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The Seventh Year

“The Protego is a simple yet effective defense spell and can ward off almost any curse,” Bellamy says from the front of the classroom.  “However, its effectiveness depends upon the focus of the spellcaster. This is not a lazy charm to tidy your room. Without a strong front, you will have no shield.”   

 He walks in front of his desk, motioning Monty to come forward.  

“Professor Green has graciously taken time from his break to help me demonstrate.”  He and Monty take combative stances at opposite walls, aiming their wands at each other.  

“On my count of three,”  Bellamy calls out, raising an eyebrow.  Monty nods.

“1, 2, —“   

Before Bellamy says three, Monty shoots out a Stunning Spell.  Bellamy shouts Protego , and the red sparks ricochet off an invisible shield in front of him.  Monty ducks as the spell hits the wall above his head and fizzles. The students are stunned for a few moments, then break into light applause.  The two teachers bow.

“Never expect your opponent to fight fairly.  If I were my old Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,  I would shout ‘ Constant Vigilance’ at you every class,” says Bellamy, stowing his wand up the sleeve of his sweater.  “Thank you, Professor,” he says as Monty makes his exit.

“Can it really block everything, Professor Blake?” Adria asks from the second row.  

“It’s as powerful as its user, though it cannot penetrate the sheer force of an Unforgivable Curse.  I myself have used Protego against a paralyzing spell, and I do believe that it saved my life.” He taps his wand on the blackboard and writing immediately appears.  

“I want you all to practice this spell between now and Wednesday. Use harmless jinxes which I know you’ve all learned by being around the older students.  You can even have one of your friends throw a book at you, it will work. Do NOT use any spells that will cause irreparable damage. For your written assignment, I would like a 12 inch scroll on how it worked your first time and how you improved, for next class.”  

He hears a groan from the back corner of the room, fifth seat.

“Do you have a problem with that due date, Mr. Sterling?”

Sterling shifts uncomfortably in his seat, nervous of all the eyes now on him.

“Yes sir, I have a Potions essay due Wednesday.”   Bellamy sighs.

“And let me guess, you haven’t started it yet?”  

Sterling nods, cheeks growing red.  “Professor Griffin said that she’d hex me if I sent in another late essay. I don’t know if she was joking or not.”  

Bellamy lets a small smile slip onto his face as the class starts giggling.  

“She uses hyperbole for her tough love, I’m quite sure she was kidding.  But, if you were to master the Shield Charm, Sterling, you would be able to block whatever hex Professor Griffin sent your way.”   

“Are you speaking from personal experience, Professor Blake?”  asks Fox unabashedly. The class laughs even harder. Bellamy fights to keep his cheeks from growing red.  

“I find that Disarming her is a bit more fun.  But do not try it yourselves, you will end up in detention.”  At that moment, the bell mercifully rings. Bellamy lets out a breath as his students scramble to pack their bags.  

“Next class, I expect to see effort when we practice this spell!” he calls after their retreating backs.  

He puts his books back into his satchel and tucks his wand into the inner pocket of his waistcoat.  An hour and a half before his next class, all seventh years, and he fancies a long walk before that lecture.  

He makes his way into the corridor outside the Great Hall, quickly finding the familiar tuft of blonde in the crowd.  

“How’s your week going?”  

Clarke turns to him and smiles.  

“Wonderful.  Though I worry one of my third years is falling behind.”

“Is it Sterling?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow.  Clarke laughs softly.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“You’ve gotten to the boy’s nerves.”

“Oh, I’ll say something to him.  I don’t want him scared, he just needs to motivate himself.”

“You did scare him, he’s terrified that you’ll hex him on Wednesday.”  

“Oh, I said I’d make his ears a touch more orange with each missed assignment, that’s hardly a hex,” Clarke sighs, shaking her curls.  “Easily reversible in the hospital wing, I’ll have to apologize to him.”

“You are infamous for those tricks, Professor,” he reminds her. “Or do you not remember what you did to my nose our first year here?”

“The green was an improvement,” she replies coolly, making him laugh.  

“What did I even say?” Bellamy tilts his head back against the wall, “something mean about Slytherin, and then you decided I was ‘green’ with envy?”

“You retaliated by making my hair pink!”

“You liked that pink hair so much, you kept it till the end of term,”  he says, his voice going soft and fond in a way that is entirely too suggestive for their professional relationship.  Clarke nods at his second reminder, and he might be lying to himself that her cheeks are a bit more red. Or perhaps he isn’t seeing into things.

“I liked it only because it was a halfway jinx, proof that you had botched it,” she tells him, something teasing in those blue eyes of hers.  “Had all my hair turned that color, I would’ve fixed it immediately.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” he says, indulging in that dangerously soft tone, “But I thought you looked lovely.”   

Clarke’s gaze sweeps down to her feet, definitely blushing.  At this point however, he can hear the giggles of a few fourth years looking at them.  Knowing how much she hates that sort of attention, he bids her good day and paces towards the professors’ table for a stiff drink.  

Miller raises an eyebrow but Bellamy merely grumbles something about students as he summons a glass of firewhiskey.  The burn searing down his throat to his chest mimics the gnawing feeling in his heart.

He would have to be admitted to St. Mungo’s if he denied that she was beautiful, wondrously gifted, and impossibly kindhearted.  But Headmaster Kane has a strict rule forbidding romantic involvements among his staff, and Bellamy loves his work too much to risk it.   He can imagine the Sorting Hat smirking at him from the Headmaster’s office right now.

Faint of heart, Mr. Blake? And you think that you’ve outgrown your Hufflepuff youth into some Gryffindor rogue.  Hah!

Bellamy sighs, reaching for another sip of firewhiskey.   

Fondness and attraction are all he is feeling, and the latter will fade.  His students are his utmost priority.

The First Year

“Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to welcome two new members to our staff,” Headmaster Kane called out.  “Clarke Griffin, our new Mistress of Potions and Bellamy Blake for Defense Against the Darks Arts!”

Applause rang as Clarke stood up with the gentleman on her right.  She looked at him, surprised by his choice of dress. She had opted for traditional robes, but he was sporting a Muggle shirt and tie. His sleeves were rolled up neatly, exposing bronze, built forearms. He wore a gray waistcoat, and on his belt was a holster for his wand.  

“Would you like to speak first?” she asked him.  He gave a noncommittal shrug and sat down. Clarke turned to the House Tables and took a breath to steady herself.

“Thank you.  It is an honor to be standing at this table, looking out at you all, sitting where all of us have been before.  It’s been three years since I graduated, and I recognize some faces that have grown older and taller. I’m proud to carry on this noble and necessary tradition of teaching. I ask only one thing. Please feel free to call me the Potions Master.  ‘Mistress’ just seems too scandalous for a title.”

The Great Hall echoed with a few beats of laughter, and then the students applauded as she bowed.  The gentleman on her right - Bellamy Blake - gave her a cold but polite look as he stood.

The crowd quietened almost immediately; Bellamy seemed to have a commanding presence.  

“Good evening, everyone.  It’s been too long that I’ve been away from this castle. Words cannot describe how happy I am to be your professor.  Well, I could find the words, but Ms. Griffin has already said most of them.” The students laughed as his eyes met hers.  A teasing gaze, one that she hoped was warm, rather than mocking. Bellamy turned back to the students.

“I’m proud, just as she is, to be your professor. If you listen to me, and keep my classes orderly, I will make sure that you leave here prepared for whatever may come next. Thank you.”   

He received an equal amount of applause, which died down as Kane began speaking again.  

Clarke tuned out his talking to focus on Bellamy.  Unlike Kane, he was clean-shaven, his jaw sharp like a dragon's scale. He never met her gaze throughout the meal, instead focusing on his silverware.  

When the Opening Feast concluded, she watched the Slytherin prefects - children when she was Head Girl - corral their students towards the dungeons.  As she walked back to her office, she fell in step with none other than Bellamy Blake.

“Where are you headed?”

“Library,” his tone was curt.  Clarke decided to cut to the chase.

“Do you have some grievance with me?” she asked him.  Bellamy sighed.

“You’re twenty years old and you’re back teaching at Hogwarts.”

“They had an opening  for Potions, and I was tired of working at  St. Mungo’s,” Clarke cocked her head. “What exactly is your problem?”  

Bellamy scoffed.  “Only that I spent years schlepping for Ollivander, for Fortescue, for pretty much everyone in Diagon Alley before getting the chance to work here. I’ve never wanted to work anywhere else BUT here.”

“It’s not my fault that Pike didn’t choose to leave earlier.” She narrowed her eyes.  “There’s something else to this, isn’t there?”

Bellamy squared his shoulders, staring into the distance. “No, this is just me trying to brush a chip off my shoulder,” he muttered.

“Oh, please describe this chip, Mr. Blake,” Clarke scowled, “because from where I stand, you have no right to be upset with me, our circumstances are very different.”

Bellamy barked out a laugh.  “Oh, our circumstances are different. I’m not rubbing shoulders with the man on the verge of becoming the next Minister of Magic.”

Clarke straightened her back. “Oh, so that’s what this is about.”  Bellamy smirked.

“I imagine it’s nice having friends in high places who can smooth over career changes for you with a glowing recommendation.”   

Her eyes flamed. “He did nothing of the sort.  Wells Jaha and I went here together, we were childhood friends.”

“Childhood friends from long lines of pureblood Slytherin families,” he replied with derision, crossing his arms.  

Clarke almost stopped walking.  “Excuse me for asking, are you a Muggleborn? Is that why-”

“That’s none of your business,” he snapped.

“Well, you’re wrong anyway because my father was placed in Gryffindor,” she said, stopping and mirroring his stance.  

“Oh yes,” Bellamy shook his head.  “Jacob Griffin, who had everyone convinced that he was Godric’s descendant.”

Steam rose from the tip of Clarke’s wand, clenched tight in her fist.  “My father wasn’t arrogant, he hated that rumor. And he was a halfblood, for your information,” she gritted out, red in the face and close to crying.  Bellamy was too wound up to notice the past tense in her response.

“And how about your mother? What’s her maiden name?”  

Tears evaporated.  Clarke snarled. “Calloway.”  

“The Calloways,” Bellamy snorted, “Now there’s a family with some baggage-”

“Expelliarmus!”

Her spell catched him off guard.  His wand was flung to the stones as Clarke stalked up to him.  He backed into a wall, and she put the tip of her wand on his chest.

“Indulge whatever baseless assumptions you have about me,” she whispered, “but never, go after my family again.”  She took her wand off his chest. “My years overlapped yours at Hogwarts. I know you were a great Keeper for Hufflepuff,” she paused,  rolling her eyes. “Though now you seem more like a Gryffindor, and not an honorable one.”

He picked up his wand as she paced away and scoffed to himself.  Then an idea came to his head, brash and impulsive.

“Professor Griffin,” he called out, and sure enough, she turned around.  

He flicked his wrist, and her wand spun out of her hand.  

“Wha- are you serious?” she glared daggers at him.

“Score’s even now,” he said coolly.  “Any spell you think of throwing at me, I promise I’ve already done it without saying a word.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. She snapped her fingers, and her wand instantly returned to her hand. “Is that so?” her tone was curious, but with an edge to it.  She sighed, spinning her wand between her fingers for a moment before turning on her heel to leave.

Bellamy swore under his breath, stowing his wand in his jacket.  He stepped forward and nearly fell flat on his face. Bracing a hand on the wall, he looked down.  His shoelaces had been tied together.

He swore again, audibly.

Classes intensify and they rarely have a moment for each other.  They sit next to each other for meals, catching up between bites, and of course they attend the Quidditch matches together.  Neither setting is appropriate for personal conversations. Bellamy thinks fondly of the letters they exchanged over the summer break, the smile that alighted his face whenever he saw Clarke’s snowy owl Selene or sent his own tawny Helios with a scroll on his leg.  Though he is friendly with all of his colleagues, Clarke perhaps, has become his closest, his confidante.

On the afternoon of Halloween, he sets out on the grounds to look for her. She loves autumn like a bird loves wind.  

He’s got an ache in the back of his head from Kane telling him about the Azkaban breakout. How he and Jaha have decided to grant Dementors permission to guard the borders of the school. Bellamy hates it, but there isn’t much he can do about it.  Except talk to Clarke.

He finds her sitting underneath a fiery maple tree near the Great Lake.  She has her sketchpad out, and the sight of it makes him wonder. Clarke typically uses her art as an outlet for a frustration of some sort.

“Anything on your mind?” he calls out gently after she had placed her quill away.  At a distance, he can see that she’s inking over a graphite landscape. Clarke turns to him, a soft smile appearing on her face.

“I’m thinking about the Headmaster’s plan for the Yule Ball,” she says as he sits down beside her.  Her drawing is the Great Lake, but with a creature rising out of it, more serpentine than the giant squid.

“Is that supposed to be a basilisk?” he asks, brows furrowed.  Clarke shakes her head.

“No, the Loch Ness Monster.  It’s a fabled water horse. When I was young, my family would visit these Muggle villages who swore that it was real,” she stared out at the water.  “Sometimes I like to imagine that it would feel at home here, amongst all the magic.”

“The dungeons would flood whenever it had a row with the squid,” Bellamy mutters, and Clarke laughs, a sound as gentle and sweet as the small morning bells in the Hufflepuff common room. It takes so little from him to make her cheerful.  Looking at her now, the only thing seemingly Slytherin about her is her mother’s emerald ring that she wears on her right hand.

“Another reason I’m out here,” Clarke’s voice pulls him back into the present, “Four hours in the dungeons, surrounded by a dozen or more boiling cauldrons, it gets so stuffy and hot.” She dips her quill back into the ink.  “I need the space and the fresh air.”

“I can imagine,” Bellamy assents, and for a few minutes, they lean against the harsh bark of the tree trunk, watching a few students skip stones on the lake.  It soothes him, almost better than the Calming Draughts she gives him around exam time.

“Why are you thinking about the Yule Ball?”

Clarke shrugs.  “It’s the first time that Hogwarts has hosted since they banned the tournaments, and I wasn’t chosen as a chaperone three years ago when they went to BeauxBatons.” She looks at him.  “60 students coming in for one week, what is it like?”

“What was it like to go?” he raises an eyebrow and exhales, “It was fun, I suppose. Chaotic.”

He does not mention that he spent most of the trip longing for her company.

“I suppose it’ll be like a madhouse when they come to Hogwarts,” Clarke muses.

“If you think the occurrence of finding students necking each other is too frequent, it will escalate,” says Bellamy with a small laugh, “I’m guessing that many of the BeauxBatons students will be part veela.”

“And I’ll get a letter from my mother asking me if I’m attending with anyone significant ,”  Clarke sighs.  Bellamy raises an eyebrow.

“Encouraging you to settle down?”

“I love her, but she doesn’t seem to understand that professors can’t have children as easily as doctors at St. Mungo’s can,” says Clarke.  “I’m pretty sure that Kane would faint if he saw an infant in the castle.”

“You’re only 26, she should let you focus on your career,” he says, staring at his hands.

“Turning 27 next month,” she says.  “My mom isn’t nearly as wretched as her sisters when it comes to the whole ‘pureblood’ thing, but I have a feeling that she’s paranoid of the bloodline dying out.”  

Bellamy clears his throat, shifting his shoulders from discomfort.  They don’t discuss this topic often.

“It’s ridiculous.  Statistics have proven that Muggleborns will keep the Wizarding World alive.  Purebloods’ bigotry is stupid. Even the children of Squibs can inherit magic,” he looks over to her,  “I certainly did.”

Clarke meets his gaze.  “You’re right,” she says softly.  “How is your grandmother?”

Bellamy smiles.  “Lively as a cricket.  Still writes me every week to hear about the students.”

Clarke sets down her sketch to dry.  “I would love to meet her.”

“She would love you,” Bellamy responds, a bit too quickly.  He scratches at the nape of his neck with his wand, a habit Clarke hates.  “Well I mean, she’s heard a lot about you.”

Clarke raises her eyebrows. Shit.

“Not that I don’t write about everyone, I just-”

“Bellamy,” she cuts him off gently.  “It’s alright. My mother has heard about you too.”  

