Chapter Text
“Crowley, you've gotten us lost!” Aziraphale's voice whined in the darkness.
Crowley smirked.
He was in the Forbidden Forest, which was already cool enough. Factor in that was way past curfew and Aziraphale was stuck beside him, mumbling about how stupid Crowley was because he'd gotten them lost.
Crowley was having the time of his life.
“Relax, angel,” he drawled. The nickname slid off his tongue with venom—he'd been calling Aziraphale that since first year. Aziraphale—perfect little angel, A+ student, pureblood, certainly in line to be Hufflepuff Headboy. And he despised being reminded of it.
“Will you ever stop calling me that?” he hissed, annoyed. “We have to focus! I know you've got no idea where we are!”
“We'll figure it out after we find the taraxacom,” Crowley said. The reason they were both breaking the rules—they'd gotten paired up for a Herbology project and Crowley had gotten the idea to go find a taraxacom, commonly known as the Firewrangler, in the Forbidden Forest. He was sure if they presented the flame-spitting plant they'd get an A. Aziraphale put up a front about how wrong it was to break the rules, but Crowley knew he'd do anything for the sake of intellectual property.
“Well, we should have come during the day, when their petals are splayed,” Aziraphale said indignantly.
“Oh yes, during the day. When all students are free to roam the Forbidden Forest and no one is there to stop them,” Crowley retorted, rolling his eyes. “Just be patient, we have nothing to worry about.”
He wasn't sure if that was true—but he'd long ago built up a wall of self-defense so thick he rarely feared anything outside of bad grades or being caught ogling the Hufflepuff.
As far as the latter, he'd hoped he could return to Hogwarts this year to find his feelings towards Aziraphale gone, but they were still there, ever present in the annoyingly little lock box of his heart. He hated how much he liked Aziraphale, how that little sneer the Hufflepuff gave him made him want to kiss him irrationally more. They'd been mortal enemies since first year—Aziraphale with his pureblood, Ministry of Magic family, and Crowley, a halfblood Slytherin with a Death Eater for a father. They were made to hate each other—and Crowley was positive Aziraphale did hate him, but he. . .he couldn't shake his own feelings. If anything, they kept growing stronger.
He pushed the thought out of his mind and murmured a quick “lumos” to light the way. He had a hard time seeing in the dark, he always had. Apparently unbeknownst to his father, infant wizards are not meant to be give an animagus. As a result, there had been a mistake and now Crowley had serpentine yellow eyes both when he was in wizard form and in snake. He had to wear sunglasses around all muggles—and he more often than not wore them around school as well. Occasionally he would take them off to scare first years.
“This looks promising,” he muttered, moving towards a particularly gnarled plant.
“You said that about the last one,” Aziraphale huffed. Crowley paid him no mind and touched the plant. Sure enough, it unfurled to reveal the bright red petals he wanted to see.
“This is it, give me the pot,” he hissed. Aziraphale's eyes widened and he handed him the pot. Very gently and carefully, Crowley uprooted the plant and transferred it to the warm soil they'd prepared earlier. To his relief, the plant closed again, content with it's new home.
“Now let's get out of here,” Aziraphale said. Crowley stood and started back the way they'd come.
It took paying no attention to a huffing and muttering Aziraphale and acute focus on their path for them to return to the edge. Crowley considered it lucky at all that they got back safely, since he really had been lost with no clue how to get back.
They stood at the edge of the grounds to part ways.
“Don't forget—bounce facts. Build off of something I say and vice versa,” Aziraphale said primly.
“I know, I know,” Crowley said. “I'm top in this class, remember?”
“Tied for top,” Aziraphale corrected.
Right, that last test had put Aziraphale up there with him.
“Whatever. Just don't fuck up the project and I'll keep the plant alive,” Crowley said.
“Right,” Aziraphale said, and stalked away.
Crowley headed back to his dorms with an odd feeling in his chest.
Aziraphale had promised himself he'd get his act together this year.
He would get straight A's, he would become a prefect, and he'd make sure Hufflepuff won House Cup.
No pressure at all.
The biggest obstacle in his way was, of course, Crowley. He didn't know why the annoying bastard relentless teased and antagonized him, but he was determined to play none of his games this year. He would return no jinxes or retort to any comments. After this project, he would simply ignore him.
He hoped.
Herbology was right after breakfast.
Usually, if Aziraphale was partnered with someone for a project that happened to be the first class of the day, he would take it upon himself to go confer with them during their meal to discuss notes and such. But he knew better than to do such a thing with Crowley—who sat at the Slytherin table surrounded by his...friends. Beelzebub, Hastur, and Ligur. A gang of delinquents who terrorized Hogwarts with annoying pranks and malicious attempts at getting out of classes. Aziraphale disapproved, of course, and so did all the other Hufflepuffs. In fact, every other house besides a few stray Ravenclaws hated Crowley and his gang.
They didn't seem at all bothered by it, though, and continued to make transforming Hogwarts into the most obnoxiously inconvenient school ever their number one goal.
So Aziraphale sat back and ate his breakfast alone.
“Gabriel and Michael, you're next,” Professor Sprout said.
Aziraphale watched the other presentations lazily. They were all on basic magical botany, nothing he'd never seen or studied yet. He may have hated going in the forest, and he would never say it out loud...but Crowley's idea to use the Firewrangler was good. They'd certainly outshine everyone else.
“Crowley and Aziraphale, you're up!”
Aziraphale followed Crowley to the front of the classroom. The Firewrangler was in Crowley's hands, petals open in the light.
“For our presentation, we've brought in a taraxacom, better known as the Firewrangler,” Aziraphale said proudly.
“The elusive plant was brought to Ireland and Scotland after wizards created the hybrid in Indonesia, during the late 16th century. They found it couldn't stand the warm climate and immigrated it here, where it quickly began to thrive,” Crowley continued for him.
Aziraphale almost smiled. This was going. . . .well. The class seemed interested, and so did Professor Sprout.
“The Firewrangler only displays its flame-red petals during the day, and at night they close to protect the delicate pores that soak in the carbon they need to produce their flames. Flames, which are easily controllable and accessible through a simple incantation,” Aziraphale said. “Which Crowley and I will now demonstrate.”
Aziraphale lifted his applewood wand, and Crowley did the same with his ebony one.
They said the simple spell together.
And the room exploded in light.