Chapter Text
When the bludgers broke Bellamy’s arm, he tried to play it off like he was fine. He was holding the quaffle at the time, and he managed to fly another thirty feet towards the goalposts before the pain kicked in; he even scored, and had about two seconds of celebrations before the agony hit him.
He pitched forward on his broom, and was only saved from crashing into the ground by the lightning fast reactions of Miller and Monroe. He could dimly hear Diyoza’s usual snarky commentary as they caught him under the arms and steadied his broom.
“–and it seems the Gryffindor captain has taken two bludgers to the arm, in a surprisingly brutal strike from the Hufflepuff beater–”
He could see Jasper flying towards him, apologies pouring from his lips, explanations for the hits, but he wasn’t really registering any of it.
“–Jasper’s lucky that Octavia likes him, because if this had been the Slytherin game, Murphy would be dead by now–”
“–Professor Diyoza you can’t comment on that, you’re a teacher, you’re supposed to be objective,” that was Headmaster Kane’s voice.
“And objectively, anyone else would be being murdered by the younger Blake for daring to hurt her brother,” she snapped back argumentatively. If it had been any other teacher, he would have assumed she didn’t realise she was still amplifying her voice, but because it was Diyoza he knew it was absolutely intentional.
By this point, the game had halted as Miller guided him towards the ground. Diyoza had ceased her commentary in order to take control of the situation, refereeing the game and deciding if the game was worth continuing without the Gryffindor captain. His head was foggy and he was really struggling to keep his broom straight. He didn’t even want to look at his arm. He knew it was bad, because it was starting to go numb, and because Nate kept grimacing at it. Anything that could get Miller to make a facial expression like that was definitely not good.
Someone was offering him a stretcher when his feet finally reached the grass, but he waved them off with his good hand. Pain spiked through his arm when he instinctively went to grab his broom from the ground and he fell harder into Miller’s side.
“Don’t worry about it, Harper’ll pick it up,” he grunted, taking more of Bellamy’s weight.
They were walking, but everything was just different stabs of agony and numbness, and he wasn’t really sure how much time had passed by the time Miller kicked open the doors to the hospital wing. Madam Cartwig was nowhere to be seen, but a familiar head of blonde hair whipped around at their arrival. Bellamy groaned, pushing his head into his friend’s shoulder.
“Jesus, Blake, what did you do?” Clarke snapped, but it wasn’t the usual edge of bitterness he expected from her. He’d known Clarke Griffin since first year, when they had met at the sorting ceremony and made some rather drastic assumptions about each other. He’d thrown insults, she’d hexed him, and when she was sorted into Slytherin he had been pleased to know that his assumptions were correct.
Except, goddammit, she kept proving him wrong.
He thought she was a prissy pureblood princess – wrong. Her father had been a muggle, but he had died just before the start of first year, and it was a great point of contention for her whenever anyone brought him up. So calling her “a spoilt little daddy’s girl” was probably not the best idea. No wonder she hexed him.
He thought she was stuck up because her mother was Minister for Magic – wrong. Apparently, Clarke barely spoke to Abby, and he hadn’t ever even seen her go home for Christmas or during the breaks. He knew, because he and Octavia never left the castle either. He found her helping Octavia with her Arithmancy homework one winter night in the library, and it had thrown him so much he had just blinked at them, confused. Everyone knew that he and Octavia were mudbloods, and that even among muggles, their parental situation was shitty, but Clarke hadn’t cared. She had offered to give Octavia her notes and when Octavia refused (because Blakes don’t take handouts) she’d simply sat down and started talking her through it instead.
He thought she was a typical selfish Slytherin – wrong. He’d first seen the error of his ways on that account when he noticed her comforting Charlotte by the greenhouses after one of the Gryffindor boys pushed her over in front of everyone. Then he’d seen her offering to help teachers clear up after class, and she even took in Maya’s owl for a week when it injured itself. In third year, she hexed a group of boys for daring to call Shaw a mudblood and got a week worth of detentions for it, but the boys’ hands had remained stained with dark liquid for months, oozing onto everything they touched. He vividly remembered hearing her furious, “Who’s the mudblood now, dickweeds?” as Indra dragged her away.
Now that they were in seventh year, he had known Clarke Griffin long enough that he was painfully aware of all of her remarkable traits, and how very wrong he’d been all those years ago. At some point in the six years, their rage-filled insults had turned into more teasing barbs, but they still weren’t quite friends, still lived on eggshells around each other. It really didn’t help things that Bellamy had been stupidly into her since third year. He tried to maintain his hatred, but the pull of attraction just kept punching him in the gut. He blamed the third year mudblood incident. He’d been coming around on her for a while at that point, but that was really the final nail in his coffin. Ever since, it had been a struggle to be near her for entirely different reasons; especially since until this year they had almost every class together. This year it had been a little easier, because she was doing Arithmancy while he took History of Magic, and she had Divination when he had Ancient Runes, but she still seemed to be constantly there.
