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Every several years, when a certain mood struck him, Aziraphale would delve into the back of a closet and take out a fairly sizable wooden box, carved with swirls and stars.
He would open the box — inevitably releasing clouds of dust, to join the dust already filling the air of the bookshop — and look thoughtfully inside at its contents.
A top hat. A dark coat. A magic wand. A deck of cards. A small, collapsible table.
And an old canvas poster, originally created following John Maskelyne’s course in The Arts of Magic. In grand lettering, the poster read: The Amazing Mr Fell and his Remarkable Feats of Prestidigitation.
Aziraphale would sigh, then, in fond nostalgia. Magic was one of the things that had gotten him through the lonely time when Crowley was napping. But since then, things had gotten busy, and it had been a few decades now since the last time he had exercised his skills. He feared he might have fallen a bit out of practice, which made it more difficult to find the motivation to start again.
Still, he had every intention of trying on his magician’s hat again, someday. He just needed a good enough reason.