Work Text:
Almost 12-year-old Harry Potter thought he might be dreaming.
He had been bleeding, and now he was healed. He had been hungry, and now he was full. He had been scared out of his wits, and now he felt comforted.
Happy.
“Did I actually die when Uncle Vernon threw me out of the car?” Harry asked.
The person ministering to him, a man called Aziraphale, tsked. “Of course not, dear boy. You’re in fine fettle. Well. You could do with some more healing and eating. Goodness, those relatives of yours have much to answer for.”
The red-headed person who had coaxed Harry into the shop snorted. “Bound for the Pits, the adults are. That was sealed for them both when his aunt agreed to let his uncle take him to the city and dispose of him.”
Harry’s battered heart fell. “Aunt Petunia agreed to this?”
For a moment, Crowley--for that was the red-headed person’s name--looked guilty. “Yeah. Sorry, kid.”
“I guess Privet Drive really isn’t home,” Harry murmured. His ears popped. “Ow.”
Crowley raised their eyebrows. “Ah, well, it seems not. I do believe whatever wards the magicals had up around that house have dropped.”
“Tied to the place Harry called home, I suspect,” Aziraphale murmured, looking through books on one particular shelf that seemed to emerge from nowhere. “Ah, here we go.”
“What’s that, angel?” Crowley asked.
“The self-updating history I set up when we bowed out of their formal structuring,” Aziraphale said. “It’s a bit dry, but it records everything.”
“Handy,” Crowley commented, and Harry nodded in agreement.
“Better than devoting every minute I have to keeping track of both the magical and non-magical worlds,” Aziraphale said with a huff. “It’s been a bother.”
“What are you looking for, then, angel?” Crowley asked.
Aziraphale took a seat in his favorite chair across from Harry and Crowley, who were sprawled on the couch. “I’m going to see if it has anything on tonight’s events, and then, Harry, if you don’t mind, I’m going to do a bit of looking to see what’s recorded about you. Clearly, you’ve been sent to us, so clearly, you’re our responsibility now.”
“You could ask me,” Harry pointed out.
Aziraphale shut the book. “A very good point, though I would like it noted that it is unlikely that you know much about your magical circumstances, given your age and the fact that you were raised by non-magicals who apparently didn’t care for you much.”
“Ah, ok,” Harry said. “I’m Harry James Potter, I will be twelve in three days, I attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and I was raised by my aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley. I have a cousin the same age as me who beats me up a lot. I got good marks in my first year at Hogwarts, and a dark wizard tried to kill me when I was a baby. He died trying, I guess, but he killed my parents and I got landed with the Dursleys.”
“Buried the important part there a bit, didn’t you,” Crowley observed. “Do you know anything about this dark wizard?”
Harry shrugged. “Met him again about a month ago. He was possessing my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and trying to get his hands on the Philosopher’s Stone. I stopped him, and my teacher turned to ashes when I touched his skin. No idea what happened to his spirit though. Headmaster Dumbledore said I wasn’t to worry.”
Crowley drew an exasperated hand down their face, briefly disturbing the dark sunglasses they wore and settling a hand under their chin. Aziraphale blinked.
“Right. Well, let’s see if the book can fill in any of that backstory for us,” the angel said slowly.
“Oh, let’s do,” Crowley drawled.
“Harry Potter,” Aziraphale said, laying a hand on the book. It glowed, and bookmarks appeared at several pages near the back. “Goodness.” He flipped to the first.
Harry James Potter, born July 31, 1980, to James and Lily (Evans) Potter. Subject of a prophecy that reads, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to parents that have thrice defied him; born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, though he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.” This prophecy was heard by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore when given by Sybil Trelawney.
“That must be what Dumbledore meant when he said he couldn’t tell me why Voldemort had targeted me,” Harry murmured. “He heard a prophecy that he thinks meant me?”
