Archive of Our Own

It’s probably sad, how much Bellamy is looking forward to his first Christmas alone.

When he got his Hogwarts letter, his only hesitation in going was leaving his baby sister behind. Octavia had told him she’d never forgive him if he didn’t go, so he did, and Christmas became the time when he got to see her, make sure she was doing all right, that she was eating enough and whatever guy their mom was dating was treating her okay.

Once she started Hogwarts too, Bellamy had no reason to go home at all, except for summer, when he had to. Her first year, Octavia stayed in the dorms with him for the holiday, but she got bored being mostly alone at school, so this year, she approached him, awkwardly, to say that Indra had asked if she wanted to come home with her, and Bellamy had told her, with no hesitation, to go.

Maybe if he liked Christmas, had fond childhood memories of it or something, he’d care about having no one to share it with. As it is, he sees Octavia all the time anyway, and he just doesn’t care about being with her for one holiday he’s never really enjoyed anyway.

“I’ll just bum around here alone,” he says, with a shrug. “You act like I hate being alone.”

“You’re not going to be alone,” Octavia says, and he assumes it’s just her way of making herself feel better for abandoning him, but then he sees the actual sign-up list for students staying at school over the holidays, and there’s one other name on it. One that Octavia probably noticed. One she’s not going to shut up about, probably.

“Why aren’t you going home for Christmas?” he asks.

Clarke jumps a little, taken by surprise, and whirls on him, but she looks more amused than annoyed. “Hi, Bellamy.”

“Hi. Seriously, why not? I assumed Christmas was the Griffins was, like--” He stops, and Clarke’s smile goes crooked. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But your mom is still--”

She sighs, looking away from him and back at her drawing. “My mom and I have been pretty rough,” she admits.

He and Clarke haven’t had the easiest road to friendship. Friendship might still be the wrong word for what they have, honestly, but they trust each other and have each other’s backs. They’re co-captains of the Quidditch team; it would be a disaster if they couldn’t count on each other.

So he remembers when Clarke’s dad died, this past summer. He’d nearly driven himself out of his mind trying to figure out what he was supposed to do about it. Not that there’s anything you can really do about death, but--she’d been sad, and he hadn’t been there. Hadn’t even been close. 

Octavia’s been convinced he’s in love with Clarke since then, because he ended up taking the Knight Bus to the town nearest to her family’s fucking estate, telling her he’d be at some coffee shop if she needed him, just hanging out until she showed up and leaned against his shoulder for two hours. They didn’t even say anything, but when he left, she pressed her lips to his cheek and said, “Thanks.”

“Just let me know if you need me back,” he said. “The Knight Bus is pretty cheap.”

They’d practiced Quidditch and pointedly not talked about her dad all summer, and when they got back to Hogwarts, they didn’t really know what to do with each other. They’d hated each other up until third year, when they became the Beaters on the Quidditch team and discovered they were a phenomenal team, and even for a couple years after that, just on general principle.

Or, well, if he’s honest, he liked her a little too, right from the beginning, but she didn’t like him, so he wouldn’t admit it. The only reason he’d ever swallowed his pride was that she stopped two Slytherins hexing Octavia when she was a first year, and when he’d asked why, she’d just shrugged and said, “I’d do it for anyone.” But then she looked away and added, “And she’s your sister.”

So, yeah, they’re friends. Friend is probably the right word.

He glances around, makes sure the common room is pretty deserted, and then shifts closer. “Rough how?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “She’s been throwing herself into work. And it’s--whatever makes her feel better, I guess. But it was her non-human legislation that made it hard for my dad to get treatment after the werewolf attack, and it just made her more convinced the answer is harsher regulations and it’s such bullshit. I don’t know how to talk to her. I told her I wasn’t coming home and she looked annoyed for about half a second and then said it was just as well because she had a lot to do.” 

“Wow.”

“Yeah, we’re doing really well talking to each other about shit. Why aren’t you going home?”

“Because I hate home,” he says. “Octavia’s going to Indra’s, so she’s set, why would I go home?”

“Someone else would take you, right?”

