Chapter Text
Magic, as it is, is a strange label for a fickle construct.
It’s like trying to give the color blue a name long before it was called blue, or trying to introduce the wheel to a cave full of people who have only just discovered how to set something on fire. It is the most ancient of things in the known universe, though it certainly isn’t only called magic. It’s called science, or hope, or belief, or faith, or miracles, or a thousand other things that people must’ve once called blue or the wheel or all new inventions the earth has ever been introduced to.
That is to say that magic takes on almost as many names as Angels and Demons do. Humans have it in leaps and bounds, though it is all technically scientific if it has a rational explanation. Humans also don’t know that they have it, at least all of the time. So it’s no surprise that sometimes they look magic right in the face and don’t see it. Or, they mislabel it.
There is a knock at a bookshop’s door.
This in of itself wouldn’t be odd in the slightest, if it weren’t for the fact that the bookshop was closed, and the sign on the front door announced it as such quite clearly. Equally as odd, the only person who Aziraphale could think to be calling at a time like this would be Crowley - who is currently perched on the loveseat directly parallel from his own.
“Ngk,” says Crowley unhelpfully. His lanky limbs stretch out, and he yawns, almost dropping the very nice, very old, very expensive bottle of 1947 Leroy Romanee-Saint-Vivant suddenly clutched in a death grip within his hands.
“Right. My thought exactly,” says Aziraphale, equally as unhelpful and drunk where he himself sits. He’s currently reading, and knocks on the door don’t matter much to him when he’s reading, as does nothing else, save for perhaps the Demon sitting across from him. “They’ll leave in a moment, it’s only polite-”
Another knock sounds. Crowley groans, taking a fistful of pillow and smothering himself with it. By the time a third knock arrives, Crowley is precariously on the edge of the couch, and goes tumbling off a moment later, dragging himself up to his feet. The bottle of wine, which has now fallen from his hands, somehow ends up on the coffee table covered in books across from him.
“Bloody solicitors.” Aziraphale snorts gently as Crowley goes sauntering off towards the front door, teeth grit. He’d usually just send whoever it is finding themselves stumbling back and falling into a rainy ditch. Apparently, today he’s in a bad enough mood to confront them himself. There’s the distinctive sound of a snap, and the door unlocking, and then- “What’d’ya wa- Oh. You are not a solicitor.”
That gets Aziraphale’s attention up and out of his book pretty quickly, which is no easy feat.
Something about Crowley’s tone is strange, though, a mix of amusement and wariness. When Aziraphale dares a peak up towards the doorway he figures out why. The man standing there looks as if he’s probably going to struggle entering the doorway at all. Large, tall, with a massive scraggly beard halfway down his front, concealing a rumpled coat covered in far too many pockets.
“No.” A snort of a laugh. The man enters, to Aziraphale’s surprise, ducking his head like he has experience in folding himself down. “Not a solicitor. Isn’t that another word for a- a prostitute?”
Aziraphale squawks, at that, a little indignant. “Sir, we are closed. If you would like to come in and look for a dictionary some other time then you are more than welcome to-”
“Do I look like I’m here to buy books?” The man brightens. Like he’s flattered by that idea. Then, his expression wilts and he begins to rifle through one of the man pockets on the front of his coat. “No, no, I’m not here for books. You don’t sell em’, do you? I mean, not as far as what everyone who comes here says, and I’ve met a lot of folks who tried their best t’haggle an’-”
“Would you get on with it?”
“Right! I’m sorry, sirs, I’m a little-” He grunts, and then rips two thick envelopes out of one of his pockets. Aziraphale is about one step away from employing a small miracle to send the man to the nearest coat store, instead, just to get him out of his establishment. Crowley, who has simply been leaning against a shelf, is rewarded for his valiant effort to defend the store with a scowl. “Ah- there we are.”
He passes an envelope to Crowley, who inspects it with narrowed eyes. Aziraphale takes his own with a deep, frustrated sigh. “Rubeus Hagrid, at your service, Groundskeeper and keeper of keys at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft.”
Before, neither of them had been paying quite as much attention, more or less just sharing glances with each other that conveyed such sentiments as please make him leave or oh joy, a strange guest. Now though, both of them have a twin moment of realization that oh, no, this man is not a solicitor.