Bellamy exhales, staring back at the lake.

“Lola’s also been on my case about settling down.  I think she’s made it a goal of hers to live long enough for great-grandchildren.”

“I guess we’re in the same boat,” Clarke responds, her hand falling onto the gnarled root between them.  And it would be so easy for him to reach over to her, barely more than three inches. He could run his thumb over her soft palm and interlace their fingers.  They could sit in the autumn leaves holding hands, perhaps her head resting on his shoulder. But he keeps his hands to himself.

The tolling bell breaks their tranquil moment.  

“Come on,” and Bellamy does extend his hand to her once her sketchpad is back in her satchel.  “We’ll be late for the Feast.”

She takes his hand as she rises, unconsciously holding it as they walk back.  Nothing too intimate, her fingers cupped like a mitten around his. Her hand drops from his when a first year student flags her down from several yards away.  Bellamy waits for Clarke, but they enter the Feast with a respectable, professional amount of distance between them.

The sconces are flaming, the Great Hall warm like a hearth, but Bellamy hates how his knuckles still feel cold.  

The Second Year

Clarke brushed her hair and set it back with a few pins.  She should cut it at some point, before it became unmanageable.  Long hair was hell around a bubbling cauldron. And the more hair she has, the more that Bellamy Blake could do to it.  

Bellamy Blake, and the small, vexing things they have done to each other since their first day teaching.  A rivalry that would only end when one of them tapped out. It certainly wasn’t going to be her.

She sighed, stepping up from her vanity.  On her way to the library, she mentally counted the amount of covert spells they have put on each other.  

First the mutual Disarming, then she tied his shoelaces together.

Then he used the Jelly Legs Jinx on her while they were alone on a moving staircase.

Then she put a Freezing Charm on his favorite coffee mug.  

Then he Vanished her favorite tea from the professors’ lounge.

Then she turned his nose green for speaking ill of Slytherin.

Then he charmed half her hair pink in retaliation. Most likely occurred directly after a discussion of her resemblance to Sleeping Beauty.  

Turned-out pockets.

Clouded glasses.

Spilled ink

Stolen quills.

Small things, always nonverbal.  Usually minor inconveniences, rarely for public ridicule. It gave her a personal satisfaction, to see his frustration.  Scowls and glares fit his face handsomely, though she would never admit it.  This perpetual challenge gave her a thrilling rush of curiosity, wondering how he would strike back. Something to look forward to when academia dulled her senses.

The library was teeming with students when she passed through the doors.  She went up the staircase to the second floor. The tables were further apart, and there were a handful of nice armchairs.  She settled in one by a window, riddled with raindrops from the storm outside. Taking a few scrolls out of her bag, she noticed who was sitting in the chair across from her.  

So deeply buried in the book he was reading, she could not see his eyes.  But that shag of dark curls she would recognize anywhere. He hadn’t noticed her yet.  He lowered the book slightly as he turned the page and she saw his eyebrows creased in concentration.  

Her fingers itched for the wand in her boot.   Her eyes scanned him, trying to pick a part of him that she hadn’t jinxed yet.  It was his turn in the game but something hissed in her head about an opportunity to get ahead.  He was wearing nice trousers, it would be a shame if the hem was shortened by two inches or so.

He coughed, and Clarke quickly looked down at an essay written by Fox Fields.  But he did not make a comment until he put the book down, rubbing his temples.

“Oh, to what to I owe the pleasure?” he asked quietly, though no one else was nearby.  Clarke shrugged.

“Right now, I don’t feel like being around anyone I actually like,” she said.  He made a hum and continued rubbing his forehead. Clarke frowned.

“A migraine? I can give you something for that.”  Bellamy shook his head.

“No, just tired. Haven’t had a lot of sleep,” he sighed, looking at his book. “Wanted to get in a little bit of leisure before tonight’s lecture.”  Clarke nodded, understanding the fatigue.

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t try to annoy you,” she said, the corners of her lips curving  up. Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

“You could, but as I recall...” his eyes went over her like hers had earlier.  Hungry, planning. “It’s my turn to get you. And not giving me my turn would break the rules.”  

A shiver went down her spine.  Her thighs pressed together on instinct.  She took a breath to hide her increased heart-rate and chuckled.

“I wasn’t aware that there were rules.”

“All games have rules, Professor,” he whispered. His wand was perched behind his ear as he leaned back to stretch.  He could take it and cast a spell before five seconds had passed. They had never jinxed each other face to face since that first night.  She wondered if he was tempted to do it now.

A rattling at the window dissipated their standoff.  An owl, one of Kane’s, was scrabbling at the glass, wings flapping clownishly.  Clarke opened the window and it dropped onto the table. It shook out its wet feathers, shooting both of them a murderous glare.   Bellamy took the scroll from its leg and offered it a Knut. The owl took the coin and sped off through the open window.

“Who’s it for?” asked Clarke as she pulled the shutter closed.  Bellamy scowled at the envelope.

“Both of us.” Clarke put aside her things and stood over his chair as he opened the letter.  

My office.  3 o’clock.

Kane

They looked at each other, surprise mirrored on their faces.  Bellamy checked his watch. It was ten minutes to the hour.

“We better get moving,” he said, as Clarke packed her papers back in her satchel.  Wordlessly they climbed two staircases to Kane’s office. The silence was heavy as they entered, no sound except  for Kane’s quill and the Sorting Hat’s snores from the corner of the room.

“Sit down,” said Kane, not looking up from his letter.  Clarke and Bellamy sank onto the chairs in front of his desk, exchanging a worried glance.  Kane finally looked up, folding his hands.

“You are two of the finest professors that I’ve ever had at this school, but I will not allow you to be a bad influence on the students.”

Clarke’s brow knit. “What do you mean, Headmaster?”

Kane’s expression was grim.  “I mean Ms. Griffin, that this morning I apprehended a group of students who were turning each others’ noses green.”

A chill ran down her spine, and she sensed Bellamy stiffening beside her.  Kane continued.

“When I asked them about it, they said they were inspired by something that Ms. Griffin did last year to Mr. Blake.” He raised an eyebrow.  “Care to explain?”

Clarke cleared her throat.  “Mr. Blake and I got into a disagreement.  He said something inflammatory about Slytherin, and I should have controlled my temper.”

Kane turned to Bellamy.  “What spell did she use on you?”  

Bellamy shrugged.  “I’m not sure. She did it nonverbally.  All I remember is that she made some comment about the phrase “green with envy”, and next thing I know, I’m walking into a class and my second years are giggling behind their textbooks.”

Clarke hid a laugh by biting the inside of her cheek.  Kane dragged a hand across his face.

“Well, somehow they figured out that particular jinx.  And the charm for dyeing hair, don’t think you are off the hook, Mr. Blake,” he said, looking sternly at Bellamy.  Clarke hid another laugh.

“I’m sorry, Headmaster.  We will be more discreet in the future,” she said.  Bellamy nodded, but Kane shook his head.

“You two will have nothing that you need to be discreet about.  This contest of yours to undermine each other must stop. Maintain nothing but a peaceful, professional relationship, or there will be consequences.  Is that clear?”

A mutual nod.  “Yes sir,” they said in unison.

“Dismissed.”

They parted in silence, not speaking until they had passed the eagle statue.

“Something must have pissed on him today, he’s never cared about this before,” Bellamy muttered. Clarke sighed.

“I should have reversed that charm before you went to class.”

“Didn’t your House love it?” he asked.  She laughed softly.

“Yes, they did.”

Their footsteps took them back to the library.  

“Course they did.  And then you kept the pink hair.”

Clarke shrugged. “It wasn’t as horrible as you hoped.”

She missed Bellamy’s soft smile as she went back to her chair.  

“So now what?” he asked, leaning in with his forearms on his knees. “We can’t keep this going.”

“We could go back to shouting at each other,”  Clarke offered. He chuckled.

“I think Kane would hate that even more.” Bellamy stared at his feet, then back at her.  He extended a hand.

“Truce? I was the one who was cruel first. I’m sorry.”   Clarke shook his hand.

“Truce. I wasn’t perfect either, and I’m sorry.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but something needled at Clarke.  She looked at Bellamy, and she could tell it was needling him as well.

“How am I going to keep you on your feet?” she asked.  “It’s been so fun, this past year and a half.” Bellamy smiled, almost fondly.   

“We’ll think of something.  Maybe a Dueling Day, and make it educational  since it seems to entertain the students.”

“On April Fool’s Day?” Clarke smiled as she opened an inkwell.  “I’ll look forward to it.”

It was not friendship, but it was not hatred anymore.  An armistice.

Clarke could even say that she enjoyed his company for grading, though that would boost his ego far too much.  

Clarke sits low in the professors’ stands watching the green and gold figures zoom past.  Hufflepuff was up by 30 points, but Slytherin’s new Seeker had been on quite a lucky streak.  She glanced over her shoulder at Bellamy, who was sitting a few rows away with Harper. Both of them were wearing Hufflepuff scarves with pride.   She laughed to herself. Only when it was Hufflepuff vs Slytherin did they engage in such petty rivalries. Three years ago, a tenuous match had proven that they could not sit next to each other without acting like turbulent referees.   

She watched with dismay as the third year Chaser Fox landed another goal past Slytherin’s keeper.  

“Mbege’s off his game,” she says quietly to Miller. He nods in agreement.  

“I would talk to him about it, but I’m sure Connor has it covered.”   Clarke looks away from the pitch for a moment, taking a sip from the flash she had brought.  The players zoom in a new formation, and the atmosphere changes.

The Quaffle is on its way back towards the Hufflepuff goals.  Clarke and Miller lean forward in anticipation. The chanting increased in the sea of green  scarves. Number 4, Charlotte, Clarke recalls, zooms up high with the ball but looks over her shoulder.

And she drops the Quaffle.

Screams are suddenly heard from the south end of the pitch.  Black figures flew through the stands and around the hoops like a never-ending swarm.  Clarke shoots up, hand reaching straight for the pocket on the inside of her robes. A few wraiths swooped down by the professors’ stands and Clarke caught sight of an ugly face beneath the hood.  

Dementors.    

She can numbly hear Bellamy shouting directions behind her.  She wants to run up to him, but the stands are cumbersome. She nearly loses her grasp, the willow slippery in the misty weather.   She fumbled with her wand, trying to conjure a happy memory. One of them drew closer, a few feet away.

Wells’ smile? Raven’s laugh? Coming home to her mother?  

“E-Expecto Patronum!”  she shouts. A faint mist of silver streamed from her wand.  The Dementor brushed it away like a piece of silk. Clarke’s arm starts shaking.  Her foot slips on the wet seat and she goes down on a knee. Failure.

She opens her mouth to cast the spell again, but the wraith stretches its mangled hand toward her.  Reaching for her throat. Any uttering of the spell is lost into a chilling scream. The creature tastes her fear and lunges, knocking her to the ground.  

Jake Griffin’s body lying motionless on the floor of the parlor, eyes unseeing.  A murder never solved. Herself at sixteen years old, curled up in the doorframe, small and scared.  Her mother attempting the revive spell over and over, sobbing over her husband.

“Serves his father right for marrying that Mudblood filth. Oh get over yourself, Abigail!”   her aunt screeched in the background.   “Your mother-in law ruined the Griffin bloodline!” snarled another relative.

Clarke felt empty, her warmth draining from her.  Her eyes closed, submitting to the enveloping dullness of gray fog.  

__________

Bellamy had been observing the game with apprehension when the shadowy figures begin flying around the stadium.  He recognizes them, and his heart rate increases. They weren’t supposed to go near the children.

He leaps to his feet, pulling his wand from its slim leather holster on his belt.

“Harper, go alert Kane.  This is a breach of protocol,” he orders.  She nods without a word and flees the stands.  Bellamy’s eyes scan the pitch. The Dementors are still too far away for any spell to hit them. They did not seem to be targeting any of the players, who had flown to the Hufflepuff post in a swarm of green and gold robes. They’ve created a chaos, people screaming and leaving the stands in droves.  A few cloaked figures break away from the herd and hover over the stands. The professors’ Patronuses are weak, caught off guard..

One rogue wraith suddenly comes closer, and Bellamy tracks its movement.  His eyes fall on the its target, a shock of blonde hair that could only be Clarke.  Her wrist is shaking. She stumbles. His chest freezes as he sees its clammy hand knock aside her Patronus.  He sees red when it reaches for her throat.

The screams grow louder, but Bellamy doesn’t listen to them.  His hearing went fuzzy as if a gun had gone off at his ear. He aims his wand at the leeching Dementor, and he doesn’t register if the words Expecto Patronum even leave his mouth.  He pushes the entire essence of the spell from deep within his chest into his hand, and a silver shield emerges.

Multiple memories float up in less than a second, memories of her. He focuses on a stormy night from last year, the two of them in a vacant section of the library.  When she had fallen asleep grading essays and he had abandoned his work to run his hand through her hair.

The shield changes, and a lion’s roar echoes through the pitch.  

The seats shake. The few red robes in the crowd drop their jaws in shock.

Bellamy’s Patronus pounces on the Dementor sapping Clarke, grabbing its neck with shimmering teeth.  It lifts the shrieking wraith easily with its maw, dragging it away several yards. Still holding on, the lion shakes its glittering mane, and the rest of the Dementors scatter.  The trapped wraith flees when the lion drops it, tail swishing as it looks back to its caster.

Bellamy lowers his wand and steps down to the seat where Clarke is laying.  The crowd parts for him, shock stilling the air to nothing more than a few murmurs.   He kneels and sweeps the stray hair off her cheeks. She’s gone horribly pale, but she’s still breathing.  

Enervate, he murmurs, wand pointed at her heart.  A soft glow emerges, and her breathing becomes more apparent.  Her eyes slowly open, and focus hazily on Bellamy.

“Bell?” she murmurs, her voice dazed.  He smiles, keeping his palm firm on her cheek.  

“You’re safe.  You’re going to be alright.  Just rest.”

Clarke faintly nods, her eyes falling shut again.  Her head goes limp in Bellamy’s hand.

“Someone get a stretcher!” he calls out, as he and Miller start to lift her.  Someone comes running into his periphery.

“Bellamy,” says Jasper, panting as if he had run a mile, “Kane wants to talk to you now.”

“Can it wait?” Bellamy growls out, his attention still focused on the unconscious Clarke in his arms.

“He said it was urgent, about the dementors.”

Bellamy curses silently, and hands her off to the medics.  He paces away from the Quidditch pitch, not making eye contact with anyone.  Part of his brain registers that by dinnertime, the entire school will know about what happened.  The other part of him is forcing his head not to turn and look back at the figure on the stretcher.

“She’ll be alright,” he whispers to himself as the castle steps emerge in front of him.

The Third Year

“Mister Woods, you know it is against the rules to take food directly from the kitchens. ” Bellamy said, arms crossed.  The student in reprimand - Aden - looked sheepishly at the jars of jam clutched in his hands.

“We just wanted to throw a party for Ethan.  It’s his birthday.”

Bellamy’s gaze softened.  

“Alright, I’m going to take away fifteen points as the rule for stealing,”  At the boy’s frightened eyes, he held up his hand, “But I’m giving you ten points for being a good friend.  Let this be a lesson.”

Aden nodded, smile appearing on his face. “Thank you Professor Blake!”  

Bellamy rubbed his head affectionately, patting his back before he scampered off.  

He heard gentle laughter and looked up.  Clarke and Jasper were standing there, clearly amused.  

Jasper was a new colleague, and Clarke... he and Clarke had been getting along better. 

“That was very sweet, Professor,” said Clarke, smiling at him.  Bellamy shrugged, rubbing the back of his head.

“They shouldn’t steal but I try to encourage their good intentions.”

“Ever the good father,” Jasper joked as they walked upstairs.  Bellamy looked confused.

“Father, Professor Jordan?”

“You can’t feel the parental aura that glows whenever you’re around them?”  Jasper grinned as they reached the terrace. “Clarke’s got it as well, they call you two ‘Mum and Dad’ behind your backs.”  

