room all to ourselves for a whole month and haven’t thrown any kind of party yet. I’m making an executive order that we do, and soon.”
“Ignoring the fact that we’ve been busy this month trying to whip our delinquent children into shape and also figure out why Jaha put us in charge in the first place, an executive order? I think I’m literally the only student you can’t do that to.”
“But do you actually disagree, or are you just being difficult? That’s the question.” He spread his hands wide. “I feel like this purely hypothetical Fun Clarke wouldn’t say no to a party.”
She gave an unabashed shrug. “Mostly being difficult, honestly. I have no problem with a party, and not because I’m falling prey to your extremely juvenile ‘challenge’.”
Bellamy gave an unnaturally protracted cough that sounded unmistakably like “Cognitive dissonance!” which Clarke chose to ignore. Throat officially cleared, he smirked the stupid smirk she’d just come to think of as Bellamy Face. “Then I’m sure you won’t have trouble supplying the drinks then? You’re the only one with the money for it.”
The first sign of hesitation on her part muscled its way out. “Is there a good reason we can’t all chip in, like every other party in Hogwarts history? Plus, Monty is definitely going to bring whatever it is he’s been brewing in the dungeons for two full moons. That should be toxic enough to count.”
“The ‘good reason’ is that you have something to prove. And don’t say you don’t. Am I shamelessly playing on your house-typical need to prove your worthiness or whatever? Absolutely. But judging by the face you’re making, I’m gonna say it’s working anyway.”
Fuck. Her mouth had twisted as she bit the inside of her cheek. “Whatever. Fine. Not like I don’t know how to sneak out to Hogsmeade.”
His answering grin was ridiculously boyish and, if she were being honest-- which she wasn’t committed to, really-- kind of delightful. “Fine. Friday night? Prefect meeting on Thursday. No Quidditch this week. No excuses.”
It wasn’t a question of if she was going to regret this, only a question of how much.
x
“What possessed you to throw a party tonight?” Wells was dutifully helping her tuck all of the Head common room breakables away into a trunk. Reparo was great and all, but it didn’t always work on stuff with magical properties, and Clarke wasn’t willing to risk it.
“Bellamy,” she growled, as if that explained everything.
“Ah,” he pursed his lips and nodded, because really, it did. “One of the few people you haven’t treated to the I Am Fun display of party dominance.”
She didn’t bother pretending that wasn’t a thing. “And obviously the one who needs it the most. If I do one worthwhile thing in all of my Hogwarts career, it’s gonna be making Bellamy Blake shut his mouth.”
“Yeah,” came a deep, drawling voice from the portrait-hole, “I wouldn’t hang my hat on that one, princess.” Bellamy let the portrait swing shut behind him as he crossed the threshold and plopped his overstuffed schoolbag onto the rug. “Many have tried. My mouth always wins.”
He was definitely a talker, and a good one at that. “Have I ever told you you would’ve made a good Slytherin?” Clarke asked. “You’re a little on the loud side, but you can be awfully persuasive. Manipulative, even.” She gestured around at the party preparations as if to say, “Case in point.”
Bellamy’s eyes bulged, comical and certainly intentional. “That’s crossing a line, Clarke. Here I thought we had established a baseline respect, but clearly nothing is too far for you.”
“My depravity truly knows no bounds,” she nodded cheerfully, smug in her success at irritating him. “Now go take a nap or something. Don’t wanna embarrass yourself by falling asleep in the middle of the party. It’s gonna be lit.”
“Don’t--”
“ever say that again,” Wells finished for him, looking at her with a mix of horror and disappointment. “I raised you better than that.”
“Traitor.”
x
It was still early on, but the party was basically a success, if Clarke said so herself.
Granted, her win conditions for this scenario were highly specific, but they weren’t terribly far-fetched. Everyone she liked was here, plus Bellamy, for whom she would own to a certain fondness. Also, she was drunk. About a wandslength past tipsy, by her estimation, and maybe half that from Well And Truly Pissed. Which was her goal, really. Her skill level at the complex and often dangerous magical drinking games her friends insisted on escalated the more she drank, right up until the point of no return, at which point she had been known to very much slip the leash.
(Apparently she had spit in Lexa’s face once and had another time pointed her wand at Roan Niasson so threateningly that he’d slapped it out of her hand. She had no real recollection of either of these incidents, but given Lexa’s tendency to go all doe-eyed and manipulative when she drank, and Roan’s tendency to pull rank as a prefect and upperclassman... Clarke hadn’t doubted Murphy’s cackling recaps over breakfast the following mornings.)