“Someone else would take you. I don’t even like Christmas.” He bites his lip. “Miller offered, yeah. But I’m kind of looking forward to just being alone.”

“Oh, I get it,” she says, flashing him a grin. “You’re trying to talk me out of staying because you want the whole common room to yourself. Nice try, Blake.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you figured it out. It’s not going to be much of a break if I have to hang out with you the whole time.”

“Too bad,” she says. “You’re not getting rid of me.”

“Oh well. I didn’t want to have a good Christmas anyway.”

She elbows him lightly, and he grins. “You’re a dick,” she informs him.

“Yup,” he says. “And you’ve got two weeks of it to look forward to.”

*

“How do you make Christmas good?” he asks Miller.

Miller glances away from his transfiguration essay long enough to raise one eyebrow at Bellamy, and then goes back to work.

“It’s Christmas,” says Monty. “Isn’t it kind of good by default? No class for two weeks, snow, food. That’s why I’m going to Nate’s; his dad is an amazing cook.”

“And you could have come too,” says Miller. “That’s how you have a good Christmas. Come home with me.”

“Yeah, third wheel for two weeks, awesome,” Bellamy says, rolling his eyes.

“Isn’t Octavia going to Indra’s anyway?” Miller asks. “You said you were just going to sleep through Christmas.”

He considers the pros and cons of mentioning Clarke, but they’re going to find out anyway, and while they might make fun of him, they’re also more likely to be helpful if they know why he cares. So he says, “Clarke’s staying.” Monty and Miller exchange a look, and he sighs. “Yeah, yeah, I know, shut up. I assume she actually likes Christmas, but she’s been having a rough time. If I’m going to be around I might as well try to see what I can do for her, right? We’re co-captains. I’m supposed to look out for her.”

“Sure,” says Miller. “Are you going to tie a bow around yourself and sleep under the tree in the common room?”

“No,” he says. “I’m giving her something I’m sure she wants for Christmas, not something she has to politely pretend to appreciate until she can throw it away.”

Miller rolls his eyes. “You’re pathetic.”

“I know.” He leans back, closing his eyes. “But thanks for your help. Really.”

“It’s Clarke,” Monty offers, quiet. He’s a Ravenclaw, but he and Clarke have known each other since they were kids. He’s a valuable resource. “I think she’ll just be happy if you keep her company and keep her distracted, you know? She’s had a tough year. But you guys are good at taking care of each other.”

“Thanks,” he says, genuine this time, surprised. He’s not used to taking about Clarke, not without complaining. He prefers to pretend he doesn’t like people. Maybe he should admit he has friends more often. “I can probably handle that.”

“Seriously,” Miller adds. “Bow around your neck, write For Clarke on your chest, sleep under the tree.”

“How low are your standards?” Bellamy asks Monty. “He clearly sucks at romantic gestures.”

“Yeah, but have you see him without his shirt?” Monty asks, and he and Miller high five.

“Okay, yeah, I’m back to hating you guys,” he says, putting his head down on the table.

Monty pats his shoulder. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

*

The first day of the Christmas holiday, Bellamy releases the snitch into the girls’ dorm until Clarke comes down, hair a mess, wearing nothing but an oversized Holyhead Harpies jersey and glaring at him. 

“Seriously?”

He grins. “No classes, might as well get some practice in while we’re both around, right?”

“You’re fucking deranged,” she says. “I was sleeping!”

“So was I. Then I woke up.”

She rubs her face, and her shirt pulls up enough he can see just the barest hint of blue lace at the edge of underwear. He snaps his eyes up before he can get too distracted. “You really want to practice now?”

“What else are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” she says, a smile tugging at her mouth. “Are we eating breakfast first?”

“I figured practice first and then breakfast.”

She stretches, and her shirt goes all the way up and, god, pants. A skirt. A dress. Anything. He does not need to see Clarke Griffin in her cute, pale blue, lacy underwear, looking like she just rolled out of bed after a very good night. Which, okay, she did, but it wasn’t a very good night with him.

He coughs. “Yeah, uh, so--fifteen minutes?”