“Why on Earth do they do that?” Clarke asked, leaning against the balcony.  

“Besides me, you two give the most points out of all the professors. But unlike me, you will take the most points away.  They all want to be on your good side,” he explained. “And they idolize you.”

Clarke looked  at Bellamy, raising her eyebrows.  “I guess we have that effect.”

“It’s magnified when you two are together, if you ask me,” Jasper added, then he checked his watch. “Oh, I better run.  My class is in ten minutes.”

As he ran off, Clarke shook her head.  “For someone who started this year, he’s not doing bad.”

“Kane saw how successful you’ve been, decided to hire more younger alumni,” Bellamy said.  Clarke couldn’t speak for a moment, surprised by his praise. She nodded, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“That might be the case,” she said.  She turned as Bellamy did to rest their forearms on the balcony.  It was sunset, and the view of the lake from the balcony was stunning.

“Jasper’s right though, the students do seem to love us,”  she added. “Even the ones who aren’t in our Houses.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.  

“The Gryffindors!” she said matter-of-factly. “They love you just as much as they love Lincoln, who’s actually their Head.”

“Ah,” Bellamy nodded, smiling.  “They’re fun to be around.”

Clarke glanced at her hands for a moment before looking back at him.  “You walk like a Gryffindor sometimes. That’s the only way I can phrase it.  Why weren’t you Sorted there as a student?”

The smile disappeared, his face serious.  He stared out at the sun on the lake. “Answering that is a long story.”

“I’ve got time, Bellamy,” she replied. He looked at her, surprised, before staring at his feet.

“So you know I’m from Ireland.”

“The accent gives it away,” she teased. “You were raised in the west, am I right?”

“Yeah, Galway,” he said, a faint smile returning to his face. “My mother was living there, my father studied in Dublin, they met and married.  She kept her name and passed it on to me.”

“You’re speaking in past tense,” she said, reaching to put her hand on his arm.  He grimaced, covering her hand with his. He had found the newspaper articles about the Griffin tragedy.  

“Car accident when I was nine. My grandmother uprooted herself from the Philippines to come take care of me.”

“Amazing woman.”

“She is, and she’s a witch, as was my grandfather and my grandparents on my mum’s side,” he said, pausing for a moment. “But neither of my parents were. I’m the son of Squibs.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows. “So the magic skipped a generation.”

“You surprised?” he asked.  She gave a noncommittal shrug.   

“We don’t know much about Wizard genetics, but having it from both sides of your family, it’s not too surprising that you got it.”

“My parents didn’t think I’d get it.  They had all but sworn off the Wizarding World.  Then I’m-” he looked down to laugh gently, “I’m two years old and I’m sitting on the kitchen floor, making my mum’s vegetables dance.”  

Clarke smiled.  “So they knew you’d go to Hogwarts.”  Bellamy nodded.

“First, they had me go to a boys’ prep school, rather than homeschooling me, and now I’m getting to the reason I wasn’t placed in Gryffindor.”

Clarke didn’t say anything, so he continued.

“The boys there… most of them were kind, just rowdy like all boys are.  But a few of them were mean to me, meaner than I think they realized,” he stared back at the lake, “kept asking me where I was from, even though I lived in their town.”

“That wasn’t kind,” said Clarke.  Bellamy nodded.

“And then when they ticked me off, sometimes a book would fall off the shelf.  They started calling me fairy. Not sure if it was them thinking I was foreign, or them calling me gay, or if they actually caught on to the magic-”

“Professor,”  Clarke cut him off gently. “I think they would have been more scared of you if they actually thought you had magic.”  

Bellamy snorted.  “Good point. So I deal with that for a few years. But then I got my letter. And my first day, I just saw the Gryffindor table, full of rowdy boys like the ones I had gone to school with.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Part of me thought they’d be the same.  I just wanted to learn and have friends.”

“I’m glad you told me that,” said Clarke softly.  

Bellamy nodded, then he chuckled after a moment.  “I find the whole thing so funny.’”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

“The Houses.  Everyone acts as if the traits you value as an 11-year-old define you for the rest of your life.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows. “Don’t let the Sorting Hat hear you say that.”  She looked out at the lake. “Supposedly, he can see all of our destinies and put us on the right path.”

Bellamy let out a bark-laugh. “Oh, he and I do not get along. But you know what I mean?” He raised his hands in the arm and dropped them.  “People change, as they get older. I’ve had students in my House who fit in when they were younger, but now, it seems like they’re trapped. Lumping together everyone with similar personalities, it-it, hinders them from new experiences.”

“The similar personalities do help with House unity though,” Clarke pointed out.  Bellamy nodded.

“It does, until petty feuds emerge because we’re all human.  And it does shite for inter-House unity.”

“That I do agree with,” Clarke said solemnly.  “And the families who base their entire identity around it… utter nonsense.”

“Put it this way,” Bellamy sighed.  “If I got Sorted now, I might choose Gryffindor.  I might not. But that doesn’t matter because 11-year-old me did not have anything that he needed to prove.”  His voice dropped into a softer tone. “11 year old me had my grandmother who made sure I knew that I was loved.”

“What about those boys who thought you weren’t Irish enough?” Clarke asked gently.  Bellamy looked at her, appreciating her tact and empathy.

“They didn’t matter to me, once I got that letter to Hogwarts.  I knew I would make friends here. And even-“ he paused, ruffling his hair.  “Perhaps if the Slytherins on the train had given me a rough time, I might’ve chosen Gryffindor.  But I told them that I was the son of two Squibs, and they couldn’t believe my odds. I wasn’t a freak to them, I was someone who had the luck of the Irish, someone who was…”

“Special,” Clarke said, smiling warmly at him.  Bellamy raised his brows, but there was no ridicule in her eyes.  He nodded, staring down at his wand, which he had been fiddling with.   

“For what it’s worth,” Clarke continued, “You would’ve been good in Gryffindor. Your gentleness would have fit well, made some people better.”

Bellamy ducked his head, processing the praise.   “Yeah, there’s probably a Bellamy Blake somewhere who got a lot of shite thrown at him that he didn’t deserve,” he muttered, “and he’s the red robe of the two of us. That’s my story. “ He looked over to her.  “What’s yours?”

“What?”

You could’ve picked Gryffindor too, Professor…Griffin,” he said, making her laugh.  “Especially with your father, gods rest his soul. So why didn’t you?”

Clarke sighed. “The Sorting Hat told me that I was capable of great influence, if I wanted Slytherin.  That I had a natural crave for success. And at first, I thought about my terrible aunts,” she looked down at her hands, then back at him, “but it said that I wasn’t like them, that I could change the connotations about Slytherin.”  She shrugged. “So I said yes, like all the Calloway women before me.”

“You’re better than they are,” he said firmly, “And you have changed people’s assumptions about Slytherin.”

Her brow knitted. “Whose?”

“Mine,” he said, mouth stretching into a smile.  “ Clarke, I used to be a dick to you, and now I think you’re the greatest Potions professor this school has ever had.”

Clarke blushed mildly, pulling away from the balcony to stretch.  “I like to think that I am better about washing my hair than some of the Potions this school has had.”  Bellamy snorted, then she giggled.

Their laughter rang together, like bells in harmony.  The sun had long since disappeared, and the sky had grown dark.

“Come on,” she called out, “we’ll be late for patrol.”

When Bellamy finally reaches the hospital wing after a long, tense discussion with Kane, there is a stranger pacing in the hospital wing.  She turns around, and her features give her away instantly.

Abigail Griffin, head of St. Mungo’s.

“Ms. Griffin,”  he says, pacing over to the bed where Clarke lies.  He glances over her - sleeping.

“You must be Mr. Blake,” she says, tone devoid of criticism or praise.  He nods, furrowing his brow and crossing his arms over his chest.

“I am.”  

“I was sent a message via Floo, mercifully on my day off,  that my daughter had been the victim of a dementor attack,” her posture is stiff, “I want to speak with Headmaster Kane at once.”  

“He is currently in a meeting with Prime Minister Jaha,” Bellamy replies, “As I recall, he’s your close friend who insisted on the Dementors’ presence.”

“To protect the students from several prisoners who have recently broken out of Azkaban.”   Abby eyes him shrewdly. “If you are the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, surely you’ve some responsibility in this.”  

His pride flares, maybe his lion Patronus has not dissipated yet.  It is one thing for Abigail Griffin to whisk herself to Hogwarts at a moment’s notice for her daughter, it is quite another for her to diminish him and the position he worked years to achieve.

“Ma’am, you are right that I am on the Headmaster’s team for securing the Dementors, but this incident happened through no fault of my own,” he stands his ground as if holding a sword for balance, “I intercepted the bloody thing that attacked Clarke.”  

Abby’s expression changes, drops into something more solemn.  She walks over to Clarke, checks her pulse again, and turns back to Bellamy.

“My apologies, Professor Blake.  Maternal instincts are no excuse for rudeness.  I’ll wait for the Headmaster outside the hospital wing.”  She went towards the exit, and turned one last time to look at Clarke.  

“Hm,” her mouth was a thin line.  “She’s such a talented girl. It’s a pity that her Patronus could not save her.”  

Bellamy feels a weird tug in his chest as she walks away.  Fussing over her daughter, then criticizing her for not mastering a difficult spell not in her field of expertise? He turns to the bed where Clarke lays and sits down in the seat next to her.  

Clarke’s eyes flicker open as he places his hand on hers.  She’s warmer than she was on the pitch.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, pulling his hand away quickly. Clarke sighs, shaking her head.  

“I was only resting my eyes,” she murmurs, peering towards the door.  “Was that my mother just now?”

Bellamy nods.  Clarke lets out a tired sigh.

“She isn’t good at first impressions.”

“Neither am I,” Bellamy jokes, then his expression softens.  “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Clarke raises herself up to sit, propped with a pillow.  “It was… mortifying, all my students seeing me-”

“Ssh, no one is going to think any less of you,” Bellamy puts his hand on her shoulder, “The Patronus is difficult to summon in a state of shock.”   He notices that the tea cup on the nightstand has gone cold. He taps it with his wand, and the contents swirl and steam again. The scent of mint hits his nose, and it seems to perk Clarke up.

“Thank you,” she says, holding the cup in her palms and taking a sip. “I got an A on my OWL for Defense my fifth year.  My inability to produce a corporeal Patronus knocked me down from an E.”

“I got an A in Potions,” says Bellamy.  “I’m not sure there’s any I can brew without a recipe.”

“I guess we all have our skills,” Her eyes are bright as she looks at him over the rim of her cup.  She’s less pale, but her cheeks still lack their usual rosiness.

“I brought this as well,” he takes a chocolate bar from his bag and gives it to her, “Best remedy for a Dementor attack that we’ve found yet.”

“So I’ve heard,” she says softly, taking a piece.  The smile that has finally emerged on her face makes him feel warm.  He turns to stare out the window at the sunset as she hums in content.  He should be getting back to his office and creating the upcoming quiz for his second years.    

“Do you think I’ll still be hearing about this tomorrow?” Clarke sips on her tea, “I know how talk goes around in this castle.”

“No,” Bellamy smiles, “You know Hogwarts - yesterday’s gossip is already old news.”

“I hope that’s the case,” Clarke whispers, setting down her cup and leaning back against the pillow.  Bellamy bids her a quiet goodbye when her eyes flutter shut.

He makes a small but dignified jump onto a moving staircase on his way back to his office. As with his trip to the hospital wing, he catches tidbits of students’ chattering, moreso about him than about Clarke.  

“Fletcher says that Patronus was bigger than a horse!”

“Professor Blake’s got to be a descendant of Gryffindor with a lion like that.”

“Wasn’t he in Hufflepuff when he went here?”

“He seems more like a Gryffindor than a Hufflepuff to me.”

“He saved Professor Griffin’s life! It’s so romantic!”

“Do you think he loves her?”

“Have you seen the way he looks at Professor Griffin?”

Those last comments set off an uneasy feeling in his stomach as he reaches his office.  

He sits down at his desk and kneads his knuckles against his temple.  He truly hopes that by the time Clarke leaves the hospital wing, no one is still talking about his damned Patronus.  Or how he might feel about the Potions Mistress.

The Fourth Year

“So I heard Kane offered you the job for History of Magic?” she asked.  Bellamy nodded.

“But you didn’t take it, why not? You love that stuff.”  

“Would Hogwarts feel right without Thelonious Jaha’s ghost lecturing us all about the Goblin Wars?”  He said it jokingly, but Clarke barely chuckled. He glanced over at the other occupants of the room and then leaned in closer.

“There’s something coming, Clarke.  Just look at the Muggle world, it’s a mess. Anti-Muggleborn sentiment is on the rise, we are hurtling towards something bad.  I want these students prepared for the worst.”

“You don’t want to put their safety into anyone else’s hands?”  she furrowed her brows, watching him with concern.

 Bellamy made a face.  “You mean Diana Sydney who’s been sidling up to Kane for the job? That Ministry hack who will make them read Defensive Magical Theory and pretend that none of  them get hexed or worse for their blood, creed or race?” He shook his head. “No one’s taking this job from me.”

Clarke laid a hand on his arm.

“Kane admires you immensely. And he despises Sydney, you’re not losing the job to her.”  

“Then why offer me History of Magic?” he asked.  Clarke shrugged.

“Maybe he’s really looking for an excuse to get Jaha’s ghost to leave.”  

Bellamy snorted, one side of his mouth quirking up.  “I can see that.” He finishes his cup of tea and reaches for the kettle.  “Jaha was a highly respected headmaster who refused to be confined to a painting, he’s not going anywhere.”  

“Why live in a painting when you can float through walls and bore students to death?” she said, smiling.  

“Maybe if I taught as a ghost, I’d see less hearts drawn in the margins of my students’ quizzes,” mumbled Bellamy.

 Clarke started laughing, a sound that made him feel like he had just drank a warm butterbeer.  

“Oh, do you get that kind of attention from your students?”  he asked, tilting his head. “From the boys?”

“The boys and more. When you’re open about your sexuality, there are a lot of girls who will stay after class to ask questions.  Questions that can be answered if they simply read the textbook,” Clarke said with a knowing look in her eye.

“Oh, of course, it’s always those questions,” chuckled Bellamy, clinking his glass with hers.

“I keep overhearing the most outlandish theories about you and Professor Griffin, you know,” says Lincoln, sipping from his butterbeer.  Bellamy chuckles, raising his own glass.

“I didn’t know Herbology students were such gossips.”  

“It’s mostly the ones I get that come straight from your noon class,” Lincoln replies.  “There’s a Ravenclaw third year who swears she saw you two on a broomstick outside of their tower.”   

Bellamy raises his eyebrows.  

“Quite an apparition. I haven’t used my Nimbus in ages, but perhaps I should take her out on a flight.  You know she overworks herself.”

Lincoln nods in agreement, signaling the barkeep for a second round.  

“Then I’ve heard that you and her are the only two to ever walk from one end of the Forbidden Forest to the other and back again in one night.”

Bellamy smiles. “Now that, is a myth I would shamelessly encourage.”   

“Nothing is more encouraging to their frivolity than your behavior at the match last week,” Lincoln remarks pointedly.  Bellamy feels his cheeks grow warm.

“I would’ve done that for any of my colleagues.”  

“A nonverbal corporeal Patronus?” Lincoln shakes his head.  “Now I know why you had a two minute Hatstall between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff.”   

Bellamy shrugs.  “I didn’t have the courage to pick it at the time. You know the rule about Gryffindors.  But the Sorting Hat still wonders if he made the wrong call.”

“People bring out different sides of us.  Maybe you should consider what Clarke Griffin brings out in you,” Lincoln mutters sagely.   He leaves a Galleon on the table and stands up.

“What, is that all you’re going to say?”  asks Bellamy, eyebrows raised. Lincoln smirks.  

“What? It’s not my problem that you let your feelings spill onto the Quidditch pitch,” he says, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders.  Bellamy sighs, flipping a coin onto the table and following him out.

“My feelings about her are nothing beyond professional,” he protests. Lincoln smiles as if this is an amusing game.