This man thinks they’re witches.
An almost laughable idea, Crowley is visibly holding back giggles at Aziraphale’s shocked expression. Rubeus looks so earnest, though, that he’s quick to pick his jaw back up and attempt to answer the man’s words. “We- We’re a little old to be attending a boarding school, are we… not?”
Rubeus seems to realize his error. “Oh! Sorry, you’ve got t’open it, read it, it’s not exactly a school supplies list.” Indeed it isn’t, they’re realizing, as one of Crowley’s nails snares in the envelope and tears it open. He reads the first line and then glances over to Aziraphale, a laugh on his lips. “On behalf of Dumbledore ‘imself, we’d like to hire you as new professors.”
There’s a long uncomfortable pause that Rubeus does not appear to understand as uncomfortable at all. “Well- Mr. Crowley, we’re lookin’ for a new Herboligist. Mr. Aziraphale, we need a librarian. So I guess is’no two professors. Just the one.”
Crowley and Aziraphale share a loaded glance. One seems to say - what’s the harm? - While the other expresses that - the harm is that we do not need jobs and we are not witches, Crowley. To that, Crowley wiggles an eyebrow mischievously and shakes the envelope in intrigue.
“Wot’ sort of salary would we be expecting?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you all the details here, sorry- Professor Dumbledore has more of the details. But I promise y’it’s real reasonable. You don’work at the most prestigious schools in the world without a good paycheck, huh?”
The point remains that neither of them need paychecks, Aziraphale thinks. This sounds hilarious, Crowley thinks right back. Even though the rebuttal is unheard, Aziraphale seems to be considering the option more and more as the seconds go on.
“Why… us, though?” Asks the wayward Angel, still stumped on how they might’ve become the two logical conclusions for the job positions. He isn’t honestly sure how they know they exist, either-
“Well, the Apocolypse you ended, of course.”
Crowley chokes on a mouthful of his recently re-procured wine. He curses as a few droplets splatter on the floor, mourning them as they sink into the floorboards. “The wot?”
“I- I daresay, dear man, I haven’t got an idea what you’re talking about, but thank you for the offer, it’s quite nice-”
“Oh, don’t be like that!” Rubeus laughs. It’s the sort of sound that would shake an alehouse, that makes Aziraphale feel a bit as if his bones are rattling, and has Crowley raising an eyebrow in something like delight. “We’re all quite thankful fer it, I promise. No one knew it was happening till it was happening, and then you two swooped in and righted the whole thing. Th’ merfolk down at Hogwarts were quite bad off about Atlantis comin’ up outta the sea without them.”
They both grapple with the conversation for a moment, unsure of really how to react. Crowley begrudgingly disappears his wine glass and tucks his fidgeting palms under his elbows. “Ngk. I, I- I don’t really know if that by default makes us right for the job-”
“No no!” Aziraphale interrupts, clapping his hands together. Crowley had seemed so delighted by the prospect of this place at Aziraphale’s expense that now that the Angel can lord something over him, he doesn’t hesitate to clap his hands and call it done. “I think this sounds rather delightful, dear! We can put our- our Witchcraft to good use. Teach the younger generations, learn a few new tricks ourselves, aye?”
Whatever Crowley’s sudden and brief qualms about the situation are, they don’t seem to be particularly important. He just rolls his eyes beneath his sunglasses, and sniffs, itching at his nose before waving a hand around dismissively. He’s having a hard time deciding what to do - be a contrarian, as he ought to be, or do what sounds like the most delightfully fun time he’s had in a while.
“I… Uhm. Suppose we’ll sleep on it.” Aziraphale smiles graciously at Rubeus.
The Leaky Cauldron may be on Witch-kind’s list of best bars in the world. It is not, however, on Anthony J. Crowley’s. The liquor is subpar for a place that houses witches, brimming with magic and knowledge and life. Honestly, most pubs in Scotland are better than it simply because they are not British. But still, a pint is a pint and a pub is a pub, and there’s only one entrance in the world that Crowley and Aziraphale are willing to take to get into Diagon Alley. Neither of them are keen to step into a fireplace and start covering themselves in ash just to scope out the world of Witchcraft.