She was snapped out of her triumphant reverie by Bellamy tossing a chocolate frog card at her face. She swatted it out of the air with a dexterity that only showed itself after many drinks. Or, apparently, a few drinks, if those drinks were Firewhiskey and assorted mystery shots.
“Could’ve been a Seeker,” Raven lamented. She firmly believed that everyone wanted to be a Seeker, mostly by right of her being one.
“No--” Clarke hiccuped, “no strategy at all, Seekers. Chasing’s the real thing.”
Across the circle, Bellamy shook his head, which made him tip forward an inch. “Keeping. Keeping is where it’s at. Determines the whole game, doesnit?” He didn’t give anyone a chance to respond. “Anyway, what’s your card?”
She hummed vaguely as she flipped it over. Frog Bog was a game of chance, not skill, and there was no way to win, which made it easily her least favorite. Everyone lost in Frog Bog. “Um...Dumbledore?”
“Ha!” Next to her, Jasper held up a finger as his other hand danced over the “bog”, a huge cluster of shot glasses in the middle of their circle. He plucked up a glass full of something dark red and viscous and gave it a teasing jiggle under her nose. “Dragon’s Blood 13. After what you did to me in Drinking Snap, I’m gonna enjoy watching this.”
Shit. Jasper, in addition to being a genius with experimental potions, was an absolutely unprincipled mixologist. Once his inventions made it past toad trials, he didn’t hesitate to include them in his alcoholic concoctions. About half of the shots in the bog fell under that heading.
Clarke winced in anticipation as she tossed it back. It tasted like she had sprayed hairspray directly into her mouth, and she doubled over with rattling coughs. She almost didn’t notice when Jasper, hands quick and light, twisted her hair away from her face and gently used it as leverage to tip her head back. As the rattling in her lungs made its way up into her throat, she wondered if Jasper had finally killed her, as she had always expected he might. A second later, the rattling eased as, with one prolonged exhale, she breathed out a gout of blue fire.
Whooping cheers erupted from the circle, and she couldn’t help but give a hoarse chuckle herself. “Okay,” she allowed, “that was good.”
Jasper shrugged, smug and raking in the praise. “I know.”
His gloating was interrupted by Bellamy grimacing at the card he had drawn and demanding, “Who the shit is Zygmunt Budge?”
“Thought you were the History of Magic geek, Blake,” Raven taunted. “Something you don’t know?”
He grumbled something that sounded like, “Nobody’s perfect,” and flipped the card over again, as if the answer were hidden on the back.
Thrusting a finger into the air, Jasper said, “Um, he was only one of the greatest potion-makers ever? He’s best known for inventing,” his hand wavered over the bog once more, “felix felicis!” He handed Bellamy a shot glass that was largely clear but definitely had flecks of gold floating in it.
“Is that really...?” Monty asked, almost disbelieving.
“Yup! Takes forever to make, and squill bulb is a bitch to sneak out of the supply closet, but it’s only a little bit. Enough for like...a few hours, probably. C’mon,” he clapped twice, ever the exuberant drunk, “down the hatch.”
Bellamy, seeming much more optimistic and slightly more sober, complied. Suddenly he his face contorted, and he ran his tongue over his front teeth. “What did you mix that with? It tastes like poison.”
“Well,” Jasper hedged, “it was a little bit poison.”
“What--”
“Not a bad one though! And relevant. Budge went blind later in life, so you probably won’t be able to see too well for about as long as the felix lasts. But since you’ve got good luck, it shouldn’t make too big a difference, right?”
“Right,” Bellamy bit out. “Being drunk and blind should be no problem at all, since I have about three drops of luck in me.”
“Hey! It was at least four.”
Clarke, sandwiched between them, had to bodily restrain Bellamy from lunging across her and presumably headbutting Jasper. (Or, more accurately, just throwing his body against him, because his vision seemed to fading pretty fast.)
x
“Did I or did I not,” Clarke collapsed onto the couch, crushing Bellamy’s feet, “throw a successful party? Follow-up: am I or am I not fun?”
“Get off,” he groused, pulling his feet out from under her and putting them on top of her legs, where she promptly pushed them off. “It was fine.”
“You’re just grumpy because you’re still blind.”
“You say that like I’m being unreasonable. Being blind sucks, and being drunk and blind sucks double. There’s nothing to do, and I’m ten times dizzier than normal because I can’t get my bearings. Read me a book.”
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“I need a distraction. Or would you rather I gave in and puked on you?”