Her smirk is so fucking knowing, so at least she was expecting him to be a pervert. “See you soon.”

*

The next morning, Clarke pours a bucket of water on his face, and then waves her wand to dry him off before he’s even fully figured out what’s happening.

“What the fuck!” he says, startling up and shaking his head.

Clarke is smirking. And she’s still just wearing the jersey, so Bellamy is mostly naked in bed with a mostly naked Clarke smirking at him and everything about this is a bad idea. Maybe he’s still asleep. He hasn’t had this exact dream, but he’s come close.

“Oh, does getting woken up with no warning suck? Wow. I had no idea. All of my friends are way too polite to do that.”

“Morning, Clarke,” he says.

“Morning.” She flops down on the bed next to him, and he’d have a heart attack, except then he wouldn’t get to enjoy this. “So you didn’t have any horrible plans for me today?”

“I thought you wanted to sleep in,” he says. “I was being nice.”

“Huh. That’s a new one for you.”

“Tis the season. Or something.” He squints at her. ”Why can you come into my dorm and I can’t go in yours?”

“Because obviously girls only ever use our powers for good.”

“That must be it.” He shifts a little, trying to get the sheets to kind of hide his morning wood. “I figured we’d practice later. A couple of the Hufflepuff players are around too, they reserved the pitch.”

“Do you actually have a full schedule for this entire break?”

“No.”

She pokes him. “You can tell me if you do. I’ll only laugh at you a little.”

“Lots of people like Christmas.”

“What does that mean?”

He thinks it over and then looks over at her, which is a mistake. At the top of the list of things he did not need to know: exactly what Clarke Griffin looks like in his bed. “I figure you want to have a good holiday,” he says. “I’m trying to help.”

“It’s not your job to make sure I’m having a nice Christmas, Bellamy,” she says, but her smile is soft.

“It’s not like I’m doing much else. It’s either this or studying for my NEWTs.”

She’s quiet for a minute, and he thinks about gross shit like Professor Wallace in fishnet stockings and a feather boa until his dick figures out he’s not getting laid anytime soon. 

“You said lots of people like Christmas,” she finally says. “You don’t?”

“I liked it when it was my chance to check on O and make sure she was getting fed enough,” he says. “Now I do that all the time, so Christmas is just a fun break where I don’t have to do shit.”

“I can get behind that.” She stretches and flops back. “There’s a Quidditch match at noon I want to watch. Study until then?”

“You still never told me how you got a TV working in here,” he says.

She sits up, hair spilling over her shoulders. He wants to tug her back in next to him, keep her in his bed. “My dad,” she says. “He figured it out when he was a student.”

That’s a sobering thought, so he drags himself out of bed and roots around for some actual clothing. It’s not like Clarke hasn’t seen him mostly undressed before--they’re teammates, they change in front of each other sometimes--but it’s a little chilly.

“He was an engineer, right?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Clarke says, watching him pull on pajama pants and a t-shirt. He throws her his spare pair of pants while he’s at it, and she grins and tugs them on. “It was a total scandal in, you know, asshole pureblood circles. He was Muggleborn, so it was bad enough when my mom married him, but then he graduated, went to Muggle university, and went into engineering. He loved technology. He was a great wizard, but--he said there was more to do in the Muggle world. He always kind of missed it, that’s why he got past the technology blocks in the castle. And that’s why I have a laptop and wifi,” she adds, grinning over her shoulder. “Which I’m gonna go get. I’ll be back.”

“You will?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“We have a common room.”

“Yeah, but--it’s a holiday, Bellamy. We’re supposed to hang out watching TV in our pajamas in bed. You can’t come to my bed, so I’m coming to yours.”

She leaves without another word, and he grabs the charmed notebook he uses to send messages to Miller. Seriously, why can’t wizards just text? 

Clarke wants to spend the holiday hanging out in my bed. As friends, he writes.

Miller is luckily awake and has his own book on him, and he immediately responds, No one has ever wanted to hang out in bed as friends. 

Bellamy had the same thought, but it’s always good to have some backup.