Aziraphale doesn’t like it either. It’s dark and gloomy and very, very damp. Every time one opens a newspaper inside, it feels a bit like it’s going to droop over and wilt like a comical flower. But Crowley convinces him to come, with the promise of an expensive glass of wine to accompany their journey into the main shopping center for all of greater Europe.
When they enter it’s a crowded afternoon, chilly despite the fireplaces adorning every few corners of the large tavern. Crowley beelines the both of them to the bartop and orders himself a glass of scotch, while Aziraphale receives a rather large glass of vintage Mavrud that Crowley knows for a fact is only still drinkable due to magic placed upon it.
They’re both rather involved in a conversation regarding the pros and cons of working in a school for witchcraft. So involved, in fact, that when gasps and murmuring start to fill the room they hardly notice right up until someone nearly bumps into Crowley’s outstretched arm. He hisses, about to curse at them, when they notice a small circle of people forming not far from them.
“That’s curious. I suppose… We ought to go see what that’s about, hm?”
Crowley, who is still busy glowering at the back of the stranger who had almost slighted him, blinks. “Hmg- Uhm- ohuh- I suppose we should. Probably. Looks like something to do, at the least.”
A large crowd of witches has formed surrounding two people. One of them is rather tall- and immediately recognizable as Rubeus Hagrid, the fellow who had given them their job invitations only a few days ago. The second one is dwarfed by him.
There, one shaking hand desperately clinging to a letter not far off from what they’d received before, is a boy. He’s hardly five feet tall. His skin is a light, ashen brown, faded freckles prevalent on his cheeks. His hair is chopped awkwardly and growing rather long, giving him a disheveled look that certainly isn’t helped by his clothes. He has wide, curious eyes behind large wire-framed glasses, and nestled between two thick black eyebrows is a scar. A fractal lightning line that goes upwards from between his eyes and disappears behind his bangs.
A name is whispered around through the many gawking spectators. Harry Potter. The boy looks as if he cannot be older than nine or ten. He also looks like he’s about seconds away from having an anxiety attack, right up until Rubeus spots them and begins to physically bully his way out of the crowd.
“Ah! You two!” He smiles brightly, the little boy braced against his tree trunks of legs as he shoves him forward, too. The boy, Potter, appears far happier to be out of the gathering group of suspicious passerbyes, though.
Aziraphale clears his throat. “Ah, yes, Rubeus- we haven’t been to Diagon Alley in quite a long time, and we figured we would… check the lay of the land, as it’s said before we accept your invitation,” he says jovially, before offering a soft smile to the boy between them.
The kid looks about moments away from being pushed around by a slight breeze. His hands both clutch his letter, now, trembling, as if the piece of parchment is the only thing keeping him from flying off. His green eyes are wide, his mouth a thin, determined line as he stares the two creatures before him down.
“Well, it’s not my proposal, s’Professor Dumbledore’s, of course. But that’s not important, eh? What’s important is young Harry, here. Harry Potter.”
The name is spoken just as it had been before. Conspiratorily, curious, like whispering Moses or Jesus or Arthur might be. Well, neither of them have the foggiest idea who he is or what his name means, so they both act accordingly. Crowley crosses his arms and regards the boy up and down, eyebrow raised. “What’re you glaring at?”
Aziraphale gasps and swats his arm. “Crowley!”
The Demon in question hisses out a little laugh and dances a step away, before gesturing down at the boy. “He’s staring! It’s a perfectly valid question, Angel.” He reaches up and flicks his glasses down, studying the boy with inhumanly amber eyes. “Well? You were, weren’t you?”
“I… was. Yeah,” says the boy, his tone surprised. His voice is quiet and unobtrusive, the sort that you’d miss even if it was shouting in a crowd. He sounds surprised that Crowley hasn’t reached out and starting hitting him. Harry shuffles his feet awkwardly, looking a little embarrassed. “...Sorry. Was just looking at your glasses.”
That seems to put Crowley off a little. He blinks, then lets out a guilty little suggestion of a sound that could, in some way, be an apology of its own. “S’alright. They are nice glasses, aren’t they.” There’s a pause. He chews the inside of his cheek, tilting his head with equal curiosity to that which the boy exudes. There’s something strange about him. Something that seems, in some odd way, familiar, in an animal sort of way, like a bird recognizing a fellow of a similar genome.