“Oh really? That package from Honeydukes in your hand? For you or for her?”

“Sweets don’t mean anything.”

“Not when someone close to you had a brush with death. Or worse, considering what a Dementor can do.”

Bellamy scowls, and he pulls Lincoln into an alcove outside the pub.  

“Stop it.  I could get into trouble with Kane if he takes this sort of gossip seriously.”

“Bellamy, you’re not going to lose your job,” Lincoln says patiently, “I don’t leave the greenhouses often, but I know that he thinks highly of you.”

Bellamy runs a hand through his hair.  “Then why… why do you keep teasing me about this?”

Lincoln’s grin broadens. “Because you’re so stubborn. It’s funny.”  He looks over his shoulder and waves. “Speak of the devil, she’s over there.”  

Bellamy turns, and Clarke is indeed sitting outside of a small café, surrounded by some of her graduated students, from the looks of it.  She had switched out of her professorial robes for a Muggle-style coat which hugged her figure. The scarlet made her blonde hair even brighter, glowing in the streetlights. Bellamy laughs to himself. She’s Gryffindor’s colors, the house neither of them got into, despite her surname and his overall personality.

He peers back at Lincoln, who regards him with a raised eyebrow.

“My students are right,” he says with a chuckle, “you do have puppy eyes for that woman.”  

“Bug off,” Bellamy mutters, without anger.  Lincoln claps him on the shoulder and strides away.  

By now the students have left, and Clarke is alone at the table.  She catches his eye and waves him over.

“That chocolate better not be for me, Professor Blake,” her tone is firm, but her eyes are warm.  

“Professor Griffin, final exams will soon be upon us,” he says, pushing the box toward her, “ and I have to ensure that you’ve fully healed from your altercation with a Dementor.”

“I’m fine, you’re the one still fussing about it,” she waves off his worry and pulls a chair open for him.  “We can share these on the carriage back.” He sits down and accepts her offer to buy a drink for him.

A few dozen feet away, he swears he can feel Lincoln smirking at him.   

The Fifth Year

“Do you want to know why I teach Potions?”   

“Natural affinity?”  Bellamy guessed. Clarke shook her head, spinning her drink with the straw.  

“More than that.  My sixth year, I went out with a boy who I genuinely liked.  His name was Finn. Things were good, until I found out that he was dating another girl. We found out together in Hogsmeade,” she said. Bellamy winced before his eyes flickered with recognition.

“Raven was the girlfriend.”  

Clarke nodded. “And now she and I teach together.  Small world.” She smiled, but it faded quickly.  

“I broke it off with him, but Finn persisted.  He said he was in love with me.” Clarke watched the muscle tick in Bellamy’s jaw before pressing forward.  

“I went to the Three Broomsticks with him one more time, to act as friends, try to get it through his head.”  She swallowed thickly. “And that was the time I caught him trying to spike my drink with a love potion.”

Bellamy’s expression saddened, contrasting the unconscious clench of his knuckles on the table.  

“I’m so sorry,”  he said softly. Clarke sighed.

“That was over ten years ago, Bellamy, I’m fine,” she tilted her head. “Now I’m fine.  Back then, I got scared. Most infatuation draughts, you can’t taste them, you’re in a state of bliss until the effects wear off.  You start getting paranoid, though, wondering if they had given them to you at the very start. You learn to doubt your own feelings.”  

Bellamy’s brow furrowed.  “Did this happen to you more than once?”

Clarke makes an uncertain face, and his heart sinks.

“I’m not sure. After I left Hogwarts, I worked at St. Mungo’s for a couple years. Met someone in the Auror program. And she was lovely, gave me the attention that I wanted.  Once while we were out, her bag dropped and I went to pick up everything that spilled out,” Clarke took a deep breath, “And what do I pick up, but a vial of Amortentia.”

“Good gods,” Bellamy mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.  His other hand finds Clarke’s wrist and rubs it soothingly.

“I could have given her the benefit of the doubt.  She might have been using it for an assignment. But all my instincts told me to run, not to fall into the same trap again.”

“And you don’t want your students falling into these traps,”  Bellamy said. Clarke nodded.

“I only teach the sixth years to brew Amortentia because it’s required by the school, and I make sure all of it is Vanished after the classes.” She takes a sip.  “I make them research the effects, how to spot those affected, what to do, who to tell....everything I can.”

Bellamy cocked his head.  “Doesn’t the Potions Master keep an inventory of everything in the curriculum?”

Clarke sighed. “Because it’s required of me, I do have a vial of Amortentia.  I keep it in a box that only opens to my touch.”

She stared off for a moment, and then made a disgusted face.  “The Ministry still hasn’t made it a crime to be caught using it, isn’t that awful?  The Muggles are hardly better with this sort of matter but at least they know how dangerous these mind-altering substances can be.”

“Muggles have a cruder variant,” Bellamy’s voice was low, bitter.  Clarke hummed a soft noise of agreement. After a few moments, Bellamy’s attention jumped to the clock.  It was close to striking midnight.

“I should be going,” he stood up and Vanished his tea cup.  “Would you, would you like me to walk you back to your chambers?”  

Clarke smiled at him and laughed gently.

“I find your Gryffindor tendencies quite charming, Bellamy.”    

“Why do-, those red-robes think they own the notion of chivalry,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.  “Hufflepuffs can be polite too, you know.”

“I do know,” she assured him, tugging at his stiff posture. She put her hand in the crook of his arm as they started to walk out.  “Everyone loves having a badger for a best friend, especially us Slytherins.”

“Whatever,” Bellamy rolled his eyes, but a warm feeling spread all over him at the words ‘best friend.’

They arrive back from Hogsmeade, and Clarke does not hear from Bellamy for a few days.  He mumbles something one morning at breakfast about a lengthy correspondence with Indra Blackthorn, the head of the Auror Department at the Ministry.  

So she sits back, plans her lessons, and tries not to think about the upcoming Amortentia day for her sixth years.  

On Saturday, Clarke dons an old Hogwarts cardigan, unbraids her hair, and sets up shop in the teacher’s lounge.  Sitting on the floor, she busies herself with easy potions, pushing all her frazzled thoughts to the side. Gaia Blackthorn, the Ancient Runes professor, smiles at her from the armchair across the room, exchanging tea leaves with Divination instructor Luna Clearwater.  

They exchange polite greetings but do not open up a conversation.  

It’s a little odd of her to sit on the floor, queer, one might even say, but Clarke feels no obligation for Slytherin dignity.   

She is pleasantly surprised when Bellamy comes into the teacher’s lounge around noon, hair disheveled and tie askew.   Clarke smiles at him over the rim of her portable cauldron.

“What’cha brewing?” he asks, dropping into the seat next to her.

“Pepperup,” she says, stirring with one hand and reaching for her tea with the other.  “Would you like some?”

Bellamy chuckles, running a hand through his curls.  “I seem a bit peaky, don’t I?”

Before she can siphon anything into his cup, a sharp, rattling noise interrupts the room.  It’s high up, through the ceiling.

All the lounge’s occupants gaze upward, even Luna looks away from the crystal ball she carries everywhere.  

“That sounded like it came from the upper study,” Gaia mutters, furrowing her brows.  Bellamy cocks his head as the sound repeats itself.

“Something is stuck in the desk drawer up there,” he murmurs.  He sighs, setting aside his books. “It’s a boggart. I’ll go deal with it.”

“You sure?” Clarke starts to get up from her cross-legged position on the floor.  Bellamy stops her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, picking up his wand and twirling it between his fingers.  He leaves the lounge and Clarke returns to her potion, trying to tune out Luna’s retelling of her most recent predictions to Gaia.  The rattling soon stops, and Clarke starts humming as her potion changes to the correct color.

But after a few minutes, she stops her stirring.  

Something is wrong, not with the potion, but with the atmosphere.

It’s too quiet.

“Bellamy should be back by now,” she mutters to herself.  She would hear his footsteps coming back down the stairs.

Riddikulus!  

His yell is loud enough to be heard from below.  Gaia almost spills her ink bottle.

“He’d never shout for a boggart,” says Luna, her voice rising into a concerned tone.  

“Something is wrong,” whispers Clarke.  She snuffs out the jar of blue flames heating her cauldron.  The bubbling contents get Vanished, potion be damned. “I’ll go up there,” she says, crossing the room quickly and taking the stairs two at a time.

They hear him again.  

Riddikulus!  

Clarke’s heart races as she freezes on the top step, a pace away from the study.  Bellamy’s spell casting voice was always clear, confident. He sounds desperate, on the verge of tears.  

Clarke opens the door and her stomach lurches.  

Bellamy’s wand arm is shaking, his eyes watering as he keeps trying to cast the spell.   The boggart is on the floor.

Clarke, dead with blood blossoming from her heart.  

Bellamy tries once more and fails.  The boggart shifts form, still Clarke but in different clothes, the robes she wore during the Quidditch match.  Her eyes are open and vacant, like she had just received the Dementor’s kiss. Bellamy shakes his head, face contorted with pain.  

Clarke places her hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.  He does not respond except to lean against it, as if afraid of looking away from the monster for even a moment.

“It’s lying to you. You’re stronger.”

Bellamy takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. He points his wand again, the muscles in his arm taut.

“ Riddikulus ,” and this time his voice is strong, confident, almost a snarl.  The boggart vanishes without shifting, as if frightened away.

Clarke looks at Bellamy.  He’s breathing hard, tear tracks visible on his cheeks.  His eyes are still fixed on the spot where her corpse had been.  

“Hey,” her voice is soothing and gentle. She puts her hand on his cheek.  

“Come back to me, Bell. I’m here.”

His eyes catch hers and tears start flowing again. She wraps her arms around his middle right as he pulls her into his chest.  

Clarke rocks on the balls of her feet, pressing her lips against the bare skin of his shoulder where his collar had been pushed aside.  She feels his face at her neck, his hand holding her braided hair like it was an anchor.

“It had always been Kane telling me that I’d been sacked,” he says, his voice raw and broken.  Clarke hugs him tighter, ignoring the tears soaking her robe.

“I would’ve seen you too, Bellamy.  It would’ve been you.”

 He pulls back to look at her.  His lips part, arms still around her.  A moment passes, maybe two.

Brown eyes gaze into blue.  

Clarke exhales, feeling the two of them on a precipice.  She takes a breath and closes her eyes, leans in just noticeably.

“Clarke,” he says in a rasp, and she nods.

“Yes?”  

“I just…”

“What is it, Bell?”

“Don’t, don’t tell the others about this, what it was.”

Her eyes fly open, and Bellamy is searching them for some signal he must have missed.  

“Y-Yes, this can stay between us,” she says, nodding vigorously.   He exhales, pulling her back into a brief but full embrace.

“Thank you,”  he says, rubbing circles on her back.  She fixes the lock on the desk as he wipes his face with a handkerchief.

“A stubborn little bugger, that was,” he says to the lounge as they enter again. “But all in a day’s work for the two of us.”

“More like a few minutes,” says Clarke, settling back at her cauldron.  Bellamy sits in an armchair and unfolds a copy of The Daily Prophet .  As the room quiets again, she looks over to him.  His eyes are clearer, his skin had lost the exhausted pallor from earlier.  Maybe he needed that cry.

She turns back to her ingredients before anyone notices her staring, but a few minutes later, he has her attention again.  His curls are their typical scruffy, and he’s rolled the sleeves on his dress shirt. His feet are crossed on the ottoman and his wand is tucked behind his ear.  His brow is relaxed and he’s not clenching his jaw, meaning the newspaper most likely printed an interesting feature instead of indulging in Rita Skeeter’s latest drivel.  

He’s soft, charming, achingly handsome.  

Clarke shuts her eyes.  She’s been thrown by the reality that her Dementor attack had affected him so deeply.  Having grown close over the years, she realizes that the fondness in their dynamic had skyrocketed over the past weeks because of that event.  

And the attraction to him, which she had accepted and compartmentalized ages ago, is now more difficult to hide.  

She lets out a deep sigh, and she starts rebrewing the Pepperup Potion.

The Sixth Year

“Are you headed to the Owlery too?” he asked her on a warm evening in March.  Clarke nodded.

“I’ve been busy all day, I haven’t been able to pen this letter until now.”  

“Lola said she was sending me something, want to walk with me?”

“Bellamy, would I ever say no?” she teased fondly, falling into step with him.  They climbed to the top of the West Tower and covered their noses.

“You’d think after a thousands years they’d hide this stench with some sort of magic,” he commented.  

“The medievals were prone to shitting themselves, they were probably used to far worse,”  Clarke waved the air in front of her face with her letter.

The Owlery was a flurry of hoots and flapping wings.  Selene spotted them almost immediately. She fluttered down to Clarke’s shoulder and cooed happily.  

“Hello sweetie,”  Clarke ran her hand gently across her owl’s feathers.  “Why don’t you say hi to Bellamy?”

Selene turned to Bellamy and gave him a distasteful stare.

“Nice to see you too,” he said dryly.  Clarke laughed.

“You two just haven’t spent that much time together,” she put the letter on Selene’s leg and brought her to one of the windows. “We could fix that.”  

“How so?” Bellamy crossed his arms.  Clarke gave Selene a lift into the sky.  

“Well, uh,” she crossed her arms as well.  “I’m probably not going to spend my summer with my mom.  Which means that I’ll be on my own for a couple months.” She bit her lip.  “If I wrote you letters, would you send me some back?”

“Of course,” Bellamy smiled, reaching out to touch her arm.  “Do you want to come visit? Lola would love to have you.” Clarke shook her head.

“I’ll have work. And I don’t want to be a burden.”   

He raised his eyebrows. “She loves guests, you wouldn’t be.”

She smiled, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t want to intrude on you spending time with her, I know you don’t see her for most of the year.”

“Give it some thought,” he said.  “We can take you to some great cèilidhs .”    

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen Aberdeen after a football victory, my expectations are high.”

“Less chaos than that, I promise,” Bellamy chuckled.  At that moment, a golden owl flew in, carrying a package in its talons.

“Helios!” he called out.  The owl dropped the package into his hands before perching on his shoulder.  “Nice to see you too,” he whispered as Helios nuzzled his beak against his cheek.

“Is that a broomstick?” Clarke asked, eyes lighting up in glee. Bellamy nodded, reading the letter that Lola attached.

“She said she was tired of it collecting dust,” he laughed. “My old Nimbus 2000.”  He unwrapped it and ran his hand down the polished wood. “It’s still good, no splinters.”

“Didn’t you win a House Cup on that broom?” asked Clarke. Bellamy looked up in surprise.  She pushed her hair behind her ear as she stared at the birds roosting.

“I was a first year when you were in sixth,” she said, dropping to a mumble to add, “some people had a bit of a crush on you.”  

Bellamy seemed confused.  “They did? I was only a Keeper.”

“A Keeper who regularly had shutout games,” Clarke reminded him.  He smirked.

“Did you have a crush on me as well?”

She blushed. “Only my second year.  Then you graduated.”

Bellamy chuckled, staring out at the night sky through the Owlery’s windows.  It was a full moon and a cloudless sky, illuminating the entire grounds. The air was warm with a cool breeze.  Perfect for flying.

“Do you know how to ride a broom?” he asked. “Every witch should, according to tale.”  

“I do,  but I was never good enough to get on a team” she responded, then she looked up at him, eyes wide. “Why?”

Something mischievous danced in his eyes. “Do you have anything you must do tonight? Grading, planning?”  

Clarke shook her head, a matching grin soon appearing on his face. “No. Do you?”

Bellamy sighed.  “Some grading, but it can wait. I feel like I’m never done with work these days.”

“Patient Hufflepuffs are true, and unafraid of toil,” she sang to him teasingly.  

“Not tonight,” he whispered, a grin emerging on his face. “I haven’t flown in ages. Come with me.”

“Will it hold both of us?” she wondered, brows tense.   

“It will, Clarke. I promise.”

She seemed hesitant for a moment longer, then excitement sparkled across her features.  They paced down to the grounds, not realizing that they were holding hands the entire way.  