“Well, the book does record important things, and this seems to be important. It also has a limited ability to make determinations such as this, and it clearly states that you are the subject of this prophecy,” Aziraphale said. “Fascinating. That also explains why there are so many markers for you. The book knows that a person of prophecy will need to be observed in more depth, surely. Shall we go to the next one?”
Harry thought it was a bit weird that a book knew more about him than he did, but gamely said, “Sure.”
Aziraphale flipped through the scant pages to the next bookmark. He skimmed quickly, then said, “Oh, dear. This is a description of the events of the night your self-proclaimed ‘Dark Lord’ attacked you and your family. It says that a man named Peter Pettigrew betrayed your parents, though your godfather, a man named Sirius Black was falsely accused of the crime and imprisoned without trial. Albus Dumbledore opted to leave you on your aunt and uncle’s doorstep in a basket with a letter. Gracious.”
Crowley, listening to what his angel hadn’t said, peered over his glasses. “Is that all, angel?”
Aziraphale hesitated. “Harry, the entire affair is described minutely. It’s quite graphic. If you want to hear it, of course I’ll read it to you, as it pertains directly to you, but I think it really ought to wait until you’re prepared for it.”
Harry thought. Despite the healed back and the full tummy, he felt off-kilter, like he could fall down at any moment even though he was sitting quite still on the bookshop’s sofa. “May I ask to have it read later?” Harry asked, wondering if this was his only opportunity to hear the events of that night in detail.
“Of course you may,” Aziraphale assured him.
“Then I’ll wait,” Harry said quietly, and startled a bit as Crowley grasped his shoulder firmly.
“Good man,” the demon said, and let go, aware that the friendly touch had, perhaps, been too much for Harry just then.
Harry cleared his throat. “So Dumbledore left me with my aunt and uncle? And he’s the one who said I must stay there? Even though…”
“Even though,” Aziraphale confirmed, flipping to the next marker. “There’s quite a convoluted story here. It seems that a Severus Snape, who was a childhood friend of your mother’s, took an Unbreakable Vow to protect you. Fallen down on the job a bit, that one, hasn’t he? And goodness, dear child, you were tortured by the spiritual presence of the Dark Lord in your Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom all school year? And…” Aziraphale trailed off.
“I think I killed him,” Harry said glumly.
Crowley’s eyebrows went up as far as they could go behind the sunglasses. “You?”
“It’s not quite that simple, dear,” Aziraphale said, his eyes moving rapidly to take in the entire story. “Some sort of protective warding your mother built into your very skin activated when he attacked you, and turned the attack back on him. You had very little to do with it.”
Harry looked down at his hands. “When I touched him, he turned to ash. I mean, I noticed it happening when he grabbed me, so I grabbed his face.”
“Self-defense, dear,” Aziraphale assured him. “You’re perfectly in the right. An adult laid violent hands upon you, a child, and you used every tool you had at your disposal to fight him off. Quite cleverly, too.”
Crowley put two fingers to each of his temples. “Huh.” He let go. “Quirrell is in the Pits for willingly allowing his own possession by an evil magical being. Riddle, though. He’s an elusive bugger.”
Aziraphale closed the book, ignoring the new marker that had sprung up at the end that no doubt was a result of their interference in magical affairs. “How so?”
“Split his soul, magically,” Crowley said. “Hell really wants all the pieces.”
Thinking, Aziraphale looked to Harry. “Dear boy, I think it might be best if you stayed here with us until we can sort all this out.”
Harry frowned. “How long will that take? I’m due back at Hogwarts on September first.”
Aziraphale and Crowley held a conversation with their eyes. Perhaps some of it was telepathic; Harry could hardly know, could he?
“Harry,” Crowley said slowly. “We don’t think that Hogwarts is particularly safe for you at the moment. The Headmaster seems inordinately invested in your life, almost as if he believes he has to help the prophecy along, and he seems to have no care for your well-being. It would be foolish to place yourself directly under his control again.”
That thought struck Harry with force. Put that way, Harry could see the wisdom in remaining out of his Headmaster’s control. But. “What about my friends?”