“Anthony J. Crowley. Professor Crowley, I suppose, but I think I’d rather someone just insulted me than call me professor.”
And with those few words, the choice is made.
Harry’s lips tilt into something that could be a smile, if watered and given sunlight and moved into a slightly nicer pot. Crowley smiles back, with fanged teeth and a funny look to him. Aziraphale, still not done admonishing him for his behavior, hmphs and sniffs and glares.
When he looks at Harry, though, he smiles graciously. “And I’ll be Professor Aziraphale come this new school term, I suppose.” he glances up at Rubeus, whose surprise at them accepting the teaching positions so abruptly seems to outweigh his surprise at their reactions to someone named Harry Potter.
“Oh- Yes! Yes, right. This’ll be Professor Crowley and Professor Aziraphale. Professor Crowley’ll be yer herbologist this year, ‘Arry. Professor Aziraphale won’t be teachin’ any classes, but you’ll see ‘im in the library often enough.” He pats Harry on the back, then steadies him by the shoulder when he very nearly goes pitching forward and falling to the ground. “Young Mr. Potter an’ I are out doing school supplies shopping, today! Harry just got his acceptance letter last night.”
Aziraphale and Crowley share a glance. “That’s rather late, isn’t it? I suppose we’re all three cutting it rather close, aren’t we?” Azirpahale offers Harry a smile, which is tentatively returned.
Rubeus, as if abruptly remembering something, brightens. “Oh! Professor Sprout - that’s our previous Herbology professor - has already got a week er two’s lesson plans written out fer yah, Professor. But I still expect you’ll be wantin’ some supplies. Why don’t you two join us for some shopping?”
The look on the young boy’s face at the prospect makes the offer impossible to refuse.
Their first destination is apparently to retrieve a massive fortune left behind for Harry Potter from his late mother and father. That explains to them why the boy is with Rubeus, but not everything else. Not his apparent fame, or his anxiety and malnourished state, or anything at all about his overall demeanor. They decide that now isn’t the time to question it all too closely, though.
They’re left to help Harry retrieve his money while Hagrid gathers something else. He acts almost comically secretive about it. In his absence, they both manage to learn a little more about the boy. His guardians aren’t supportive of him or his abilities- to the point that he’d been made to suppress them up until that morning. He is eleven, not nine. Newly eleven. Apparently, the day that they’ve met him is, in fact, his birthday.
He has an enormous fortune. He had no idea. He likes tea over soda. He isn’t much of a book reader due to his glasses typically being too broken for him to read them. He has broken his nose six times. He’s left-handed and double-jointed, and he enjoys watching football games when he’s able to catch glimpses of them on tv. On his letter, his address is a cupboard under the stairs.
By the time the visit to the bank is done they’re already decided on a handful of things. Aziraphale is going to mend his glasses, which is done in mere seconds, to Harry’s delight. Crowley is going to buy him ice cream, which he is equally as excited for. They’re both going to set a house in Little Whinging on fire, which they do not tell him at all.
Rubeus meets them right outside, and they slowly wander through the streets of the shopping district in an attempt to find each thing on Harry’s list. They go and retrieve his robes, first, because that’ll take the most time. He’s measured and fitted for a variety of kinds, his skinny frame exposed to be much smaller once his baggy clothes are wrapped out of the way with twine. The shopkeep tells them they’ll be delivered to him at Hogwarts itself once the sewing has been done.
Cauldrons and books and paper and quills. Pretentious-sounding things that are simply herbs, dried and wrapped up in parchment. A case for Harry’s belongings, potion bottles, gloves, all sorts of items. They find each thing on the list rather slowly, as all three of them decide they want to take their time and discover what there is to be seen in the place.
Aziraphale’s eyes are caught on a beautiful bookshop with horrible organization to rival his own and books flying all around. Crowley finds a broom seller, and his wings ruffle just a little at the thought of flying again without exposing his entire heritage to the world. Harry seems just as excited for everything that he finds, no matter the subject. Hagrid is just overjoyed to be included at all, from the looks of it.
At their last location they all split up again. It’s a wand shop. Conduits for magic, once usually only used for training, now commonplace. It’s funny- if Anathema could see this place and its dependency on wands she’d probably throw a fit. But it appears that as the centuries have gone past, the world of Witchcraft has forgotten much of the art of wandless magics. Still, they’re good tools- especially when a powerful Witch such as Harry is discovered.