“Alright,” Bellamy said as he straddled the broom. “Just hold on tight.”

“Like riding a bicycle, isn’t it?”

“In theory, yes.”

Clarke wrapped her arms around his middle, squeezing tight.   They took off into the air, slow at first but soon catching a draft.  The wind whipped through Bellamy’s curls and knocked the braid out of her hair.  Bellamy turned back to her, his face full of joy. Hers was too, as she laughed. The air was cool but Bellamy was warm as she hugged him to her chest.

They circled the castle, coming dangerously close to a lit window in the Ravenclaw tower.  She felt tension unravel from Bellamy’s shoulders, and her own felt lighter as well. She didn’t know that flying could be such a good stress reliever.  They flew over the Lake and the Forbidden Forest. Through the Quidditch pitch and around the train tracks.

They flew well past the zenith of the moon.

He touched down at the closest entrance to the Slytherin common room.  Rusty from lack of practice, his descent was bumpy. They ended up falling to the ground in a heap together, Clarke’s face landing pillowed on his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, helping her up.  Clarke dusted the grass off her robes.

“Not a problem,” she said, a bit breathlessly.  “That was amazing.”

Bellamy ran a hand through his wind-spun curls  “Yeah.” He picked up his broom and peered around the grounds.  Silence, except for the sound of crickets.

“What are you looking for?”  she asked. He leaned in closer.

“Any sign that we got caught,” he whispered, something sly appearing on his face.  It was unauthorized flying.

Exhilarating, unauthorized flying.  

Clarke grinned hard, her cheeks already chilled from the wind and beginning to hurt.  A dog barked in the distance from the groundskeeper’s hut. Their magic evaporated.

“Professor Blake, what we did was very reckless,” she said quietly as they crept back into the castle.

“Very reckless or very brave, Professor Griffin?” he quipped.

“Does a Gryffindor know the difference?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Bellamy snorted as they stopped outside of the Slytherin common room.  

“Maybe I am one at heart,” he murmured. “Daring, nerve and chivalry, the works.”

Clarke said the password and opened the Slytherin door hesitantly.  Seeing no one inside, she entered and peered her head back out at him.

“Well, if you do feel like a lionheart, Bellamy,” she whispered, eyes twinkling, “then take me flying again sometime.”  

The silence felt like a weight as she shut the door. Bellamy walked back to the Hufflepuff quarters, feeling slightly lightheaded.

As if he had woken up from a dream.

An hour after dinner, Bellamy is back in his office grading essays.  Halfway through his stack, and he knows that he’ll have to stretch for that pain in his back soon.  He marks full credit on Zoe Monroe’s vampire thesis and sets it down to crack his knuckles and refill his tea cup.  She’s the brightest of his fifth years, sure to receive an O in Defense come springtime. He’s considering personally mentoring her, and he has a feeling that he’ll be writing her recommendation letter to Indra in a few years.  

Before he can pick up the next scroll, there’s a knock at the door.  

“Come in,” he says, expecting Kane. He nearly drops his quill when Clarke enters instead.  

“Have a minute?” she asks.  He nods, taking the essay stack and putting it aside.

“I don’t have to give those back until Monday,” he mutters as she tugs his armchair closer to his desk.   She takes off her cloak, revealing a faded t-shirt and jeans.

“Has your week gotten any easier?”

Bellamy sighs, putting his glasses down to rub his eyes.  

“Ups and downs, you know how it is.”  He cleans the lenses on his shirt and puts them back on.   

‘How about you?”

Clarke sighs, resting her elbows on her thighs, jaw cupped in her palms.  

“Not amazing,” she admits.  “I had a nightmare about the Dementor last night.”  

“That’s pretty common,” says Bellamy, opening the top drawer.  “In fact, I was almost anticipating it.” He takes out a packet and pours its contents into a mug.  He adds milk from the creamer on his desk. One tap with his wand, and steam rises from the drink. He offers it to her.  

Clarke takes a sip, and her brows shoot up in delight.

“Peppermint hot chocolate?” she asks, smiling.  “How did you know that was my favorite?”

Bellamy shrugs.  “Your favorite tea is mint, and when the weather gets colder, you always swap it for hot chocolate.”

“It’s always difficult to find, I thought only Muggles made it with mint,” she murmurs, drinking it steadily. The steam has made her cheeks a touch rosier.  Bellamy feels heat rise to his own face, and he distracts himself with rearranging his quill jar.

“Honeydukes had it on one shelf, I was lucky.”

“True luck or did you take Felix Felicis?” she asks, smiling slightly.  Bellamy grins.

“I haven’t brewed that since I was a student.  My Potions partner nearly scalded both of us when he messed up a step.”

Clarke sinks down into the plush armchair, looking at him over the rim of the mug. Her expression is pleasant at first, but it dims slowly, her eyes becoming distant.    

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, pushing his chair towards the corner of his desk to be closer to her.  

She takes a deep breath, cup trembling slightly in her hand.  She sets it down on a piece of blank paper on his desk, flicking her wand to turn the paper into a coaster.

“I need your help.”

“With what?” his brows creases in concern.  

“I can’t… I can’t be that afraid again,” she says all in one breath, biting her lip to keep it from quivering. “God, I haven’t done a Patronus in years, I feel as silly as a third yea-“

“It’s alright,” Bellamy’s tone is soft.  “What do you need?”

Clarke looks up at him, her blue eyes seeming green under the light of his lamp. “I can’t master the spell on my own.”  Her hands fumble with the wand held in her lap. “Will you teach me?”

Bellamy’s jaw clenches, and he turns away from her for a moment.  

“Clarke….you saw me fail with a damned boggart.”

“And I saw your fear,” she responds, her eyes pleading with him.  “I’m asking you to teach me so that fear won’t ever become real again.”

He stares at his fists for a few moments, then he uncurls them with an exhale.

“Alright,” he says slowly, standing up from the desk. “But you can’t get a corporeal Patronus in one try if it’s been years.”

“I’ve been making attempts for the past couple weeks,” says Clarke, following him to an open space in the room.  

“That’s at least something. How far have you gotten?”

“A small shield.  Not big enough to withstand anything.”   

Bellamy pulls his wand from its holster.  “So a trick is that you don’t focus on the happy memory, not at first.  You have to let your mind completely clear itself. Like a blank canvas.”

He closes his eyes, and holding the hawthorne reed aloft.  A soft glow emerges, in the wispy blue light of a Patronus.  It doesn’t take form, suspending freely in the air.

“Trying to start the spell a state of panic never works,” he says, opening his eyes.   

The light further emanates.   

“You can do it without the summon,” Clarke says breathlessly, eyes amazed.  

“Years and years of practice,” Bellamy replies. “But you’ll need to use the words.  Placing the emphasis on the middle syllables is usually the best pronunciation.”

Clarke nods, shutting her eyes.  She draws her own wand and raises it to shoulder length. “So I hold it here? Or is it a high-hand spell?”  

“Bit higher, so more like..” Bellamy stands behind her, hand soft on her forearm as he elevates the position, till her wrist is above her head. His other hand cups her shoulder. “About there.”

Clarke lets the weight of her arm fall into Bellamy’s hand for a moment.  The sensation dizzies him, and he doesn’t want to let go just yet. She’s warm, her skin soft under his fingertips. She smells like mint, lavender, and something else entirely her, a blend that soothes his mind and exhilarates his heart.

“That’s uh, that’s good,” he mutters, dropping his hands away and taking a few steps back.  “Try it out.”

Clarke nods again, taking a deep breath. A definite pause, Bellamy can sense that she’s had practice with meditation.  

“ Expecto Patronum ,” she whispers, and a feeble light shines in the dim, candle-lit room. Her voice is sweet to his ears, but the wrong tone for the spell.

“More power,” says Bellamy. “It’s not a lullaby.”

Clarke clears her throat.  “ Expecto Patronum !” she calls out at the volume of her teaching voice.  The light grows, and the power of it makes her hand tremble.

“Keep it steady,”  Bellamy walks around the room.  “Whatever you’re thinking about, let it flow through you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The happiness. It’s in your head, you can channel it straight to your wand hand.”  Bellamy takes a few paces back towards. “It helps you concentrate, it’ll make for a more powerful projection.”

Clarke grimaces, and the spell falters.  Bellamy puts a hand on her shoulder again.

“Relax, don’t force it,” he whispers, “The Patronus is your guardian, a manifestation of your soul.”  He feels the tension in her shoulders loosening at his words. “Frustration, self-deprecation, the negativity towards yourself is only going to hinder it from appearing.”  

Clarke braces herself, and raises her wand again.  

“That’s the importance of a clear mind,” his voice soft at her ear, “You need to drive out every voice that makes you feel small or scared, anything that makes you think you’re not good enough.  Drive all of it away.”

“ Expecto Patronum !” she call it out, her voice almost echoing off the walls.  A silver-white shield emerges. Bellamy takes his hand off her shoulder.  Clarke’s eyes are shut, but her face is calm this time. Confident in herself.  

The shield billows out, reaching a diameter that would impede the average Dementor.  Bellamy grins broadly.

“Well done, Professor Griffin.  Can you hold it?”

“I think so!”  Clarke beams, and he sees her eyes squint for a moment. Trying to pull out the creature.  

He peers into the shield, pacing around it again.   There’s certainly something trying to take shape. It seems mammalian.  Definitely on the larger side, too. That doesn’t surprise him. Clarke is a powerful witch, and once she masters this spell,  many evil spirits will fear her.

“I think I can feel it, Bellamy! I can make it take form!” she calls out, her knuckles tightening around her wand.     

“Clarke, wait a second-”

His warning is too late.  The Patronus bursts and Clarke stumbles back onto the rug.

“That was a very good attempt, but you overexerted yourself,” he says, sitting down beside her.  “Like I said, I didn’t expect it to take shape tonight.”

Clarke puts her wand behind her ear and wrings her hands.  “I’m glad I made some progress, but yikes! It’s like holding a match for too long.”  

“It’ll fade,” Bellamy assures her.  

“Do you have any more of that peppermint hot chocolate?” she asks.  Bellamy nods, then he smiles as he looks over her hair.

“What?”

“You have your wand behind your ear.  You hate when I do that.”

“No, I’ve said you shouldn’t use it as a head-scratcher, there’s a difference,” she mildly corrects him,  “can’t risk you singeing off that beautiful hair.”

“You’re my friend just to admire my hair, huh?” Bellamy chuckles.  Clarke makes an assertive hum as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“I suppose you have some other good qualities.”  

“Like what?”

“Being perfect, at everything except Potions.”

He lets out a soft laugh and wraps his arm around her affectionately.  The moment suspends itself, and they are happy just to sit side by side in the stillness.  

“I can teach you every spell to ward off the demons of the night, except for the ones in your head,” he says sadly. Clarke reaches over to take his hand in her own.  

“I can’t thank you enough, Bellamy,” she whispers, “I know you were the one who drove that Dementor away from me.”  

“I’d do it again a thousand times,” he lets out a breath. “Don’t worry over that.”  

“When that thing….touched me,” tears sting her eyelashes, “I thought I would never feel happiness again.”

“Neither did I,” he confesses.

Her head comes up from his chest, and she finds his eyes. No more words are needed.

There’s devotion there, in those stunning brown eyes, reciprocated by her gaze. Overflowing and so, so close to spilling down his face and onto his lips.  Her eyes imagine that path, finding his mouth and wondering what it would be like to be as familiar with the touch of them as she is with the tone of his voice.  

Bellamy’s breath seems a little ragged as he presses his forehead against Clarke’s. It’s half of an approach, half of an invitation.  It’s a gesture waiting, hoping for a response.

“Hey Bellamy?” an outside voice calls from the doorway. “Is Clarke with you?”

They break apart instantly, whipping around and standing up as the castle’s caretaker, John Murphy swaggers into the office.

“Yes? What is it?” asks Clarke sharply, smoothing her hair behind her ears.  Murphy regards both of them with an amused expression.

“Headmaster Kane needs to discuss something with you, he asked me to find you.” He crosses his arms. “So I knock at your office, I check the Great Hall, I look in the library, when I should’ve known that you’d be-”

“Why didn’t Kane send me an owl?” she snarls through gritted teeth. Murphy raises his hands.

“Said it was urgent.”   Clarke sighs, turning back to Bellamy.

“Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”  At his nod, she leaves the room, shooting Murphy a true Slytherin glare as she passes.  

As the door shuts, Murphy snickers to himself.

“Does Kane know about you and her yet? He’ll be pissed .”

“Shut up Murphy,” Bellamy growls. “Get out of my office.”

“Touchy,”  he responds with disdain.  “By the way, Kane didn’t say urgent, I just wanted to make her mad.”

“Can you go be a massive prick somewhere else?” Bellamy’s eyes narrow.  “I have work to do.” He paces back to his desk with his wand clenched in his hand.

“Didn’t ‘Work’ just walk out the door?”

“ENOUGH!” Bellamy yells, causing red sparks to shoot out and bounce around the room.  

“Yeez, alright,” Murphy mutters, dodging one of the sparks as he leaves.  He shuts the door loudly, and the silence following is abrupt.

Bellamy collapses back at his desk, rubbing his temples.  He should probably just go to bed now, ward off this unbearable headache.   His eyes fall on the mug that he had given to Clarke. He turns its halfway, and there on the brim is an imprint of pink lipstick.

“I’m such an idiot,” he whispers, unable to stop himself from running his thumb over the mark.  

June 25, the Summer before the Seventh Year

Dear Clarke,

I hope this letter finds you well.  Leaving Hogwarts for the summer isn’t always an easy transition.  I’m not sure anyone here can match you for wit and patience. Except Lola, of course.  And she’s doing well. I’m taking her to a Quidditch match at the end of July, and she’s very excited.  She likes to listen to them on the radio, and she thinks it’s silly that the Ministry hasn’t been able to sanction a Wizarding television network yet.  “The Muggles have cameras which can capture every moment in a football game, why haven’t the wizards done the same?” she tells me. I suppose that’s the difference between technology and magic.  One’s more powerful, but the other evolves astronomically.

Galway’s had good weather.  Yesterday I went to the cliffs, and it was so peaceful.  Nothing but the wind against the grass, the clouds overhead, and the crash of waves against the rocks.  I enjoy the solitude, though it would be nice if you were here with me. The tranquility is a nice relief from going into town, having to actively pretend that I don’t have magic. There’s been a few protests over antiquated laws recently.  I’m not sure what to say when people try to discuss it with me. I can understand one side, and I know why the other side feels the way it does, but these regulations do not affect me in any way. And it’s best that we do not interfere in their affairs.  Druids were tyrants over them once, and that was a mistake. Separation is the best way to ensure peace.

That’s all I have for now.  I think I’ll go for a walk in the forest and hope the Fair Folk don’t try to snatch me away.  I adore my grandmother, but she has been incessant about visiting Hogwarts, and I haven’t made any arrangements with the headmaster yet.  Getting out of the house is difficult when you want to spend your days in an armchair with a book.

Give my best to your mother, and keep your head up.  We’ll be together again before long.

Always Yours,

Bellamy

“I never thought I would say this,” Bellamy mutters, sitting on the armchair he dragged in from Clarke’s office. “But I’m so disappointed in your star pupil.”

Clarke sighs, picking up a bottle from her inventory and inspecting it.  

“We should have known that Madi Rowland and Jasper Jordan conspiring together would be disastrously mischievous.” She shakes her head in shame.   

“Perhaps it is our own fault, for the spells we used to do to each other?”

“I suppose we reap what we sow.”

Bellamy shakes his head, dabbing a spot of ink off his trousers. “To send a hundred canaries into my office…. The amount of shit over the floors and my desk....”

Clarke giggles, “It’s a good thing you’re so tidy, you might’ve had to give full scores on account of ruined essays.”

“Thank the gods I had cleaned up earlier,” Bellamy says.  “I would be contemplating murder if my books were damaged.”

“Oh, look on the bright side Professor,” Clarke says coyly, peering over her shoulder at him.  “You don’t have to clean it up,” she smiles smugly to herself, “We persuaded Kane that Murphy needs to do it.”