“If they’re true friends, Harry, they will remain by your side when you emerge in safety,” Aziraphale said, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them. “Free will is very important, but so is loyalty, and I can see that you do have some loyal friends.”
Crowley let his glasses slip down his face so that Harry could see his eyes as he said, “You also will make many more friends during your life, including us.”
Aziraphale set his book down. “I understand your fear, Harry. And I will not take your choice from you. If you truly wish to go to Hogwarts in September, we will ensure you are there, and as safely as we can manage. But please consider our advice.”
Harry bit his lip. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course,” Crowley said briskly. “Now, I think this young man has had quite enough to be going on with, don’t you, angel?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Aziraphale confirmed. He snapped his fingers. “I’ve a room all ready for you upstairs. Let’s go.”
Harry found himself led to a room on the second floor, near the stairs, with its own window. In it, a plush full-size four-poster bed stood in the corner, deep blue curtains ready to draw around it, while a wardrobe, made of some wood that had aged into a natural silver, stood opposite it. A finely woven rug in shades of blue and silver lay in the center of the room, and a bedside table made of the same aged wood as the wardrobe held a stained-glass lamp, lit with a soft glow.
“I hope this will suit, Harry, but if you need anything, do let me know,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, and you’ll need--” He snapped his fingers and nodded. “The wardrobe should contain suitable clothes and pajamas that will fit. At least enough to be started with. I expect Crowley will want to take you shopping.”
“”Course I will,” Crowlehy said. “I don’t dare think about what fussy stuff you might outfit him with.”
Nonplussed, Harry opened the wardrobe door to take a peek at jeans, trousers, plain t-shirts and button-ups. A drawer at the bottom held standard y-fronts in white, and tartan pajamas.
“Are these really all for me?” Harry asked faintly.
“I know it’s not a lot to start with,” Aziraphale said worriedly. “But we’ll adjust.”
“No, no, I mean.” Harry drew a deep breath. “I’ve never had clothes to fit me before. And never so many.”
He could see that the words triggered the immortal pair in some way. Aziraphale suddenly looked dangerous, and Crowley laid a hand on his angel’s arm. “It’s fine, angel; he’s safe and he’s here for us to look after now, isn’t he?”
“Right,” Aziraphale said, and took a deep breath he didn’t need. “Of course. Right.”
“That said, Harry,” Crowley looked right at him. “You know that your aunt and uncle didn’t treat you well, right? And that wasn’t normal at all?”
Harry looked at Crowley, then back at the wardrobe, and then back at Crowley. “Yes. I mean, in my head I do.”
“That’s enough for a start,” Crowley said. “Come on, angel, let’s give Harry some space. He’s had a hard night.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale nodded, and turned to follow Crowley out. “Good night, dear boy. If you need anything, I’m just across the hall, and the bath is just next door.”
“Thanks, Aziraphale! Thanks, Crowley!” Harry said, and turned to get pajamas out of the drawer.
…
Crowley stopped Aziraphale in the hall outside of Harry’s door. “Someone will come to investigate those wards on Privet Drive, angel. I’m going to go see what’s what. Do you think you should add some protections to the shop?”
Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I’ll take a look at my warding and see about a notice-me-not keyed to the magical populace.”
“Best make an exception for Sirius Black,” Crowley mused. “I think once he hears his godson is not safe, he’ll probably make a break for it.”
“Shall we help him along?” Aziraphale fretted.
“We can’t interfere too much, angel, you know that. But I might take a stop out at Azkaban and scare the dementors off his cell. Just in the interest of fairness,” Crowley said. “In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that.”
“Do be careful, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and kissed Crowley’s cheek softly.
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “Of course, angel.” He let go, and turned to make his way out of the bookshop.
…
Long experience with his Bentley had taught him that mortals paid no attention to it, in the main, unless something truly dramatic had occurred. (See: flaming car running through a wall of flame the day of the Armagedon’t.) Crowley therefore simply headed to Surrey, and there, he found that someone had raised an alarm about Harry’s disappearance.