Still, it basically is as friends. She gets her laptop set up streaming Netflix--god, he misses Netflix--and stretches out next to him with her books, telling him interesting tidbits from her Alchemy book, while he complains about their shitty History of Magic program.

It’s one of the best days of his life, honestly.

Octavia owls him his present the next day, with a note in giant, red letters that says DO NOT OPEN UNTIL CHRISTMAS I WILL KNOW BELLAMY BLAKE. He puts the present, with the attached note, under the tree, and then throws his shoe up into the girls’ dorm.

Clarke comes down, still wearing his pajama pants, and throws the shoe back at him. “Really?”

“I can’t go up there, how am I supposed to get your attention? There are noise-blocking charms, you know.”

“Sucks to be you. What do you need?”

“I’m sneaking into Hogsmeade, want to come?”

She grins. “Give me ten minutes.”

*

And that’s how it goes. He and Clarke don’t spend that much time together most of the year, not unless they have to. They plan Quidditch strategy and study for some of the classes they have together, but they don’t just hang out for no reason, and doing it all the time all at once is somewhere between exhilarating and overwhelming.

The weirdest part is how much Clarke seems to be enjoying it, honestly. He never thought she hated him--always basically thought she liked him--but he figured if he didn’t come up with things for them to do together, they’d probably just be quiet and separate in their own parts of the dorms.

Instead, she comes for him if they go too long without seeing each other, flopping on his bed with a histrionic sigh and telling him how bored she is, or setting up her laptop so they can both watch Quidditch or movies or whatever else they feel like.

Miller repeatedly tells him to just make a move, and he knows Miller is right. But it’s so fucking nice, having Clarke hanging out with him so easily. Being friends. He wants to enjoy it for a few days, before he fucks it up by losing all self-control and kissing her or something equally stupid.

Of course, as long as it’s Christmas, it’s just the two of them alone in a dorm full of places they could be making out so, really, he should say something. Just so he can take advantage of that.

It’s Christmas Eve when she comes in while he’s on his bed reading and curls up against his side, wrapping her arms around him. It’s the most physical contact they’ve ever had outside of winning Quidditch matches, when there’s always a lot of hugging and general enthusiasm. But that’s different. Everyone’s doing it.

She’s also usually happy when that happens.

“Hey,” he says, surprised, voice gentle, bringing his own arm around her. “Are you--”

“Do you want to keep playing Quidditch?” she asks, muffled against his shoulder. It’s not the last question he expected, probably, but it’s pretty close. “After Hogwarts.”

“Not without you,” he says, unthinking, and she looks up at that, a small frown on her face. He tries to shrug it off. “I’m good, don’t get me wrong. But we’ve been a team for five years. I probably wouldn’t know how to play with anyone else.”

That makes her smile. “Yeah.” She leans her head back against his chest. “Remember tryouts? We kept trying to hit the Bludgers at each other and ended up basically playing tennis.”

He laughs, rubbing his hand over her back. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but she probably knows how he can help. “How pissed were you when they decided we’d work well together?”

“Not that pissed.” Her eyes close and she snuggles a little closer. “We got off on the wrong foot. I didn’t know how to get on the right foot. It felt like a second chance.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“And we’re an awesome team.”

“We are. I mean, the rest of the team hates us.”

“They hate you. They love me because if it was up to you, we’d just practice all the time,” she teases.

“Not all the time. I want to pass my NEWTs. And half those practices were your idea.”

She groans and curls tighter against him. “Fucking NEWTs. Were you studying? Should I go?”

He lets himself lean down, brush his lips against her hair. It smells clean and fruity, and he hopes the scent lingers. “I’d rather do this,” he assures her. “Do you want to play Quidditch after Hogwarts?”

“I always wanted to be a Healer. But--following in my mom’s footsteps is a lot less appealing these days.”

“You can be a Healer without being your mom,” he points out. “She’s mostly a politician these days, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Or you could go to university like your dad. Study art or something.”

She looks up at him again, surprised. When he just smiles, she settles back in. “You aren’t Muggleborn, are you? Shouldn’t you be encouraging me to embrace my Witch side?”