It didn’t help things that his friends were all friends with her as well. It turned out, Clarke was kind to everyone, even if she hid that kindness behind an icy exterior. Not to mention the fact that she worked in the damn hospital wing during her free periods.
Shit.
Her eyes widened as she met them halfway, gaze locked onto his elbow.
“That bad, Princess?” He joked. She was so focussed on his injury that she didn’t even bristle at the nickname, which meant this was really, really bad.
She dragged her eyes back up to meet his, face schooled into a blank expression. “Not at all.”
“You’re a terrible liar, Princess,” he grumbled, prompting her to scowl at him.
“I’m an excellent liar,” she wagged a finger at him, “and seeing as you can’t even bring yourself to look at it, I’m pretty sure you already knew how bad it was before you asked.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Well, he could certainly try, and under any other circumstances, he might, but his head was throbbing as his pulse frantically ran between his arm and the rest of him and he needed to lie down. He ducked his head a little to curb the dizziness, and of course Clarke noticed and made a show of tutting and pointing him over to the nearest bed. Miller helped him manoeuvre onto the mattress before stepping back, and the two of them exchanged concerned glances over his head.
He flopped his head back into the pillows and tried to ignore the spasms in his right arm. “You two having a silent conversation without me is really starting to freak me out.”
“Yeah, well your arm being basically crushed into dust is freaking us out,” a familiar voice said. Bellamy tilted his head to see better, squinting at his friend.
“Fuck off, Murphy.”
“I came here to check up on you, Blake,” he said, feigning offence, “and this is how you treat me. After everything I’ve done for you.”
Bellamy snorted and then winced when the movement jostled his arm. That tiny show of pain was enough to spur Clarke into action, and she strode away, returning with a terrifying looking bottle and an enormous glass of water. She poured some of the sludge into a measuring cup, and then placed the cup and the glass on the side table.
“Bones are usually so easy to heal,” she huffed, “but you had to go and get your entire arm pulverised, so now you get to suffer.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve been dreaming of making me suffer for six years,” he commented dryly, and she rolled her eyes. He waited for her to retort, but when she didn’t, he realised she was actually worried about him, biting her lip anxiously as she stared at his arm. He felt uncomfortable with the sudden rush of affection that hit him, and quickly turned to his friends to escape it. “Where’s Octavia?”
Murphy grinned, “With the rest of your team. Diyoza was right; she didn’t murder Jasper, but she was pretty damn pissed off, and it took pretty much all of them to hold her back from tackling him. I’m sure they’ll all be up here in a sec–” The word was drowned out by a loud commotion outside the doors. “Ah, speak of the devils.”
The entire Gryffindor quidditch team and half the Hufflepuff team plodded in, Octavia in the lead and all of them talking over each other as they spotted Bellamy and moved purposefully towards him. Raven limped in after them and Clarke groaned, stepping away from the bed, “Honestly, this is a hospital wing, not a common room. Take the Skele-gro Bellamy. It won’t start hurting for another twenty minutes, but when it does, I’m kicking all your friends out.”
She was already halfway down the other end of the hospital wing before Bellamy thought to thank her, so he resolved to do it later, once everyone was gone. Without a second thought, he downed the medicine, almost gagging on it. He sank the entire glass of water immediately after but the disgusting taste still sat on his tongue.
Octavia looked livid, but at least she wasn’t throwing any punches.
Yet.
“Are you okay?” She asked, words coming out harsh and sharp.
“Fine, O, don’t worry.” He tried to smile but it ended up as more of a grimace. “I’ll be back on the pitch in no time.”
“He could have killed you,” she said through gritted teeth. “And you’re a fucking idiot! What were you thinking, diving for the quaffle in front of Harper?! You took two, you moron, if those bludgers had been any higher–”
Lincoln placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. “But they weren’t. He’s going to be okay. He’s lucky.”
“Damn right he’s lucky,” she crossed her arms, “because if he died, I was going to bring him back to life so I could murder him.”
Jasper shuffled forward, being nudged by Wells and Monty, who were both looking queasily at Bellamy’s elbow, but smiled amiably when they met his gaze. He was really glad he hadn’t looked at his arm. Jasper kept his head down, “I’m really sorry, man. I swear, one of those was meant for Harper, and then you moved and they both just… anyway… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Wait, seriously?” Jasper asked, incredulous, “but I could have killed you!”
Octavia made a strangled noise and he leapt back, but he needn’t have bothered because Lincoln’s hand on her shoulder was grounding her, keeping her from losing her shit completely. She exhaled angrily, but didn’t move.