Blue and red flashing lights lit up the front yard, and neighbors stood about in small clumps as he witnessed the arrest of Vernon Dursley on child endangerment and suspicion of murder. Nearby, Crowley saw a thin blond woman absolutely hissing in rage at a tall, odd-looking fellow with a long white beard.
“You promised!” The woman said. “You promised that you would leave us alone if we took him in. That you would smooth the way if anything untoward happened. Well, this isn’t smoothing the way!”
“Where is your nephew, Petunia?” the man said coldly. “Where is Harry Potter?”
“I don’t know, and good riddance,” she hissed.
“You don’t know,” the man repeated. “And therefore, I will tell you. The wards have fallen. That means Harry is likely dead, and you and your husband have doomed us all.”
Crowley pursed his lips. Bit dramatic, that, but worth reporting back to the angel.
The woman--Petunia--paled. “What? No, Vernon was just going to leave him at the orphanage in London.”
“There is no orphanage in London, Petunia,” the man said, his countenance drawing up into a dark and forbidding light. “Your husband abandoned and as good as killed Harry tonight. As you now know.” He nodded to the police officer approaching them. “I believe this young lady has something to say to you.”
“Petunia Dursley? Ma’am, you’re under arrest for suspicion of child endangerment and murder. You’ll need to come with me now.” The woman took out her handcuffs.
“Dumbledore, do something!” Petunia screeched.
“No,” Dumbledore said. He looked at the house. “The wards have fallen, and you’re no longer useful to me.”
Crowley heard the screaming as Petunia was cuffed and shoved into the back of a police car. A young boy, who looked about the same age as Harry, looked stunned. A social worker was attempting to talk to him, but getting nowhere. As gently as he could, Crowley pulled up a miracle to ensure that the lad got counseling and a fair, loving place to stay. He then drifted toward the house, using the shadows to disguise his approach, and peered in a kitchen window. He could see police taking photos of blood spatter in the kitchen, and further back, someone rummaging through a cupboard under the stairs. He eased away.
Missing, and presumed dead by the wizarding world, Crowley mused.
He and the angel could work with that, provided Harry agreed.
…
Morning found Aziraphale and Crowley in the small kitchenette tucked into the corner of the second floor flat, waiting for Harry.
“Do you suppose he knows he can come out?” Aziraphale said worriedly.
Crowley rolled his eyes, but got up and wandered down the hall to tap on Harry’s door. “Harry? You awake? The angel’s worried that you don’t want breakfast.”
A muffled acknowledgement satisfied Crowley, who wandered back and parked himself in front of his cup of espresso. “See? He’ll be out in a bit.”
The door opened, and Aziraphale could see Harry shuffle out in a dark red t-shirt and jeans that fit. His trainers, still held together with tape, looked hideous, but then again, Aziraphale had forgotten shoes last night.
“Good morning, dear boy!” Aziraphale called. “What would you like for breakfast?” He gestured at the table.
Harry stopped, eyes wide at the spread. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, kippers, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, tea, pastries, and toast absolutely covered the surface of the table.
“Ah, wow.” Harry said, seating himself at the place clearly left for him. “Er. Some eggs and toast please?”
Aziraphale passed both platter and toast rack over to Harry. “Help yourself, dear boy. Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, actually,” Harry said, adding two eggs and toast to his plate. Crowley nudged the butter and jams closer to Harry’s plate, and Harry gave him a fleeting smile as he spread some on his toast.
“What do we need to do today, angel?” Crowley asked, just to let Harry eat before the onslaught.
“Well, I don’t know that there’s anything we absolutely must do,” Aziraphale pondered. “I ought to open the shop. I strengthened the wards last night, so that, of course, only non-magicals may enter. Excepting we two celestials, Harry, and Harry’s godfather.”
“Isn’t my godfather in prison?” Harry asked glumly.
“Yes,” Crowley said, “but we suspect he’ll break out to find you eventually. I have plans to make that easier for him to do.”