“I don’t know. My mom’s a Witch. My dad was a Muggle, she told him what she was, he took off. She says she always wished she’d just--stayed in regular school. That being a Witch was nothing but trouble.”

“But she sent you here. You and Octavia.”

He snorts. “Are you kidding? They feed us and look after us most of the year. If she could keep us here forever, she would.”

“That sucks,” Clarke says, and he tugs her closer.

“It would be worse if I hadn’t come here. Or if O wasn’t a Witch. I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t know she was gonna come too.”

She’s quiet for a long minute and then asks, soft, “How come we never hang out?” 

“I have no idea. We kind of suck, I guess.”

“We’re co-captains. We should be friends.”

“We are.”

“Did I thank you for coming to visit? After my dad?”

“Yeah.” She frowns, and he relents. “Not with--you didn’t say it. But you didn’t have to.”

“I wish you liked me.”

“I do.”

“Not, like--I wish you liked me.”

He feels his heartbeat pick up, and he kisses her hair again. “I do. I kick people out of my bed if I don’t like them.” She props herself up on his chest, studying him like she’s expecting a trick, and he smiles, helpless. “I’ve been writing Miller all week about how you’re in my bed all the time and you’re not wearing pants and I’ve been dying.”

She grins. “I’m wearing pants.”

“Not nearly enough.”

Her hand trails up his stomach. “Or way too much.”

“Way too much,” he agrees. He tugs her up, nearly kisses her, but-- “You’re okay?” he asks, tucking her hair back. “With--you talked to your mom, I guess?”

She smiles at him, fond enough he nearly forgets his question. “I’m fine. You cheered me up.”

“Oh.”

She slides her hand down to cup his cheek, leans in and presses her lips to his.

He tries to go slow, but Clarke doesn’t seem to have any interest in that. She wants to kiss him deep and wet, settles in on top of him like she’s planning to never leave. 

“You’re sure?” he manages, just because if she regrets this and never wants to do it again, she’s going to break his heart.

“Bellamy,” she says, stroking his hair back from his face. “Remember fourth year when that Bludger knocked you off your broom and broke your arm?”

“Yeah.”

“You know I broke the Ravenclaw Beater’s nose, right?”

He smiles. “You got detention for no reason, he didn’t do anything wrong. He’s supposed to hit the Bludgers at us.”

“Yeah, well. I was so worried about you I lost my temper. That’s when, um--” She grins, sudden and embarrassed. “I’ve been in love with you for three years, Bellamy. I’m sure.”

“Thank fucking god,” he says, rolls her over on the bed and gives her the kiss he really wanted to give her, his whole heart in it. She surges back against him, tangling her hands in his hair, and, fuck it, Christmas is his favorite holiday now. No contest.

“I’ve been mostly naked in your bed all week,” she teases. “What did you think I was doing?”

“I thought you were bored.”

“Dumbass,” Clarke says, and tugs him down again.

*

She sleeps in his bed that night, and he wakes up when she presses her mouth under his jaw and murmurs, “Merry Christmas, Bell.”

He twists around and tugs her on top of him for a much longer kiss, chasing the stale taste of sleep out of her mouth.

“I didn’t get you anything,” he says.

“Well, I got you something. I reserved the Quidditch pitch for us,” she says, grinning.

He laughs and kisses her again. “Yeah?”

“I figured we can’t just have sex the whole time. Think how disappointed the team will be if they get back and we’re out of practice.”

As it turns out, the team is primarily disappointed because, as Monroe puts it, 
“We thought once you guys finally hooked up, we’d have fewer practices!”

“Yeah, Bell,” says Octavia. “We thought you guys just wanted an excuse to see each other. It was how you were channeling your sexual tension or whatever.”

Bellamy glances at Clarke, who shrugs, unhelpful as ever.

“Nope,” he says. “Dating is great, but come on. This is Quidditch.”

Clarke gives him a high five. “Exactly. Now mount up, guys. We’ve got work to do.”

“I can’t believe you guys just got worse after you got together,” Octavia grumbles, and Bellamy ruffles her hair.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, O. We’re better than ever.”