“It’s fine, Jasper,” Bellamy wished he could shrug. Instead, he settled for holding out his uninjured hand for his friend to shake. “I know you didn’t mean to. If it had been Dax, I might actually hold a grudge, but you’re my friend. We’re all good.”
“That’s only because Dax was actually trying to kill you,” Shaw said, and they all agreed with a shudder.
“True,” Harper chimed in, “I was so glad when he graduated, he was a terrifying beater. Every match he played in ended with someone in the hospital wing – sometimes even people from his own team!”
“Dax is the reason Slytherin’s have a bad name,” Murphy complained, prompting an unnecessarily loud snort from Raven. He shot her a glare but she just hid another smile behind her hand.
“You’re one to talk, you hexed Bellamy halfway through a classroom in first year,” Monty pointed out.
“That was five years ago,” he retorted. “Besides, it was the start of a beautiful friendship.”
Everyone groaned and started throwing things at him, but Murphy just laughed and smacked Bellamy in his good arm, telling him to get better soon as he left. It was fast approaching lunchtime, so he was presumably off to call first dibs on a seat next to Emori so he could flirt with her for a while before they went to quidditch practice.
It wasn’t long before everyone else started making their excuses as well, which he was really thankful for, because the pain Clarke promised was really starting to kick in. Wells was talking to her over in the corner, making her smile, and Bellamy watched as Madi traipsed over to hug her as well. He wondered when Clarke would have had time to befriend his second-year seeker, but he wasn’t surprised. Clarke had a habit of taking younger students under her wing.
Soon, it was only Octavia, Lincoln, Raven and Miller surrounding his bedside, and they were mid-argument about the latest assignment from Gustus (“I swear he’s trying to poison us – last year’s seniors got to make Amortentia and Liquid Luck, and we get stuck with the Draught of Living Death!”) when Clarke came over to kick them out.
He pretended to be annoyed, but he was beyond relieved when she shooed them out the doors and silence fell over the ward. There were only two other people in there, lying motionless in beds against the opposite wall, and Bellamy was thankful for the quiet. He swallowed a grunt of discomfort when his arm throbbed, agony lancing through him. The second wave of it was even worse, and he doubled over, muscles straining as he tried not to cry out.
Gentle fingers started stroking up and down his spine and he finally broke, gasping in pain. Clarke hummed uneasily, hands still moving across his back, and he reached blindly out with his left hand for something to grab onto. She offered her own hand, and he worried that he was crushing it when the next surge of magic rolled over his arm, but she didn’t react at all, just kept up her comforting rhythm.
It was a weird dichotomy of sensations; the agony lancing up his arm and reverberating through his chest, and the soft patterns she was tracing on his back, soothing him despite the pain. She smoothed her palm up his back until she reached his neck, scratching lightly at the base of his skull, and he unconsciously tilted back a little, leaning into her hand. She kept it up, burying her fingers in his hair, and he took a shaky breath as the magic slammed into him again.
When he groaned, she made a small noise of distress in the back of her throat.
“I wish I could make it stop hurting,” she whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault, Princess,” he gritted out.
“I know, but…” She trailed off. He waited for her to finish the thought, but she didn’t say anything. He felt sleep beckoning him, darkness edging into his vision as his body shut down in an attempt to cope with the pain, and he clutched tight to Clarke's fingers. Just when he was certain she had forgotten she had even started speaking, she squeezed his hand. “I don’t like seeing you in pain, Bellamy.”
He had enough cognizance left to realise that she didn’t just say that she disliked seeing anyone in pain, but that she specifically didn’t like seeing him in pain, before he felt unconsciousness snatch him away.
When he woke up, it was to a light prodding on his arm. It twinged and he winced. Then there were fingers in his hair, stroking it calmingly as the other ones continued moving up and down his arm.
He cracked his eyes open. “Morning Princess. Sleep well?”
She jumped, but kept her concentration firmly on his bicep as she checked it over. “Fine. You?”
“I guess so. I don’t remember dreaming, but I also don’t remember tossing and turning in the night, so I presume it was good.”
“Do you usually dream?” She seemed to be trying to distract him with inane questions. He didn’t mind, especially when she lifted his arm up and it sent an odd sensation lurching up his arm. It wasn’t quite painful; it was just immensely odd, and it made him uncomfortable.
He clenched his jaw as he waited for the feeling to pass. “Uh, yeah. I’m usually pretty jealous of the version of me in my dreams. Unless they’re nightmares... Which they often are.” He stopped. Why was he telling her this?
“Me too,” she said lowly, confidentially, and he wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it.