Bellamy lets out a full-bodied laugh.  “That was brilliant. What he deserves for interrupting your practice.”

A memory of what Murphy actually interrupted flickers through his head, and he clears his throat.   “Thank you for letting me grade in here. The Great Hall’s too loud and the library’s full on students who will look over my shoulder.”  

“Of course, it’s the least I can do,” says Clarke as she rummages through the shelf.  “You have been tutoring me these past few evenings, free of charge.”

“Just paying you back for putting up with me all these years,” Bellamy smirks, underlining a poor piece of grammar in Sterling’s analysis.  

“Oh stop it,” Clarke mutters.  For the next few minutes, there’s no noise except the scritch of Bellamy’s quill and the clinking of bottles as she organizes her extensive array of Potions.  

Bellamy notices the silence and looks up from the grading.  Clarke is standing in front of him, holding a small wooden box.  Her jaw is clenched, and her knuckles are white against the mahogany of the box.  

“Is that...”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods, pressing her thumb to the circular lock on the cover.  It pops open. Bellamy puts his work down to walk over to her. The vial is shimmering slightly, opal and mother of pearl hues swirling together.  

“This potion is Maya Vie’s,” she says quietly.  “She brewed it best during my first year of teaching, and I asked her if I could keep it for my inventory.”

“So you wouldn’t have to make it over the summer.”

Clarke nods, letting out a deep sigh.   “But Potions go bad, and once they lose their magic,  they slowly evaporate, so….” her fingers fumble on the edge of the box.  Bellamy puts his hand over hers.

“How would I tell if it’s expired?” he asks, tone gentle.  Clarke looks at him incredulously.

“Y-You’d do that?”

“Of course,” his other hand finds her shoulder.  “I know how difficult this potion is for you to handle.” He rubs a soothing circle against her robes.  “So let me do it.”

Clarke pulls away, one hand brushing her hair behind her ear. “Uh, alright, you’re going to want to stand a distance away to get a clear sense.”  She takes a breath. “You have to open the vial and smell it.”

Bellamy’s brow furrows. “Smell it?”

“Yes, smell it! I know you nearly failed Potions, but Amortentia gives off unique aromas to everyone.” She pushes the box toward him.  “If it’s still good, you’ll be able to smell something distinct.”

“Alright,” Bellamy mutters, taking it and going to the opposite corner of the room.  He sets the box down and picks up the vial. It seems to gleam even brighter from the warmth of his palm.  He shudders slightly. There’s half a dozen poisons hidden behind various enchantments in Clarke’s stores, but this potion is just as terrifying.  

He uncorks it, and a tiny diamond-dust mist rises.  Hesitatingly, he wafts it toward his face.

Layers of sensation emerge.  The first one is old paper, and the leather of book-bindings.  It reminds him of the library and his private bookshelf. A comforting scent.  

The next aroma is coconut, with a dash of honey and sugar.  Bellamy scowls for a moment, then his expression softens into a smile as he realizes what it is.  Bibingka, the Christmas cake his lola makes in the traditional way, even though she’s lived in Galway for the past ten years.  It’s how she has bribed him to come home every single holiday, as if he would ever choose to stay at the castle.  The scent is familiar, and welcoming, like the motherly tone she says “ anak ko ” with as she pulls him in for a hug and several kisses.   

The next scent is also Christmas, but a different aspect of it.  Wintry, and fresh. It’s mint. Exactly the same sharpness as herbal tea.  

Clarke’s favorite.

He looks around the room, thinking that maybe other smells are dissipating into his senses.  She’s busy, deep within the cupboard and unaware of his deer-in-the-headlights reaction. There’s no teacups in sight on the table.  Bellamy sighs, shaking his head and trying to clear his mind.

He inhales again, trying to focus on old paper and coconut, but the final smell hits him again.  

Mint, then a burst of lavender, and then, just to sucker him in the gut, is the smell of Clarke’s hair and her skin and everything that he’s had far too many daydreams about.  He falls back against the wall, the vial nearly slipping from his grasp. He shuts his eyes and recorks the vile thing.

“Well, has it gone bad? Do I need to rebrew it?” Clarke calls out.

“Nope,” Bellamy stammers.  “However Maya made this, it’s pretty strong.”

“So you could define the scents?” Clarke asks unnecessarily, but he has the feeling that she’s tormenting him for the joy of it.  

“Loads of them,” he replies, sealing the vial back in the box.  Clarke ducks her head out, smiling.

“Do I get to know a couple?”

“Not a chance,” Bellamy says, handing the box back to her.  

“This should go on the top shelf,” she mutters, going up on her toes with the box in her hand.  Her arm does not extend far enough to push it securely onto the shelf.

Bellamy bites back a laugh.  She’s too short. “I got it,” he murmurs, taking the box from her and raising his arm to set it up high. “Now you’ll need a footstool to get it next time you organize it.”

“Or maybe I’ll just invite you back in here,” she quips back.  Their banter is so electric that their words fly by before either of them realizes that Bellamy’s chest is pressed entirely to Clarke’s back.  The arm not holding the box had been braced on the shelf, holding her close.

 Their hips..gods, their hips are obscenely too close.  

“I, uh..sorry-I’ll...”  

“Yes, let me scoot by-”

Clarke twists around before he can move away, the motion causing a soft groan to slip out before he could stop it.  Her eyes widen as she hears it, her jaw dropping slightly in alarm. That gesture just makes it worse, because now he has Clarke Griffin braced between himself and a hard place, and her eyes, those lips, that damned magical cleavage is all in his line of vision.  He inhales, and mint-lavender-Clarke comes back in full force to haunt him.  

Both of them are frozen for a moment, because this is the third moment they’ve been caught in this frisson, and is the third time not the charm?

“Bellamy, is that your wand or are you-” her joke stops dead in its tracks as she looks up and sees his wand behind his ear, where he always has it.  

“I have to go,” he says, his voice tight and bitter.

“Bellamy?”

He jerks away and crosses back into the room.

“Bellamy!”

“I have class in ten minutes,” he snaps, stowing the papers back into his satchel and pulling it over his shoulder.  Before he reaches the door, he looks back at her.

Her hands are on her hips, chest heaving and eyes afire.  She’s fuming at someone, maybe herself but probably him.

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he says, before swiftly turning on his heel and leaving.

Dinner’s going to be cold no matter how hot the food is, because he knows with each step he takes that he has truly fucked up this time.  

He gets to his classroom five minutes late, and he snaps at the first student who asks him a question.  

July 1, the Summer Before Seventh Year

My dear Bellamy,

Seeing Helios at my window this morning with a letter from you has been the highlight of my week.  I’m glad that Galway is having good weather, it has been nothing but rain over here for days.

I have Helios settled in Selene’s cage right now with a piece of sausage for his troubles. Thankfully the two of them do not quarrel nearly as much as we used to.  Can you imagine them quarrelling and changing the color of each other’s feathers? It certainly makes me laugh.

I’m alone for this summer.  Mum asked that I join her at St. Mungo’s, but I said that I prefer our cottage in Stornoway.  We rent it out to Muggles during the rest of the year. It gives a little bit of pay, but you know the exchange rate is awful.  London’s too hectic for me after a term of teaching, I need the countryside. The landscape here reminds me of Hogwarts, but I’m sure that I’m one of a handful of witches in this town.  

There’s a little clinic here though, and I find that it gives my summer purpose.  Sometimes, I get odd stares from the people in town. Muggles have stronger intuition than they realize.  The children especially, I notice that they’ll whisper whenever I walk by. But so far, everyone has been very kind to me.    

I do definitely agree with your point about the separation of Wizard and Muggle affairs.  When we have to coexist, we have to cloak who we truly are. Our world is not like theirs,  and the days where druids commanded those less powerful are centuries dead. Best to keep it that way.

Being alone is difficult for me, though I do like the independence.  I cannot say how much I will appreciate your correspondence over these next couple months.  

 Please give all my best to your grandmother,

Always yours,

Clarke

For three days, she avoids him, and it’s the lion’s share of the worst week that he’s ever had.  He manages not to snap at his students again, but they can tell that something is upsetting him.  The clowns in his classes stop cracking their jokes. No one asks for an extension on their essays.

She refuses to share meals with him.  Whenever he approaches the professors’ table, she is either absent or leaving with a napkin-wrapped leftover in her hand.  His office receives no visits from her. By the afternoon of day three, he’s grown so frustrated that he accidentally cuts himself with a steak knife.  

Rather than fix it up, he goes to see Harper in the hospital wing, desperate for company.  

“Something on your mind, Bellamy?” she asks, dabbing antiseptic on the bleeding skin of his knuckles.  He sighs, looking at her desk. There’s a little potted plant wrapped with a bow, and a few papers.

“Just coursework.”

“Really?” Harper eyes him, tapping his cut with her wand to seal it. “Because I have a feeling that it’s Clarke, not the course.”

Bellamy sighs, examining the healed skin on his hand. “I  try not to be an open book, and yet...”

“And yet you can’t help it,” Harper chuckles.  “There’s nothing wrong with wearing your emotions on your sleeve. It’s one of the reasons we like you so much.”

“Good to know,” Bellamy huffs. “But emotions on my sleeve aren’t going to help me if she keeps hiding.”  

Harper puts her hand on his shoulder.  “Just relax. Clarke will come around soon.”  

“That woman holds a grudge like no other.”

She gives him a knowing look and adds quietly, “Clarke makes an exception for you.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bellamy mutters, leaving the hospital wing and trying not to overanalyze what Harper meant by ‘exception.’

He decides to take dinner in his office, not wanting to face the empty chair on his left.  After grading the last essay of his seemingly-unending stack of papers, he leans back in his chair.  He needs a book and a strong cup of tea. Maybe even a flask of something stronger.

A knock rattles his door.

“Come in,” he says, taking his feet off his desk.  The door opens, and he catches that flash of gold. Bellamy feels a jolt.  

“Can I come in?” Clarke asks.  He tries to hold back a scowl.

“If you want to talk, I suppose you can.”  He shifts his chair to the side, avoiding eye contact.

“I wanted to say this at dinner, but you weren’t there,” she continues.

“Any guesses why?” He raises an eyebrow.  Shame creeps up on Clarke’s face as she casts her eyes downward.

“I’m sorry that I’ve been pushing you away.  I know it was a resentful, selfish thing to do,” she looks back up at him, “I’m here to make amends, and talk about what happened.”  

Bellamy turns his chair towards to her, suddenly nervous.  “Alright,” he says, his palms opening in a prompting gesture.

“What happened a few days ago,” she takes a breath, “isn’t something that we should overthink.”

She drops her sweater on the armchair next to his desk.  “We are both attractive people, and we got caught in a moment.”  She gives a shrug, something lurking in her eyes that he cannot place.  “But moments pass.”

Bellamy feels as if his heart had done a backflip and landed wrong. “Yes, they do,” he mutters, closing his desk.

“So we should acknowledge that it happened and move on,” says Clarke, drawing her wand. “Because I think I’m ready to cast my full Patronus.”  

Her confidence perks Bellamy’s attention.  “Really?”

Clarke nods. “I’ve been cutting my meal breaks in half so I would have time to practice it. These past few nights, it’s grown stronger.”  She paces to the center of the room. “As I kept casting the spell, I grew less irritated with you,” she looks at him, eyes somewhat shy. “I have a feeling it’ll emerge if you’re here.”

Something warm blooms in him as he smiles.  “Alright Professor, let’s see it.”

Clarke takes her stance, wand raised high.

“Expecto Patronum!”

It’s the most brilliant shield that she has created in his office.  He has to cover his eyes for a moment before they adjust. Within the shield is movement, and Bellamy swears that he can hear some sort of growl.  The light starts to solidify into something sleek, but Clarke’s wrist shakes. The figure fizzles into a flurry of silver sparks.

“You almost had it!”

“But I didn’t,” Clarke grits out.  “I’m trying as hard as I can, but there’s something missing I swear-

“Clarke,” Bellamy reaches out and puts his hands on her shoulders.  “I told you that the Patronus does not respond to anger or frustration. There’s a reason why it requires happy memories to be cast.”   He stares into her eyes for a moment, then he decides to pull her into his arms.

They’ve been distant lately, and he needs this feeling of a fresh start. The tension unraveling from Clarke as she wraps herself around him sends a heady feeling through his chest.

“This charm is the embodiment of your soul,” he whispers.  “And it needs love. You deserve love, Clarke Griffin, and if you believe that and embrace that truth, your Patronus will emerge.”

There’s something glistening in Clarke’s eyes when he pulls away from the hug.  “Hey,” he says, catching a stray tear with his thumb. “How about I cast mine with you?”  

Clarke nods, her smile bright and fond, something he’s missed these past few days.  

The two stand on the same side of the room, about four feet apart.

“Ready?” he asks, raising his arm.  

“Ready,” she says, her voice calm.

Even though he could cast the spell nonverbally, Bellamy shouts the words in unison with Clarke.  The room explodes with light. After a few seconds, his lion appears, pacing around the office with a few grumbling noises.  No dementors in sight, he lays down and lets his tail thump on the ground.

“Lazy bugger,” Bellamy mutters.  

Clarke laughs.   Then an elegant, silvery lioness emerges, trotting over to the lion and nudging his shoulder.  Both of them nearly drop their wands.

“No…” she whispers.  

The lion stands up and starts nuzzling against the lioness.  She returns his affection, growling so softly that it almost seems like a purr.  She rubs her head under his throat, and he starts licking her ears.

Bellamy turns to Clarke.  Her face had gone white, eyes frozen in a state of shock.  

“Clarke,” he reaches for her with his left hand.

But she turns and flees.

“Clarke, wait!”

The lioness follows her, bounding until she’s reached her mistress’s heels.  The lion chases her, but he’s stopped as the door slams shut behind Clarke and her Patronus.

Bellamy drops to the ground, sitting with his knees bent, hands in his hair.  Breathing becomes erratic. His lion comes over, nuzzles his side once, then dissolves into mist.  He cannot control the thoughts dangerously spinning in his head. He shuts his eyes and focuses on three facts.  

Clarke Griffin was rightfully fearful about falling in love.

Clarke Griffin nearly kissed him in her Potions storeroom, but it meant nothing to her.

Clarke Griffin, by Wizard mythos, was his soulmate, and he was in love with her.

Tears start flooding his eyes.  Maybe he was supposed to run after her.  Perhaps he wasn’t.

 But Bellamy’s legs are as weak as jelly, and all he can do was cry with his head between his knees.

“Fuck,” is the only word he whispers.  “ Fuck .”

His anxiety keeps him up well into the night, and it takes Helios landing on his chest to wake him up the next morning.

He skips breakfast to shower and dress for his first class at 9 o’clock in the morning.  Bellamy throws himself into it, engaging with the students as much as possible. It eases the turmoil in his chest as he answers their questions and demonstrates the Impedimenta jinx.  Class ends before he even glances at the clock.

He sees a flicker of a scarlet robe in the corner of his eye. Followed by a tap on his shoulder.  

“Professor Blake,” Madi says quietly as the rest of the students exit, “Is Professor Griffin alright? She wasn’t teaching my 8 o’clock Potions class.”  

A cold feeling surges through his chest.  She never takes a day off. His eyes must have widened dramatically, because Madi now looks frightened.   

“She wasn’t there?” he asks.  Madi shakes her head.

“No, we had a substitute.  Not as good, but don’t tell her I said that.”  

Bellamy looked up at the ceiling and feigned recognition.  “I won’t, and I remember Professor Griffin mentioning something last evening about not feeling well.” He patted Madi on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be back on Monday.”  

Madi looks more reassured when she leaves class, but Bellamy rakes a hand through his hair.  He should have gone after her last night, sent her an owl, his Patronus, anything.

He oversees a free period until lunchtime, and thankfully no one talks to him.  The seat on his left is empty when he goes to the professors’ table in the Great Hall.  He expected it, but the feeling still leaves him numb. He’s grateful that it’s Friday, and he only has one afternoon class.   

Thirty minutes into a free study, and Adria walks over to his desk.  