The building itself is just as much a rambling, crooked creature as the rest of the lot down the street. Inside, it doesn’t seem to fit its proper constraints, larger and taller than any of them would’ve expected. The floors are checkerboard tiles, scuffed with thousands of boots in the past few days as a vast pilgrimage of new students arrived here. Winding halls go deep into the building behind an empty countertop. Aziraphale is just about to reach out and ring the tarnished silver bell, when-
“Oh. It’s you.”
The voice is sharp. His eyes are, too. Long silver hair dances around his face in an unruly mop. His eyes are a piercing yellow-green, bright despite the age wrinkling his face. He appears as a ladder clunks ungracefully onto the end of its rail, and then climbs down on rather quick steps for someone of his age.
Already recovering from the startle, Harry speaks. “Are you- Mr. Ollivander?”
A curt nod, as the shopkeep in question begins to rummage around in the unorganized boxes sitting atop his counter. “I am indeed. And you must be Mr. Potter?” After Harry gives him a nod of his own, he looks up to the other two inhabitants of the room, eyes sparkling with delight. “I think I recognize you, too. Or what you are, at the least.”
“I doubt that.” Crowley comes striding forward and plants his hands on the countertop. “We’ve all come in here looking for wands. If we could get those without too much prying, that would be good, nghhh.”
Ollivander’s lips twitch. He doesn’t seem too put off by the rudeness, nor does he seem as if he’s going to stop questioning them if he doesn’t want to. He leans over the counter and gives Harry a once over, curious eyes studying his gaunt little face, his short frame.
“A wand, Mr. Potter, is a living thing, in some ways. I carve each one. But ultimately… they choose who they belong to.” Ollivander busies himself with cracking open one of the velvet-lined cases sitting on his countertop. He inspects it, then inspects Harry, too. “This one’s not dissimilar from your mother’s wand. Hers was ten and a half inches, made of willow.” Gently, Ollivander pries the wand out of its case and hands it down.
Harry leans upwards onto his toes to reach. He stares at the wand with a from, then looks rather helplessly up at Ollivander, who prompts him to give it a little wave. He does. The ladder behind him goes flying.
“No! No, I think not!” Says the man, snatching the wand back up as Crowley snorts.
“S’not supposed to do that then, I take it?” Crowley asks, refusing to be any sort of helpful. Ollivander steadily ignores him before he reaches into another box and offers another wand.
They try several more, each just as or more ineffective as the last. Harry shows a remarkable amount of power, but not a lot of focus, growing more despondent and irritable right up until Ollivander up and tells him that he knows which wand is going to work and delves into a back room.
Aziraphale places a hand on Harry’s shoulder and fixes him with a reassuring smile. “Some Witches don’t ever find a wand that works for them, Harry. In fact, I know an intelligent young woman who doesn’t do any sort of wandwork at all.”
Harry looks away, fiddling with the edge of his shirt. “I… I think I’d just rather fit in, for now. I’m so new to this all, I don’t- I don’t get it, professor. I didn’t even know magic existed, before this morning.”
“Which is a bloody tragedy, if you ask me.” Crowley’s browsing through the boxes and inspecting the wands while Ollivander is away, as if searching for a reason why none of them were functioning correctly. “And stop calling us professors. It’s a bad look.”
“...But you are, professors, professor.”
“See! There he goes again!” Crowley throws his arms up in frustration. Harry takes a step back, startled, but then manages a small smile, fingers releasing the crumpled corner of his shirt. “My name, Harry Potter, is Crowley. I go by Crowley, not Professor Crowley or Professor Anthony or Professor Jay. Would you like it if I went around calling you Mr. Potter?”
The boy giggles. It’s the first time he’s laughed all day. “No. Probably not.”
“Then my name is Crowley, and his is Aziraphale. And if anyone asks why you get to call us that, tell them to call us that, too, unless it was that slimy little brat from Madame Milkins.”
“Madame Malkins, dear.”
“Ngk,” Crowley offers in response.
His hands jerk away as Ollivander’s shadow begins to return. He’s looking down at the box in his hands, muttering to himself. Brow furrowed, he looks up upon them and doesn’t even seem to notice Crowley’s aborted meddling.
“Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches, rather long for a boy of your height… Try this, won’t you?” This time, Ollivander leans forward to offer the wand to Harry. He looks rather intrigued by this combination, excited to see whether or not it will function properly when so many haven’t.
Harry eyes the wand warily. Deliberately, he points it away from the stacks of wands or the ladder or any actual person. He levels it at an empty portion of the wall, and twists it through the air with sudden grace.
The air whistles. A brief yellow light billows outwards from the wand, hitting the wall with a gentle paff before it falls away and disappears, just as it hits the ground.
Aziraphale begins to clap. “Oh, well done, Harry! I told you it would come to you, that was brilliant!”
“Now put it down before it blows up any shelves,” Crowley follows the excitement with, but he’s smiling, too. A toothy little thing that twitches several times before it faded and becomes his usual mask of impassiveness.
Harry looks pleased, too. He tilts the wand back and forth, then runs a finger over its spined surface curiously, small, soft sparks of light following his nails. “Curious.” He’s startled from his inspection when Ollivander speaks. “Very curious.”
“What is?”
Ollivander sighs as Harry questions him, looking as if he’s considering not saying anything at all. “...I remember every single wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. The curious thing about that one, is that the phoenix whose feather it belongs to gave one other. The wand that received it, gave you your scar.”
Harry sucks in a sharp little breath and looks away, fingers brushing over the old wound. That again. They don’t know the backstory to that strange gash. It appears to be quite important, but Harry hasn’t spoken of it. He’s seemed relieved to not have to, honestly, and neither Demon nor Angel are keen to interrupt that.
The Angel in questioning gives Harry a soft, reassuring little smile. “Well alright, dear. It doesn’t much matter where it came from. What matters is that it works. Are you quite ready to go?”
Ollivander tries to get them to buy wands, too, but Crowley calls him a rude name and a quack and Aziraphale is quick to usher them out quickly after. It’s good timing regardless, as Rubeus reappears right as the door’s bell jingles, holding a cage in one hand and a sagging cone of ice cream in the other.
Harry enjoys the treat, but enjoys the cage, more. Aziraphale, as the designated patron of owls, finds himself just as enraptured, cooing to the pretty little thing and insisting on holding her while Harry finishes his ice cream. He rambles on and on about the treatment of birds in the meantime, occasionally slipping a finger into the cave and giggling when she nips at it.
The day though, must eventually come to an end. The ride back to the Dursley’s home is far too long for a child to be on the tube alone, and so Crowley and Aziraphale take charge of him, letting Rubeus go with one last thank-you and good-bye. Harry is instantly fascinated by the Bentley, and Crowley, for the first time in his immortal existence, allows a child and an animal to be in his car.
“Thank you. Both of you. It was very nice to meet you.” Harry looks up at them from the back seat - because Crowley does have some limits to uphold - and smiles. The look on his face is a little sad. The car ride has been filled with conversation so far, each of them bouncing back and forth against each others’ thoughts. Now though, as they approach Little Whinging, they grow quiet.
“Why, of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale answers easily. “I do say it’s been a while since we had such a nice little excursion.”
Crowley begins to pull up to their destination just as Aziraphale finishes. It’s a cozy looking cookie-cutter home that might’ve been quite nice, if it weren’t for the view. Not the view from inside, of course- but the view from the car.
The Dursleys appear to have only just arrived back home. They’ve parked in the driveway and begun to unpack their car, piles upon piles of completely asinine belongings dropped unceremoniously to the pavement. Now- neither Angel nor Demon are the type to judge solely based upon someone’s appearance.
It’s hard not to, though. Vernon Dursley is a large, angry plum colored man. His face sags outward in direct contrast to the thin, pinched look of his wife. His meaty hands leave sweaty prints on the boxes that he hauls. His son looks on and moans in annoyance at the speed at which they are moving.
Aziraphale, ever the optimist, calls out first. He climbs out of the car and strides up with a happy little wave, while Harry, and by extension Crowley linger behind him. “Hello, all!”
Vernon drops the box he’s carrying. His wife scowls, and Dudley squeaks when he notices Harry behind them. Curiously enough a hand grabs at his behind- and Aziraphale’s smile falters at the awkwardness of it all. Still, he continues.