“Fine. But you have to pick the book, drunk and blind, and no take-backs.”
“You’re ten.” Still, he levered himself to his feet and, arms slightly splayed for balance, made for the approximate direction of the bookshelf, while she stretched out to take up the whole couch. (Clarke was pretty sure it was only the remnants of the felix that kept him from bashing some body part against the sturdy shelf.) With typical Gryffindor carelessness, he pulled out the first book his hand landed on, turned with only a slight wobble, and headed back for the couch with perfect, completely unfounded confidence.
On the arduous return trip across the room, Bellamy somehow managed to dodge the coffee table and the empty bottles still littering the floor. He did not, however, dodge the armchair.
“Fucking--” He dropped the book as one arm windmilled ungracefully, then took a single stumbling step forward-- straight toward the couch-- before slipping on some lethal combination of sock-feet-on-slick-hardwood and his toe catching the edge of the rug.
Clarke’s still-drunk brain wasn’t able to process what was happening as fast as it was, in fact, happening, so all she could do was cackle and stretch out a useless arm to try and grab him. All this really accomplished was delivering a weak slap to his gut, which did nothing to keep him from falling directly onto the couch, where she was still sprawled. It was only by the grace of Wizard God that his head didn’t smack directly against hers, surely rendering them both unconscious, and instead just banged temple-first into her collarbone, his nose-- unpleasantly pointy when it came down to it-- jabbing right into her neck.
She fully expected him to lurch back up as soon as his brain caught up to his body, but instead, all the life seemed to drain out of him, making him approximately ten pounds heavier.
“Bellamy?” she rasped.
“Mfgh.”
“Could you...get off me?”
He lifted his head a fraction, his voice still muffled. “Can I? Realistically, no. If it makes you feel better, I would if I could.”
“That does not make me feel better, mostly because you’re still crushing my lungs.”
“You can just say I take your breath away.” Still, he attempted to shift a little. Attempted and failed, but a good effort all the same. His shoulder wasn’t digging into her armpit as badly as it had been.
Clarke rolled her eyes so hard she had to tilt her head back a little to accommodate the sheer magnitude of the roll. A mistake, as it exposed the soft crook of her neck to Bellamy’s still uneven breaths. Biting down on a shiver, she tucked her chin back down and, in a voice a little rougher than she anticipated, grumbled, “Seriously, get off. I know the felix makes you lucky, but you’re not getting that lucky.”
It was a terrible double entendre, and she wanted to slap herself in the face the second it came out-- not helped by Bellamy’s disbelieving snort. He lifted his head off her shoulder with herculean effort, managing to raise himself all of three inches from her nose, and looked her in the eye with pure, if a little drink-addled, Bellamy Face. Wait-- he looked at her. He seemed as surprised as she was, something like wonder dawning, and for a second, his eyes flicked over her whole face. But he recovered quickly, half-smile giving way to a lascivious grin. “Like you wouldn’t.”
Anyone who didn’t know him would’ve taken his nonchalance at face value, but Clarke-- loath as she was to admit it half the time-- did know him. Accordingly, she picked up on the faint undercurrent of something he wasn’t saying, but wasn’t, in his drunken state, not saying either. It was a little uncertain, and it made something twinge in her gut. She wanted to squirm but thought it would be...situationally inappropriate.
So instead of whatever biting retort she would’ve made any other time, she just sighed dramatically and said, “Not tonight. Wouldn’t want to take advantage of you, you know.” And with that, she summoned up the last dregs of her energy and wriggled out from underneath him. He collapsed into the space she had occupied. Halfway to her room, Clarke realized he hadn’t moved at all. “Are you sleeping out here? Are you dead?”
“Probably, and probably not.”
Shaking her head, she turned back around, grabbed a throw blanket, and tossed it over his crooked body. “Turn on your side in case you throw up.”
“I can’t.”
As gently as she could manage, which wasn’t very, she pried him up and rolled him vaguely onto his side area. God, he was dense. Probably the muscle. Shut up.
“Thanks, Clarke.” His mouth no longer buried against a pillow, his words were clearer but still a little muzzy with drink and sleep.
A part of her would never get used to hearing that from him, not after so long of not saying it being their Thing. But, she supposed, they had lots of Things now, and could afford to let that one go. It was nice. It was good. It didn’t stop her from flicking him in the ear before dragging herself to her own bed.
Finally under her covers, she decided that while she didn’t miss the stabbing nose or crushed lungs, she was distinctly...colder. A pair of wooly socks and then a sweatshirt didn’t help, and she refused to think of what would.