“Yes, Miss Rivers?”

“Professor Blake, do you know if Professor Griffin is okay?” Her voice is a little timid, and he has to remind himself that Clarke Griffin has never been anything except a constant pillar of strength to these students, especially the girls.

“She was feeling under the weather yesterday, but she’s going to be alright,” he says, his tone more practiced, more reassuring.  “Go back to your studying, there’s nothing to worry about.”

The last twenty minutes in class have him tapping his quill anxiously against the paper.  He almost lets the students go early, but he isn’t going to let his personal life affect his teaching.  More than it already has.

When the bell rings, he drops his bag off at his chambers and then takes Helios to the Owlery.  

He looks everywhere for her.  He checks the library first, but it’s empty.  Then the teachers’ lounge, and the study above it.  The Great Hall. He contemplates going outside, but a storm is raging, and he knows Clarke cannot be that foolish.   He does a sweep through the dungeons, nearly out of breath. He knocks at her office, but there’s no response.

A memory jolts him, and suddenly he paces to another corridor in the dungeons.  Muttering the password he heard Clarke say, he enters her storeroom. The cupboard is shut but there’s a box overturned on the floor.  His throat feels like lead as he swallows.

“Oh no…”

He overturns the box, and underneath lies the shattered shards of the vial containing Amortentia.  The ground is dry, and he has a feeling that the Potion has been Vanished. Heart pounding furiously, he taps the broken crystals with his wand.  They repair themselves, and he places the vial and the box back on the table.

Despite the ache building in his lungs, he quickly makes his way to the Headmaster’s office.  

“Professor Kane,” he calls out as he enters, but there is no one in the room.  No one, until he spots the ghost of Professor Jaha in the corner, looking at manuscripts laid out on a table.  

“Ah, Professor Blake, what can I do for you?” he asks.  Bellamy scowls.

“Where is the Headmaster?”

“Professor Kane has left this afternoon on important business. He’s asked me to review these documents for him, since all of his teachers are preparing for exams,” Jaha explains.  Bellamy cocks his head.

“I didn’t know you could read, as a ghost.”

Jaha scoffs.

“Of course I can still read. Why else choose this form instead of a painting?”  He sits down in Kane’s chair, or rather, he hovers right above it. “Not being able to sleep is a bit of a letdown but reading…. Ah, reading I can still enjoy.”

“Provided that you don’t need to turn pages,” Bellamy cannot resist the jab at his former headmaster.  Jaha gives him a stern glare.

“Why are you here, Professor Blake?”

“Clarke is missing,” Bellamy says, his fists clenching as his anxiety returns to him. “And I know that she wouldn’t leave without informing Kane.”

“Before he left, the headmaster granted Ms. Griffin a day off for personal reasons,” Jaha says calmly. “I was in the room early this morning, and as I recall, she seemed quite distressed.”

Bellamy’s shoulders slump. “Did she say where she might be?”  

Jaha raised an eyebrow.  “I haven’t the foggiest. Are you sure this line of questioning is appropriate?”  

“I’m worried about her!” Bellamy shouts, “My students are asking me where she is and I can’t tell them. So if you know anything-”

“Quiet,” Jaha raises a transparent hand. “A temper hurts one’s ears in old age.”  Bellamy snorts, turning on his heel.

“Wait!” Jaha calls out, and Bellamy halts.

“I’ll help you find her,” he admits.  “Teaching is more difficult for Clarke than she lets on. Her mother wishes that she never left St. Mungo’s.” He looks at Bellamy thoughtfully. “You keep her centered here, you know.”

Bellamy exhales, dragging a hand down his face.  “You got it backwards,” he mutters.

“Is that a confession, Mr. Blake? Are you in love with Ms. Griffin?”

Bellamy’s hands curl into fists.

“Even if I was,” he grits out, voice slowly rising again, “I couldn’t tell her because of a stupid rule that you put in place!”

Jaha sighs. “You’re a very gifted wizard, Mr. Blake.  But you’re not a very good liar.” He chuckles to himself.  “Deception isn’t a trait I find often in Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors.”

Bellamy deflates, and Jaha recognizes the emotion on his face.  Heartache.

“You’re right, I did authorize that rule,” he says slowly, “I thought it necessary at the time, given the conflict among my staff.  But perhaps it causes more problems than it solves,” he tilts his head to one side, “And of course, people have already found loopholes.”

“Loopholes?” Bellamy furrows his brow.  Jaha chuckles.

“Haven’t you noticed young Professor Green and that nurse in the hospital wing?”

“Harper? They’re...”  Bellamy trails off for a moment, “that does make sense.” His voice drops as he stares at the floor.  “Guess I haven’t been paying attention lately.”

“Bit caught up in your own affairs?” Jaha chides.  Bellamy glares at him again.

  “So Kane really had no problem with them?”

“Professor Green is a faculty member, whereas Ms. McIntyre is only staff,” he presses his hands together.  “Though that doesn’t apply in your situation.”

Bellamy feels a shake in his wrist.   “Look, I need to find her.”

“And what are you going to say?”

“I don’t know.”  He heaves a breath, wiping a tear from his cheekbone.  

Jaha sighs, “When she left, she was heading towards the west side of the castle.”  His shoulders shrug. “I’m not sure where she is now.”

Bellamy nods, “Thank you, Headmaster.”

“Good luck,  Professor Blake.”

As Bellamy walks toward the door, his eyes catch on the ragged garment sitting on a bookshelf.  There’s a shift in the Sorting Hat’s folds, as if he were pretending to be asleep.

“Eavesdropping were you, you filthy old tam o’shanter?” Bellamy mutters out.  

The Sorting Hat chuckles cruelly.

“Now you’re going to prove what kind of man you are, Bellamy Blake, ” it croaks out. “ Was I right all those years ago? ”

“Why do you care? I was a child,” he says through gritted teeth.    

“ The entire school year I sit in this office, and I have no one to talk to besides the Headmaster.  I anticipate hearing the conclusion of your little sorry tale with Miss Griffin .”  

Bellamy rolls his eyes, giving the bloody thing no further response as he leaves Kane’s office. He mutters something about tearing that bloody thing into cleaning rags, spooking a passing first year.  He heads west, and he paces through the halls. He can feel her nearby, and yet no one seems to have spotted her all day.

At the seventh floor, his heart plummets, and he finds himself pacing through an empty wing like a madman.  A large expanse of the brick wall stands exposed, unbroken by a door and uncovered by a tapestry. Bellamy finds himself walking past it to the window at the end, and then back towards a painting.

I need to find Clarke.  

He repeats his steps.

I need to find Clarke.

And a third time.

I need to find Clarke.  

He hears something odd, like stone scraping against wood.  He turns, and a door emerges in the bare expanse of the wall.  Vaguely he remembers Luna telling him about an enchanted room in the castle.  Taking hold of its handle now, Bellamy recalls stumbling across it one night when he was drunk as a student, out past curfew, and hiding from the professors’ patrol.  

He pushes forward gently, opening the door just enough for him to slip inside.  The room has been transformed, like the terrarium he had for his pet iguana when he was a child.   Leaves crack softly under his feet, false light falls spattered through a thicket of trees. He takes a few steps in, and then he sees her.  

Clarke is a few dozen feet away, on a mound of grass overhanging a small pool of water.  Her sketchbook is in her lap. The barest hints of red linger around her eyes.

“Clarke,” he calls out softly as he approaches. She turns to him.  Her placid expression turns surprised, then resigned. She sighs, setting her sketchbook aside.

“I should’ve known you would find me here,” she mumbles, pulling her arms around herself.  “Should’ve have been more specific with the room, asked it to keep everyone out.”

“What did you ask for?”

Her lips curve into a small smile.  “It’s too cold outside, so I wanted something in nature. Specifically though, a place to cry without being judged.”  She looks at him again and chuckles. “That’s probably why it let you in.”

“I was worried about you.  Have you been in here all day?”

Clarke shrugs, “Yeah,” she gestures to a nearby tree. “There’s apples over there, I wasn’t hungry.”

Bellamy exhales, crossing his arms.  “And how long were you going to stay?”

Clarke’s expression hardens.  She takes a deep breath and looks at him.  

“I’m aware of my flaws, Bellamy,” she says, iron voice. “I get scared so I run and I hide and I push away anyone who wants to help.” She stands up, taking a deep breath.  “It was only going to be one day,” her shoulders fall back, “I asked Niylah to cover one day, and I would’ve gotten over this.”

“Gotten over what?” Bellamy asks.  “You mean last night? The Patroni?”

Clarke paces to a tree and leans against it.  “The Potters,” she says in a soft tone. “I read their biography.” Her voice starts to quiver. “They had-”  

“I know,” Bellamy responds quietly, “A stag and a doe.”

Clarke’s melancholy dims.  Her eyes snap on his. “I may not have been able to conjure a Patronus for years, but I damn well know the implications of matching ones.”  Her voice would be strong, if Bellamy could not sense cracks in it. “He died trying to save his wife-”

“You think I wouldn’t do the same?”  The question slips out before he can stop it.  Clarke’s eyes turn fiery.

“Bellamy-”

“He would’ve done anything for her. To keep her safe.”

“Stop it-”

“It just makes sense.”

“How dare you!”  Clarke rounds on him, hands shaking.  “How dare you talk as if I haven’t been embarrassing myself in front of you this entire term!”

Bellamy’s jaw nearly drops.  “Clarke, what are you talking about!?”

“Ever since the Dementor, I…” She wipes a tear off her face.  “There were times… in your office, mine, everywhere, that I thought you were going to kiss me.  Or that if I just shut my eyes and kiss you, you wouldn’t turn away. But-” she loses her breath and looks at him, aching and broken, “But you turned me away every single time.”

Bellamy sighs, staring at the ground.  “Clarke, don’t-”

“I thought I was out of my mind,” Clarke says, her eyes in the distance and her voice ragged. “I never let myself get so worked up about someone like this.”

Bellamy clenches his hands. “Is that why you destroyed the Amortentia?”  Clarke shudders, looking away. His voice goes harsh. “Please, tell me you didn’t think for a second that I-”

“I didn’t, Bellamy, please believe me,” and her voice is raw with honesty.  “I’ve watched my students brew it so many times, and all the years I’ve been here, I’ve only smelled things that felt like home.  I blocked out anything that didn’t seem harmless.” She bites her lip, taking a deep breath. “After I left your office, I went to my storeroom and I uncorked the damn thing.” She takes a gulp.  “I let myself sense everything that damn bottle could throw at me.”

Bellamy’s heart pounds. “And?” he asks with bated breath.  

She heaves a breath and stares up at him, shaking her head coldly.  “I smelled my father’s pipe, the one that he would smoke when I was a child, despite what my mother said about his health.” She takes a step closer to him.  “Then it was the scent of snow in the air.” She takes another step, until they are inches from each other. “And then-” her voice grows ragged again. “Then it was you.”  

Bellamy feels tears start in his eyes. “Oh, Clarke.”

“You!” Clarke cups her hand over a sob.  “You, you’re perfect with the students and you’re kind, you’re brilliant and handsome.”  She bites her lip. “When I had that nightmare about those bloody wraiths, I just wanted to run into your arms.”

He slams his eyes shut.  “Please, don’t.”

“If you saw my sketchbook, it would be like looking into a mirror. And when I say that spell, the one you’ve been teaching me….” Another sob sneaks through. “All I think about….”

“Clarke,” Bellamy’s knees nearly give out so he reaches forward and clasps her hands.  The contact grounds her, and she looks at him, at the wrecked expression on his face. The frenzy disappears from her eyes.  Her jaw drops.

“Oh gods….  This… this isn’t unrequited.”

“Far from it,”  Bellamy whispers, holding her hands in his.  “If you’ve used memories of me for your Patronus this past month, I’ve…” he looks down at their joined hands, then back at her. “You were all I saw when I drove away that Dementor.”

“Bellamy,” she tilts her head, giving him an endearing look that he’s never seen directed at anyone else.  

“You’re all I think about, besides the students.” Once he starts, he can’t stop. “I want you to come to Ireland with me and meet my grandmother. I need...” he catches his breath, “I need you.”

Clarke looks up at him, the disbelief in her eyes dissolving like clouds.

“You love me… but something stopped you from saying anything.”  

Bellamy sighs, staring at his feet.  

“Yes… I, I tried to push it away-”

“Because of that silly rule?” Clarke snaps, and there’s a furrow in her brow.  They both take a step back. Bellamy raises his hands.

“I didn’t want to lose my job, and I didn’t want you to leave either!”  

“You thought that you’d lose your job by breaking one bloody policy? Bellamy, y-you’re Head of Hufflepuff! This school wouldn’t run without you!”

“You can’t be sure of that!” he shouts.  “People will make whatever choices they want to keep their lowers in line.”

“You make it sound like Kane is a tyrant.”  

“You don’t know him like I do!” Bellamy finds a moment to breathe before adding, “He lets his temper loose with me, because he knows that you’d never put up with it.”

There’s a bated silence.

“Isn’t that ironic then?” her voice goes icy, “that you fall in love with the person who could cost you everything you’ve built for yourself.”  She huffs, throwing her hands in the air. “And I, head over heels for someone who couldn’t tell me the truth.”

“Clarke -”

“Not even a damn word for months,” she shakes her head, turning away from him.   He puts her hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not like you were telling me anything either.”

“Oh bullshit!” she glares.  “All that talk, years ago, about you becoming a braver man…”

She scoffs, and Bellamy seethes.  It feels like their first year, at each other’s throats, and a wicked part of him enjoys it.  

“You’re right. Serpents shed their skin, but they never change.”

“The Sorting Hat was right to keep you out of Gryffindor,” she hisses. “Because you’re a coward .”  

"Don't waste your venom on childish taunts," he snarls back, rising to his full height.

"You're just as bad," her eyes narrow to slits.  

"I am not a coward, I hid how I felt out of honor," he grits his teeth.  She raises her brows.

"You call that honor?"

"I didn't want either of us to leave Hogwarts, is that not honorable? Yes, I’m Head of a House, but you’re one too! What if they decided to punish you more for this? Because that’s what could’ve happened.  I was thinking about myself, you’re right. But I couldn’t be the reason you go back to a place you can’t stand."

Clarke throws her hands up in the air.  "Of course it's honorable when you put it that way, but dammit Bellamy...” She clasps her hands in front of her for a moment. Takes a moment to catch her breath.  “Why are you this way? Why do you deny yourself these chances to reach out for something that would make you happy?”

“Couldn’t I say the same of you?” he asks, softer now, reaching out for her hands again.  She takes them, shutting her eyes as he runs his thumb across her knuckles. “You did everything your mother wanted of you, and then you came here, and you do everything for this school.”  He lowers his head, leaning in closer. “It’s alright to want something, even if it feels too good to be true.”

Clarke clears her throat, her eyes fluttering shut. Her voice is calmer, but still vulnerable.  “You’re not the coward, Bellamy. I am. I’ve got too much fear that-”

“Screw fear,” he whispers, cupping her cheeks in his palms.  Clarke nods, her hand finding the front of his shirt. Her eyes open, and Bellamy can see that they’re shining with tears.  Her chest heaves with a breath, and then she closes the once-infinite gap between them.

Her kiss is soft, hesitant, but it still takes Bellamy’s breath away.  He kisses her back with a soft sound of relief, one of his hands gliding to caress the waves in her hair.  Clarke brings her arms around his shoulders to tug him closer.

For those blessed few minutes, there is no fear or distress. Just the two of them, holding each other gently.  The sounds and sights of nature fade away. They break apart from the kiss to find themselves standing in a nondescript classroom.  Clarke looks at him, cheeks flushed and glowing.

“Wow,” she smiles.  

“Yeah,” he exhales heavily.   He looks around them. The Room of Requirement resembles exactly what they require, reality.

“So how are we going to do this?” he asks her.  “Because I can pen a letter to Kane right now, if you want me to.”  Clarke shakes her head.

“Let’s keep us a secret, for the first couple days,” she pulls him into an embrace.  “We can figure it out as we go.” She presses a kiss to his neck and sighs when he kisses her temple.