“Sorry for the scare- no matter- we’ve come to deliver young Harry! He’s been quite a joy, we’ll be two of his professors in the coming school year.” Aziraphale continues to smile. Crowley, on the other hand, looks a lot less pleased.
“Uhm… Angel? I’d slow down. Jus’... While you’re still ahead.”
“Whatever do you mean?” He turns to Crowley, and then back to the Dursleys. None of them look pleased in the slightest. “Have I done something wrong?”
The first that they hear of Vernon Dursley’s voice is an angry grunt as he hoists a box out of the way. “You’re one of them. I’d say that’s wrong enough, sir!”
Aziraphale begins to look quite taken aback. It’s Crowley’s turn, now, and he strides over with a firm hand holding Harry at his side. “Wazzat supposed to mean?”
“It means… It means- that I’ve had quite enough of your kind for today. The whole lot of ye!” He casts a glance down to Harry, who looks quite pitifully small as he stands there. Then, he looks up at Petunia, and it abruptly becomes clear that he is scared .
Petunia appears to be less so. She sniffs, thin arms crossed against her chest as she looks down at Harry. Her eyes are severe, and thin, her lips pursed. Her face, though. Her face is lightly freckled. Her hair is tied up into a bun, and where her roots have grown out there is no jet black hair dye to show that her hair is a fiery red. This must be where the relation lies- the aunt, if either one of them recalls correctly. That makes her actions worse.
“Come here, Potter. We’ve got unpacking to do, and the least you can do while you’re still available is help.” He doesn’t move. Her eyes narrow, pale red eyelashes fluttering against her cheekbones. She looks as if she might’ve been quite pretty, once. “Well? Get a move on- you’ve got your own things as well, haven’t you?”
Harry obeys. He shrugs Crowley’s hand off with a dismal expression, looking worn out and tired. In one hand he carries his case, the other, his owl. She hoots softly as he sets her down closer to the threshold of the home and begins to pick up one of the boxes.
“Well hold on now.” Crowley grabs her cage up in one hand and Harry’s trunk in the other. He saunters closer to the door. “No reason for him to do it all alone. Give him a hand, won’t you?”
The Dursleys look increasingly closer to blowing a hole through their collective heads. “I will be doing nothing of the sort! I don’t support this- magical nonsense, and I certainly don’t support it coming into our house.” On lumbering steps, he marches forward and grabs one of the handles of Harry’s case. Crowley releases it in his surprise, stumbling a step back. The trunk goes skidding away when Vernon physically tosses it. “And I certainly won’t be allowing some Scottish pouf of all people to enter my bloody home.”
For the first time since they’ve entered the general territory of the Dursleys’, Harry speaks out loud. His voice is strong and determined, but it trembles, too, as he steps forward and shoves Crowley to the side. The barely five foot eleven year old with an emaciated frame stands there and looks up at his towering uncle, and he glares.
“Don’t talk to him like that!” He shouts. He’s holding his wand. He brandishes it, knowing no spells or magic and with no intent. And yet, he holds it out like a loaded gun, and Vernon Dursley goes pale.
There’s a loud thud. A crack.
Harry Potter is on the ground, now. His glasses are shattered, his wand skittering a foot or two away. When he lifts his head and cups his jaw, his lip is split. There are tears in his eyes. Those bright, defiant eyes, ones that glare, a lightning spiral scar twisting up from his gnarled brow and making what should appear very sad much stronger.
There’s a loud pop and then whistle as every single one of their car tires abruptly deflates. Crowley very calmly turns around, ignoring the Dursleys as he kneels down beside Harry and cups his face. “There we go. You’re all alright.” His thumb smooths gently over Harry’s lip, and the gash begins to fade, sealing up under his Miracle. “Go on, sit up- there’s a show to watch.”
It isn’t Crowley who fought, in the Great Wars. Aziraphale was the principality, the one with the holy flames and the fancy sword. Therefore, it isn’t Crowley that walks right up to Vernon Dursley and grabs him by the collar. It’s Aziraphale. It’s Aziraphale who slaps him, too, an impact so hard that his jaw breaks.