She grazed her nails against his scalp, and he wanted to nuzzle into it, never feeling more like a cat than in that moment; practically on the verge of purring at her ministrations. Awkwardness flooded his brain, and in an instant he became hyperaware of every place she was touching him, skin igniting his like kindling. He swallowed around his dry throat, “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
Clarke glanced up at him, frowning, before she returned her gaze to his elbow, “I work in the hospital wing, this is literally my job.”
“No I mean,” he sat up a little, clearing his throat, “you don’t have to comfort me. I can handle a little pain, and it’s nowhere near as bad as last night.”
She seemed to realise that her hand was tangled in his curls, and quickly removed it, a slight flush in her cheeks. “Sorry. It’s just… I thought it might help.”
“It does,” he said quickly. Probably too quickly, judging by her surprised reaction. He scrambled for a something to say, and settled on, “I just mean… you shouldn’t feel obligated to make me feel better. I’m well aware that you don’t even like me, so you don’t–”
“–Is that what you think? That I don’t like you?” She asked.
“Is it not just common knowledge that we hate each other?” He raised his eyebrows in challenge, and something shuttered behind her eyes. He regretted his words almost immediately, realising that whatever goodwill he’d built up with her over the night had vanished in an instant.
She straightened, stepping back from him. When she spoke, her tone was clinical. “Your arm is mostly healed, but it might hurt for a few days while it completely resets. I suggest not training until next week. Until then, you’re allowed to go back to your dorm room, provided you make sure to eat enough, drink lots of water, and rest up. If you break it again before it’s fully healed, it’s a much longer and more painful process to deal with, and I don’t want to see you in this hospital wing again anytime soon.”
He reached out his good arm, catching her wrist before she could go too far. “Hey, Princess–”
“I have to go check on Sterling,” she muttered, yanking her arm back and stalking to the other end of the hospital where the unconscious boy lay.
Things were even frostier between them than usual after that. Clarke was cold, detached, even by her standards; she refused to make eye contact with him, and when the two of them were dragged into debates, she argued fiercely and shot his answers down at every turn. It was like being back in second year again, and the classes they shared – Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms – were all tenser than ever.
Even their friends noticed.
“Dude, what did you do to her?” Jasper asked one afternoon, as he met them after their Herbology class to study, only to see Clarke storming away across the grounds. “It hasn’t been this bad for years. She didn't even laugh at our mandrake jokes. Did you make fun of her haircut or something?”
“Did you hex her quill again?” Monty joined in.
“Or make an insensitive comment about her dead dad?” Murphy added, as they arrived at the library.
“That was literally once, and I had no idea he was dead,” Bellamy groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face and flopping into the nearest chair. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I did. We were talking, in the hospital wing, and then all of a sudden she just… closed off. Anyway, why are you all so sure that this is my fault?”
They all sat down around the table, throwing their books in the center, and glanced at each other knowingly. He really hated it when they did that.
Raven prodded his leg with her foot, “Because it’s probably your fault. None of the rest of us ever have a problem with Clarke – it’s literally just you.”
He was about to retort when the woman herself walked past. She didn’t even look at them, but he could tell by the way her shoulders bunched up that she knew they were there. He watched as she moved all the way to the furthest visible corner, and it was only after she disappeared behind a bookshelf that he tore his eyes away.
Murphy picked up his pen, “I’m gonna go sit with Clarke. Whatever she’s annoyed at you about doesn’t need to transfer to me. I don’t need that shit.”
“I always appreciate your friendship, Murphy,” Bellamy jibed, but the guy just grinned and tossed a ball of paper at him as he disappeared through the shelves in search of Clarke.
Monty bumped shoulders with him, “Look on the bright side, at least you can start back at quidditch training tomorrow.”
“Which is lucky,” Harper said as she arrived, Muggle Studies books tucked under her arm, “because we’re up against Ravenclaw at the end of the month and Nyko is a killer beater. They rescheduled our Hufflepuff match, to give Jasper enough time to learn how to aim without killing people, so it’s not until after the Christmas holidays. You’ll need the extra training if you want to avoid losing a leg this time.”
Jasper grumbled a complaint but Raven laughed. “True, plus we’ve got Gaia as a seeker, so you guys are toast.”
“Have I mentioned recently how much I hate you?” Harper asked Raven, and the two of them started a friendly fight that went on until Monty whispered something in Harper’s ear and she dragged him off to some dark corner of the library.
“Ah, young love,” Jasper said, with the pompous air of someone four times his age. Raven choked on a laugh again, trying to focus on her essay through the giggles.
Bellamy frowned down at his books. He loved his friends, but he really wasn’t sure what he’d done to Clarke to offend her so much, and he wasn’t close enough to her to ask without possibly aggravating her more. He didn’t like open conflict, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He sighed and dipped his quill in ink, starting on his Ancient Runes homework.
He felt like he was missing something.