“I have patrol tomorrow night,”  he whispers, rocking both of them back and forth.  

“So do I,” she says, smiling up at him.

“Care to join me?” he says, lowering his voice in a tone he hopes she finds alluring.  She giggles and he raises an eyebrow, pulling her back in for another kiss.

“It should be about dinner time now,” she says, pulling away from his arms.

“Want me to walk out five minutes after you?” he offers, chuckling.  Clarke laughs again. The tears have dried, the red has faded from her face, and there’s something bright dancing in her eyes.

“You’re making me feel young again, Professor Blake,” she winks.  

“Darling, you’re not even 30,” he laughs, pressing one more kiss to her cheek before she leaves.  

When the door closes behind her, he runs his hands through his hair.  He smiles, and he laughs, and he laughs, months of angst evaporating from his soul.  

They keep themselves a secret for a couple nights, and it does make them feel like seventh years again.  Clarke surreptitiously reaches for Bellamy’s hand underneath the table at dinner.

 Later that night, they return to the storeroom to recreate what had promised to be a dizzying tryst.  The lack of Amortentia in the room had made her calm enough to frisk him. Before either of them really get anywhere though, Bellamy knocks a bottle over with his elbow. The contents give off fumes which smell like Muggle gasoline. They spend the rest of that hour recreating the potion. Bellamy grumbles as he waves his wand over the cauldron, and Clarke laughs as she coaches him through the steps.

They spend the following day in the library, grading and exchanging soft smiles.  Her feet tap against his when no one is looking. Then they go on the night shift, holding hands when they’re the only ones in vacant corridors.  They shoo away lovestruck six years from small alcoves, finding a few of their own.

“Next week,” Bellamy says between kisses, “we’re going to find so many besotted students with guests from the other schools.”  Clarke laughs, pushing him a little further behind a statue as a stray cat walks by.

“We’ll have to take away so many points… they’re going to hate us.”

“Perhaps not that many points,” his hands rove down her sides.  They hike up her cardigan and caress the skin of her back. She bites her lip to stifle a moan. “We can’t be hypocrites now, can we?” he whispers. There’s a rush in his words. They’re playing a game like they did in their early years. But instead of each other as opponents, they’re up against the entire castle discovering them.

“I suppose not,” she murmurs back. She nudges his jaw away from her neck before he leaves a damning bruise. Quitting while they’re still ahead.

Bellamy walks Clarke to her quarters at 2 in the morning.  He pulls her into his arms, pressing a kiss on her hairline.  It would feel so good to fall asleep together, but they live too close to their Houses.  

“Sweet dreams, Clarke,” he murmurs.

“Sweet dreams, Bellamy,” she whispers back.  

The wind dies down on Sunday, and they take an afternoon walk through the snow-covered grounds.  They finish the peppermint hot chocolate in his office. Clarke conjures her Patronus, and then Bellamy flicks his wand to summon his.  The lion and the lioness pace around the room, occasionally roughhousing with each other.

Clarke puts her head on Bellamy’s shoulder.  “Thank you,” she says, clasping his hand in hers.

“For what?” Bellamy asks softly.  

“Helping me create something that beautiful.”  

He smiles, kissing her forehead.  “You’re welcome. And remember,” he nuzzles against her neck,  “what you created there is a reflection of yourself. Of course it’s beautiful.”

They walk to the vacant professors’ lounge a little before 8 on Monday morning.  Kane had scheduled a meeting to discuss the arrival of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons the following week.  

Bellamy yawns as he settles down on the most comfortable couch in the room.  

“You should sit in the armchair, it’s better for your back,” Clarke chides him gently. “And you won’t be tempted to fall asleep.”  She sits down next to him and passes over a mug. Earl Grey, his favorite.

Bellamy takes a sip and grumbles.  “My back’s fine.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.  “I’ve heard you wheeze like an old accordion when you stand up.”

He sighs, “Christ, you’re going to be giving me this shite forever now?”  She laughs, reaching over and linking her fingers with his.

“I thought I’ve been doing it for a while, and yes,” she presses a kiss to his hand.  “I don’t plan on stopping.”

“Good,” he chuckles,” giving her hand a kiss in return before more of the faculty enters the room.  They are only alone for a minute more before Luna enters, followed closely by Raven and Jasper. Monty’s on their heels, and Emori’s behind him. Soon all the staff  is there. Light chatter emerges as they wait for the Headmaster.

Clarke looks at Bellamy, raising an eyebrow.   He penses for a moment, then nods, lifting his arm onto the ridge of the couch.  She happily cuddles into his side.

That stops the chatter.  The atmosphere grows teasing.  Gaia smiles at them. “You aren’t the only lovebird in this nest, Professor Green,” she says, glancing over at a blushing Monty.  Lincoln winks at Bellamy. Raven snaps her fingers at Jasper.

“Pay up, Jordan.”  

Jasper glares at them.  “I could’ve gotten 15 Galleons if you hadn’t taken so long,” he mutters, handing the gold to Raven.  Bellamy huffs.

“Had no idea the gossip was so lucrative around here.”

Raven snorts.  “Had to make it entertaining somehow, you two were getting pathetic.”  

“Do the students know?” Lincoln asks as he puts a tea bag in his cup.    

“Not yet,” Clarke wraps her hand around Bellamy’s again, “But I think they’ll take the news well.”

“What news?” Kane calls out as he walks into the lounge.  Clarke’s eyes go wide, the urge to jump to the other side of the couch tempting.  She does not give in, and Kane’s gaze sweeps over their non-platonic proximity.

“An owl would have been nice,” he sighs, but there’s no ire in his voice.  “But nonetheless, I feel happy for you.” Bellamy’s jaw nearly drops.

“Y-You’re not upset with this? We broke a policy.”

“I had a little chat with old Headmaster Jaha this weekend,” says Kane, sitting down.  “He may not be entirely here metaphysically speaking, but our discussion sparked an idea.”  

The room sits in silence as he dusts off his robes.  “I’ve decided,” he says, his gaze directed at Bellamy and Clarke, “to suspend that particular policy temporarily.”

“Temporarily?” Clarke asks, holding Bellamy’s hand a little tighter.  Kane shrugs, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“For an experiment.  If I see that the affairs of you two and of Professor Green do not negatively impact your teaching or any other relationships you have,” he takes a sip and sets the cup down.  “I will most likely remove it entirely.”

Tension seeps out of Bellamy’s shoulders.  “I’m glad that you’re open to that.”

 He looks at them warmly.  “You two are some of the finest professors that I’ve ever had, why would I send either of you away?  I’ve seen your distracting and childish rivalry turn into a teasing and meaningful friendship,” he folds his hands in his lap, “and I’m sure whatever follows will be teasing and meaningful as well.”

Laughter floats through the room.  Clarke sighs, leaning further into Bellamy for a moment before getting up to refill her teacup.  Raven leans back in her chair and exchanges a nod with Luna.

“If we’re striving for transparency,” she says, leaning back in her chair.  “I should tell you that Luna and I have been having a very passionate relationship for the past couple months.” Clarke nearly drops the kettle as the room reacts.

“And I’ve been seeing Murphy,” Emori says, grinning.  “Though he’s not a faculty member. Or someone who actually cares about rules.”

Kane sighs, rubbing his temples. “Alright, everyone who is involved in some form or another with a coworker, just send me an owl,”  He clears his throat and pulls a paper from his pocket. “To get to the main point of this meeting…..”

The atmosphere is buzzing as everyone gathers in the Great Hall.  Clarke feels pangs of hunger in her stomach, but no food will be served until Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive.  

And their guests are running late.  

“Just because we’re not hosting a tournament gives them no reason for tardiness,” Bellamy mutters, glowering at his plate.  Clarke puts her hand on his wrist.

“Patience, Professor,” she says softly.  He looks at her hand on his arm, and then his gaze flicks upward.  There’s a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the mantle above, right over their heads.

“Now who put that there?” he wonders.  Clarke looks down the professors’ table and spots a smug look from Jasper.

“Who do you think?” she bites her lip, nodding to the right.  Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“I suppose we’re well into December, and it would be remiss if we ignored our holiday customs,” he says, winking at her.  Clarke laughs, a sound like champagne, squeezing his hand in hers.

“Whatever am I going to do with you, Bellamy?” she murmurs, turning to him and letting everything else fade away.  

“Whatever the hell you want,” he responds.  His smile is as warm as his voice and his embrace, and Clarke wants to hold on to all of it, all of him, for as long as she can.  Perhaps the excitement of the Yule Ball guests’ arrival will hide her as she indulges herself.

Clarke chuckles, and she leans over to press a kiss on his lips. A lingering kiss.  The buzz in their ears becomes a series of claps and whistles.

The chatter in the Great Hall does not come to a standstill, but there is a definite wave of excitement which courses through the House Tables.  Clarke turns slightly from Bellamy and sees a few waves from the crowd.

From what they can discern, the seventh years from their Houses are the most enthusiastic, having seen their relationship since the very beginning (though the Gryffindors seem oddly exuberant as well).  The rest of the students in the middle years catch on, creating the gossip chain with shouts and gestures. The little first years don’t quite understand what all the commotion is about, but seem knowledged enough to be genuinely pleased.  

There’s a faint clink in the air, as if money is changing hands.  Her eyes catch it happening, especially at the Slytherin table. She rolls her eyes, but something warm glows in her chest.  She did not know her students cared so much about her happiness.

“What have we caused?” Clarke murmurs, grinning ear to ear.

“I’m not sure,” Bellamy mutters as he tugs her chair a bit closer to his.   

A stray voice from the Ravenclaw table yells “KISS HIM AGAIN PROFESSOR GRIFFIN!”

Laughter bubbles from both of them.  As Clarke leans in, Bellamy cups her jaw and presses a firm, quick kiss.  More whooping arises.

“I had no idea that so many people were invested in our relationship,” Bellamy whispers in Clarke’s ear, dropping another kiss on her jaw.  She pushes away before her blush could be seen from the back of the room.

“I guess this is our new normal,” she responds, taking a sip from her glass as Kane calls everyone to order.

Bellamy nods, putting his arm around her.  “It’s a normal that I like.”

“Although,” Clarke supposes, “I hope they’re concerned enough about their final exams that they refrain from asking us too many questions.”

“The fifth years, yes,” Bellamy tells her, “but everyone else…. gods help us.”  

The pandemonium is finally brought to a simmering glee when a ship emerges from the Lake, and a flying carriage appears in the sky.  Their guests have arrived.

Violins are faint in his ears, but the best music is the continuing sigh of content he can hear just over his shoulder.  The air is scented with all sorts of aromas, but none so divine as her rose perfume. The drinks were warm, but not as warm and dizzying as her swaying figure in his arms. Bellamy’s mind is adrift.  His exams have all been graded, his students have all passed. He has nothing to feel but the enjoyment of this dance.

“You know, a few of these BeauxBatons chaperones are definitely Veela,” Clarke murmurs thoughtfully in his ear.

“Perhaps,” he says coyly.

“Any you recognize from the last ball?”

“No, not really.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Maybe some of them are cousins of yours,” Bellamy says quietly as he pulls back, smirking at her.  Clarke’s cheeks flush, showing through her makeup, and he adores the sight.

The soft classical music gives way to something more modern, and the students scramble onto the dancefloor like sheep.  Bellamy gracefully pulls Clarke to a table where someone very familiar is sitting.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, his excitement flush on his face, “This is my lola.”

Lola is prim and proud in a red and blue baro’t saya, a golden flower pinned to her shoulder.  The family resemblance is striking, though her head barely reaches Bellamy’s chest.   She clasps her hands around Clarke’s.

“So wonderful to meet you,” she says.  Clarke grins.

“Yes, it is.  I’m glad that Bellamy was able bring you here. How was your trip?”

Lola shakes her head, tossing her hand at Bellamy.  

“He set up a Portkey for me, and it’s a dirty boot. I touched something I would not bring in my own house!”  Clarke laughs as Bellamy rolls his eyes.

“I told you that the Portkey has to be something Muggles wouldn’t even touch.”  

She wags her finger at him.  “You’re lucky I carry my handkerchiefs everywhere.”

The three lapse into easy conversation for a few minutes.  It warms his heart seeing the two women he loves most in life laughing with each other, as if old friends.

Noticing Lola’s half-full glass, he turns to Clarke.

“I could use a drink, would you like me to get you one too?”

“Oh, I’ll get them,” Clarke puts a hand on his arm as she stands.  “You stay here, you were on your feet all afternoon helping them set up.”  

“Alright.”  His eyes stay on her as she crosses the dance floor.

Clarke is resplendent in a set of navy robes, identical to his.  The white and silver trim on the hem makes her seem regal. He turns to Lola, trying not to blush.  Her eyes are alight, mischievous as a child.

“ Maganda siya , ” she says, nodding with approval.  “But I knew that, from your letters.” Bellamy chuckles, ruffling his hair as he nods.  Lola cocks her head.

“ Pakakasalan mo ba siya ?”

Bellamy coughs on his drink, causing her to thump him firmly on the back.  “It’s very soon, I’m not su-”

“Bellamy, don’t give me that,” she pretends to scowl at him.  He sighs, laughing as he finds the familiar dash of gold in the crowd.  

“Yes, I hope so,” he tells his grandmother.  “ Umiibig ako .”

Lola beams, patting his cheeks. “I know, anak ko . You keep telling me things I’ve always seen.” She brushes dessert crumbs off the front of his robes and hands him her empty wine glass. “Now if you excuse me, I want to meet these new people.”

Bellamy shakes his head as his five-foot lola begins striding confidently around the dinner tables.  Clarke appears a few moments later, holding two silvery drinks with floating cranberries.

“Barkeep recommended we try these,” she says, handing him a glass.  He stares at the translucent bubbles for a moment before clinking his drink with hers.  

“Thank you.  Kane’s about to make a godawful speech, we needed another drink,” he says, taking a sip. “It’s good, what is it?”

“Mmm,” Clarke agrees, downing a third of it at once. “Gin, I think.” Her gaze sweeps the room.  “Is your grandmother talking to one of the chaperones from Durmstrang?”

Bellamy turns, and indeed Lola is engaged in rapt discussion with a tall, bearded man donned in fur robes.  His frosty demeanor giving way to a smile as she keeps talking.

“That’s Roan. She’ll have him worn down by the end of the night.”   

“Back to what you were saying about Kane,”  she gestures towards his left. “I think my mother is stalling him.”  He turns and sees the Headmaster dancing with Abigail Griffin. He chuckles into the rim of his glass.

“What?” Clarke cocks her head.

“Kane fancies your mother, Clarke,” he says, trying to keep the teasing out of his tone.  Clarke shakes her head and turns to look at their boss again. Her eyes widen.

“Oh gods, you’re right,” she quickly takes another sip of her drink.  “I don’t know if that will make my life better or worse.”

“For right now,” Bellamy puts their drinks on a table, “put it out of your mind.”  He pulls her into his arms and starts swaying again. The music softens and slows. Clarke hums as she rests her head on his shoulder.  His hand presses on the bare skin of her back, and he takes a deep breath.

They’re taking it slow. Bellamy likes it that way.  Clarke needs it, and he has gone too far too quickly in the past only for everything to burn.  But he rocks her back and forth, dreaming ahead to the Easter holidays. He’ll take her to Ireland, stay with his grandmother in Galway for a few days.  Then they could fly through the countryside on a cloudy night, find a cabin to stay in. Perhaps by then, they’d be ready to indulge in everything they want with each other. Falling asleep together.  Waking up in each other’s arms. The infinity between dusk and dawn.

“You’re thinking again,” Clarke whispers, kissing his cheek.  

They do not know what the future holds. Their lives could flourish without war, though they have souls which have seldom seen peace.  Or perhaps Darkness will rise and they will fight side by side, lions evolving into gryphons. Whether magic created their bond or made it permanent, whether it had any impact at all, they bring out the best in each other. As partners, lovers, equals.  And eternity would be damned if it tried to rob them of their happiness again.

“Thinking about you,” Bellamy murmurs, gliding his hand through her hair.