When he’s released Vernon falls to the ground with a great, ugly howl. Petunia shrieks and hurries towards him while a very panicked Dudley shouts that they’ve killed daddy!
“Oh, I have not you blithering moron!” Aziraphale sucks in a breath and covers his mouth, uttering out a quiet apology at the curse. Only because he’s a child. “If your daddy wants to hit children, then he ought to be hit back.”
“I’ll call the police on you, I will, I’ll have you arrested and tried and- and-”
Crowley laughs brightly. “Oh, sod off, won’t you?” Petunia abruptly finds that the heels of her shoes have both broken off. Harry stifles a laugh at the sight of the woman stumbling backward and hitting her rump on the concrete.
“S- Stop- Stop - I don’t want you actually getting arrested. Besides, I need to go home with them.” Harry smiles rather sadly up at Crowley, still sitting beside him, while pandemonium erupts as the Dursley’s small car is suddenly honking without end and leaking water from the gas tank.
“I think not!” Aziraphale plants his hands on his hips and shakes his head. Crowley, for all of his usual contrarian act, grins wider, occupied by far too many teeth. “It would be quite irresponsible to leave you here with these… humans.”
Crowley snorts, then stretches upwards, cracking his back as he goes. “He’s got a point, you know, Potter. Nhhg… Doesn’t seem like you’ve got much waiting for you here, anyways, eh?”
Harry sighs. “No. Not really. But I can’t just- just…”
“Just what? Just leave?” Crowley laughs, gesturing to the group. “What’re they going t’do about it! Wave their meaty fists around and go- and go you’ve got my favorite son there, I say! Unhand him, you pansy!”
“He’s not their son, dear.”
“Angel, tha’s my point. No sense in leaving him here if they’re clearly not fit t’have him.” Crowley glances down at Harry. He chews his cheek for a moment, and then seems to come to a conclusion. He’s making decisions rather quickly, today, Aziraphale thinks, with the lightheaded sensation someone feels when they realize they might be in danger. Crowley leans down and scoops up the owl’s cage. She hoots happily. “Well, Harry. What’ll it be? Them, or us?”
Aziraphale’s flat has one bedroom on the second floor. It’s an attic room, with slanted and slightly sagging walls, a circular window that rattles when it rains, and a small planted fern in the corner that he’d borrowed (see: rescued) from Crowley.
Or,
more accurately- it had one bedroom. It now possesses two. The second one is a very normal, very quaint guest bedroom. The bed is done up with white linens, and the walls have a handful of classy landscape paintings hung from them, and there’s a window that swings open and gives a nice view of the city. One could even crawl out and sit on the roof, if they’d like to. Aziraphale’s flat isn’t entirely sure how it comes to possess such a room, but being a building, it is not within its nature to question such things.
When Harry enters, he does a slow spin as he admires the room, mouth half open. The light from above shines a soft yellow hue when it’s on, but for now its up to the table lamps on either side of the bed to illuminate his new lodgings. He looks a little less pale already, in the gentle light. His trunks hits the corner of the bed, and he grabs it apologetically, looking sheepishly up at Aziraphale.
“Sorry, sir. I’ve never had a bed before.”
Aziraphale looks distinctly nauseous. “That’s quite alright, Harry. And please- you’re living inside of my flat now, dear boy, please just call me Aziraphale.”
The boy makes a funny little face at that, then sets his trunks down and climbs tentatively up onto the bed. He smooths the sheets underneath him, humming softly as his hands feel the decadent texture.
Crowley comes sauntering up and plops himself right down next to him. He tugs Harry’s glasses off his face, the cracked frames so badly broken that the glass is all but missing in one of the frames. He begins to shine them, humming idly as he does so. Miraculously, they’re completely intact once they’re handed back.
Harry looks up at them both, now. Unblinking and owlish as the bird perched in the windowsill, he examines the two creatures that have taken him in, however temporary a situation it may prove to be. When the eye contact proves too much, he takes to that same continuous fidgeting with his shirt.
“Are you two… really, witches?” He asks, frowning. “I- I mean, I haven’t seen you use wands. You haven’t even got wands. And you kept asking Hagrid questions, like you didn’t know what things were.”
Crowley laughs, at that, and places his two palms down on the bedspread behind him, leaning back. “We don’t have to be witches to know how to use magic, Harry.”