“Do you know him, then?” Harry asked. “Because I thought I understood that this was all news to you.”
“Ah, well,” Aziraphale hedged. “We’ve never met, but we do have an advantage, of sorts, in that we can determine what kind of person someone is--values, sins, and such--by thinking about them.”
“Black’s main character trait is loyalty,” Crowley said quietly. “And love. He loved your father deeply, and he loves you, deeply. He doesn’t quite understand why he’s still in Azkaban. Time passes differently for people subject to the Dementors’ influence, and those Soul-Eaters, who guard the prison, are abominations from Hell. Literally. Can’t do anything about them, myself.”
“But I can,” Aziraphale promised. “And Crowley can offer someone protection from them.”
“I can,” Crowley confirmed. “And that’s the plan.”
“Soul-Eaters?” Harry questioned faintly. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not, but I can protect Black from their effects, let him clear his mind so that when the time comes, he can escape cleanly,” Crowley said.
“And you’re sure he will come?” Harry asked.
Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “He will,” the angel said slowly, “especially if he thinks you’re in some kind of danger.”
“Ten years of abuse wasn’t enough danger?” Harry snorted.
“He probably doesn’t know how long it’s been, Harry, but he certainly doesn’t know you’ve been abused,” Aziraphale cautioned him. “That would be information this Dumbledore person has kept very close.”
Crowley looked over his sunglasses at the young wizard. “I went to see your aunt and uncle last night, Harry. They’ve been arrested for child endangerment and suspicion of murder. Dumbledore was there, and he let them get arrested. He said something about how their actions might have doomed the wizarding world, and that he no longer had a use for them.”
Harry put his fork down.
Quiet fell as Harry thought about everything, considered what he’d learned in his first year as a wizarding student, and gave real thought to how his relatives had treated him. Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t rush him.
Several minutes later, Harry picked up his fork, digging into eggs that were still miraculously hot. “I think it best I stay hidden here, if that’s still an option,” he said, before taking a bite.
“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “That may speed up Black’s timetable.”
Crowley stood. “I’ll just see myself to Azkaban, then.”
“Crowley?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Harry?”
“Thank you for finding me.”
“Don’t mention it,” Crowley said, moving quickly toward the door. “Seriously. Don’t.”
…
Life in the bookshop offered Harry opportunities he never thought he would have.
First, he could eat all he wanted, when he wanted it. Harry thought he’d never take that for granted. But Aziraphale loved to eat, and he loved to share what he loved. When Harry hesitantly offered to cook for him, Aziraphale lit up.
“Oh, dear boy, you certainly don’t have to. But I am curious. What would you like to make?” Aziraphale asked.
“Well, Aunt Petunia liked my roast beef and pudding,” Harry said shyly. “And I’m pretty good at making a Victoria sponge.”
“What do you need to make all those things?” Aziraphale asked, and they put their heads together to create a shopping list.
Despite what it sounded like when he decided to stay with the angel and demon, Harry was free to leave the shop whenever he liked. Both celestials had protective markers--Harry would have called them spells, but they seemed a little more elaborate than that--that would alert them if Harry was in trouble and keep people from noticing him unless he wanted to be noticed. Harry often joined the couple at the park, or the ice cream parlor, or even, on one memorable occasion, The Ritz for a very fancy dinner.
Second, Harry could read all he wanted, and once he knew that his guardians would praise him for his interest, he took Aziraphale’s advice and started with the magical section.
“There’s time enough for you to learn everything you’d like,” Aziraphale said. “But it’s probably best that we educate you in your world’s culture and crafts.”
Harry had never been encouraged to learn before; in fact, he’d often felt the need to not outdo either of his friends in the classroom. This likely stemmed from the Dursleys’ habit of punishing him for getting better marks than Dudley. With Aziraphale’s encouragement, Harry developed a substantial reading habit, augmented by note-taking in lovely journals with a nice fountain pen.
“Much easier than a quill,” Aziraphale had explained. “Wonderful invention.”
Third, Harry could practice his magic.
The ashes of his wand had been found at Privet Drive. Crowley had discovered that Vernon had burned all of Harry’s school things, just as he’d warned him he would do.
But with Crowley and Aziraphale teaching him, Harry realized he didn’t need a wand to do most magic. He just needed focus, which is what his wand helped provide for him. Crowley had provided him with a stick made of elder wood to use as a kind of training tool to direct his spells, and Aziraphale taught him how to feel and direct his magic. It took time, but by Yule, he was proficient at casting all of his first year spells without his wand. Aziraphale secured copies of the spellbooks needed for the standard curriculum at Hogwarts, all years, and in addition to his supplemental readings in the stacks, Harry worked his way through all of them.
Crowley and Aziraphale also kept a weather eye on Azkaban. Crowley’s removal of the Dementors’ influence in Sirius Black’s cell had yet to spur the wizard to action, but as Aziraphale pointed out, the man himself still had to battle the personal demons of incarceration for the murder of his very good friends.
“It’s bound to have left a significant mark,” he mused to the other two over lunch one day. “I wonder if I can go and shore him up emotionally?”
“Well, angel, if you choose to go, I’d prefer to go along,” Crowley said. “Keep the dementors of your back and all.”
“Tonight then,” Aziraphale said. “Under cover. Harry, you’ll be by yourself for a bit. Do you think you can manage?”
“‘Course,” Harry said. “I’ll keep the kettle warm for you.”
Aziraphale smiled at him gently. “That would be kind, thank you.”
…
Azkaban was just as gloomy as Crowley remembered it from the first time. He guarded Aziraphale’s back as the angel, cloaked in one of Crowley’s old black trench coats and a dark hat that disguised his shining hair, made his way silently to Black’s cell.
Aziraphale regarded its occupant silently for a moment, then made a gesture that seemed to pull from the sky. Then, he nodded to Crowley, and the pair left as quietly as they arrived.
The tea when they arrived back at the bookshop in the Bentley was hot, welcome, and accompanied by fancy chocolate biscuits.
“Lovely, Harry; thank you,” Aziraphale said, shedding cloak and hat.
“What did you do there, angel?” Crowley asked, curiously.
“Well, Mr. Black was in quite a deep depression,” the angel said, seating himself and reaching for a biscuit. “Moving the dementors away from his cell certainly relieved the main problem, but the man did have his entire world ripped away from him just before being tossed in that place. He was not well at all. So, I helped him to focus on the positive, healed his brain of the chemical changes brought about by the dementors, and gave him a bit of a nudge in the right direction.”
“Ah, do you think that will be enough?” Crowley asked, seating himself.
“I think, given a few more weeks of dementor-free life and the judicious spreading of the news within his ear shot, he should make his way here,” Aziraphale said. “We will have to wait.”
…
In February, Crowley casually disguised himself and staged a conversation with one of the Azkaban guards regarding the mysterious disappearance and possible death of one Harry Potter--just outside of Sirius Black’s cell.
…
In March, the pair heard that Black had escaped.
“So, now what?” Harry asked, pouring a cup from the ever-present pot of tea in the back of the shop.
“Well, it should only be a matter of time,” Aziraphale said contentedly. “Your godfather is quite skilled in the art of magical disguise, and I imagine he’ll, er, follow his nose.”
Crowley rolled his eyes, but Harry grinned widely.
Still it took a few more weeks before Aziraphale opened the shop doors to a large, emaciated, black dog.
“Oh, good Lord,” the angel said, opening the doors wider. “You best come in, Sirius Black.”
After many explanations and another cup of tea, Sirius sat back in his chair, looking a little lost, but resolute.
“Harry, I know for you it’s like we’re meeting for the first time, but I love you,” he said. “I want you to be safe, and there’s no safer place than with the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”
“You’re welcome to stay as well, Mr. Black,” Aziraphale said. “Best to heal you up a bit before you take on the magical world.”
“If you’re certain, I shall,” Sirius said.
And Harry smiled.