Happy Holidays, sidesinger! Part 1!
Title: Slytherin Vaguely Downwards
Gift For: sidesinger
Gift from: sirius_luva
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Tartan overload, a rather anticlimactic battle scene, and a sex scene (which is thankfully - for the participants - not anticlimactic).
Request: Crowley/Aziraphale cross-over with Harry Potter. You can make it as AU as you want, but basically, I want Aziraphale to be the new DADA professor with Crowley as the resident Potions Master at Hogwarts. Similar to Snape, Crowley has always wanted the DADA position… and he'll stop at nothing to get it. Or will he? Feel free to include as many other GO characters as you like. M to NC-17. .
There can never be enough banter, fluff, drunken conversations, and snark. Hurt/comfort works as long as there's not too much angst. Cross-overs and references made with Pratchett's Discworld characters or Harry Potter. AU and crack is dandy. I love sexual tension that's built up before it's resolved. Aziraphale's pudginess. Footnotes, but don't overdo it. Smut is encouraged -- high ratings, please.
A/N: MWPP era. Crowley is a pureblood and related to the Blacks on his mother’s side. Aziraphale is also pureblood but considered a blood traitor [like the Weasleys, whom he is probably related to] due to his and his family’s fascination with Muggles. I decided that Slughorn took early retirement and Crowley took over for one year before this story takes place. If you don’t recognise certain spells or potions from canon, they’re either fandom inventions or I pulled them out of my arse. The Death Eaters did call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis at first before settling on their current name. Credit for Aziraphale’s surname and coconut allergy goes to one of my betas. To my dear recipient, sidesinger: I apologise. I tried to write crack, I really did, but I fail at it. I also fail at titles.
Mod's Note: Your Secret Writer requested we suggest a title. This is what your mod came up with. Don't blame your SA for it, and if your SA hates it, we'll remove it.
Dear Professor Crowley,
I regret to inform you that your application for the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been rejected. This is partly due to your stellar work as Potions Master in the last year and the lack of anyone to take over that post, and partly due to the presence of another, more eligible candidate for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.
Please be reminded that all Hogwarts staff members are expected to arrive on the afternoon of the 31st of August and that there will be a staff meeting that evening.
Yours,
Albus Dumbledore.
Dear Aziraphale St. Michael,
I am pleased to inform you that your application for the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been approved. The Hogwarts Board of Governors and I agree that with your credentials and experience, you are our best candidate.
Please be reminded that all Hogwarts staff members are expected to arrive on the afternoon of the 31st of August and that there will be a staff meeting that evening. The Deputy Headmistress and I would appreciate it if you would have a lesson plan and some of your chocolate cake ready by then.
Yours,
Albus Dumbledore.
~*~
The quarters of Hogwarts’ resident Potions Master were quite spartan; the furniture was minimal, with the only sign of the rooms’ being lived in were the large, luxurious bed, the unusually verdant plants by the window, and a large terrarium containing a Runespoor. If snakes could roll their eyes, this one would roll all four1; its owner was currently stomping up and down in a foul mood.
Anthony James Crowley was not happy. He’d overslept and missed the train, resulting in his having to Portkey to the outskirts of Hogwarts - nobody but Albus Dumbledore could Portkey into Hogwarts - and lug his things up to the castle. Another letter from family members reminding him of his duty had done nothing to improve his mood. And on top of all that, he’d have to leave for the staff meeting soon and meet the more eligible candidate for his DADA position.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Anthony stopped pacing and smoothed his black robes, pulling out his wand and casting a silent Alohomora. “Yes?”
The door opened and Anthony blinked, trying to will away the afterimages of hideously bright tartan robes. He finally managed to focus on the man wearing them; he looked a little older than Anthony himself, and was slightly pudgy.
“You must be Professor Crowley. I’m Aziraphale St. Michael, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he shifted a scroll and a cake-tin to his left arm before holding out his right hand.
Anthony stared at him. Aziraphale’s smile faltered slightly.
“I’ve heard some wonderful things about your talent at Potions, and since our two disciplines have a fair amount in common, I was wondering if we could collaborate on some lessons. I mean, knowledge of Potions and the antidotes to poisons or curses, and other uses of Potions in combating the Dark Arts, is essential for the students to know, and I do hope we can work together on this…?”
Anthony shut the door in his face.
~*~
1 Runespoors have three heads: the left head is the ‘planner’, the middle head is the ‘dreamer’ and the right head is the ‘critic’ with highly venomous fangs; it evaluates the efforts of the left and middle heads with a continual irritable hissing. Because of this, it is common to see the far right head missing as the other two heads often band together to bite it off when it criticises them too much. This is what had happened to Anthony’s Runespoor; he’d been highly amused and rather thankful. It had been very noisy.
~*~
The meeting in the staff common room, unsurprisingly, was a drag. Pleasantries about each others’ holidays, with food being passed around - there was some rich, moist chocolate cake that Anthony rather liked, and he helped himself to a second slice, carefully ignoring Hagrid’s rock cakes - and comparing of lesson plans, were followed by Dumbledore reminding them to be ever-vigilant against the growing darkness in the wizarding world, and that safeguarding the students and teaching them to choose the right paths was their responsibility. Perhaps Anthony was imagining it, but he could have sworn that Dumbledore’s piercing blue gaze rested on him for a moment longer than usual at that.
After introducing Aziraphale to the rest of the faculty, the official meeting ended and they broke up into groups of twos and threes. Anthony chatted briefly to Flitwick and Kettleburn, and was just getting into a heated discussion with Pomona Sprout about the care of magical cacti when someone cleared their throat politely behind him. “Professor Crowley?”
Bugger. Well, he could hardly be rude here, especially not with Minerva McGonagall coming his way. He managed to smile as he turned. “Professor St. Michael, what a pleasure. I hope you’re settling in alright?”
Professor St. Michael’s eyes were a disarmingly bright blue, rather like Dumbledore’s, and Anthony wondered fleetingly if they were related. Perhaps that would explain how he’d got his post.
“Oh, do call me Aziraphale,” the older man smiled, all innocence. “I just wanted to say that I’m glad you enjoyed my cake, and I look forward to working with you.”
His - ? … Well, no wonder he’s so plump, then. Anthony wasn’t Head of Slytherin House for nothing, though. He flashed his best charming smile, holding out a hand. “Likewise, Aziraphale, and do call me Anthony. And I must apologise for my earlier behaviour, I wasn’t feeling well.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, looking slightly sceptical, but took his hand, and Anthony noted with surprise that the other man’s hand was extremely soft, with well-manicured nails. Some Defense professor.
“I do hope you feel better soon, my dear.” They shook hands, Anthony fighting not to react to the endearment. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think Filius is calling me.”
Anthony watched him go, absentmindedly thinking about tasteless, delayed-reaction poisons. It wasn’t until Pomona touched his shoulder that he realised he’d been staring at Aziraphale’s tartan-clad arse. Well, it was a fine arse. Pity it was also attached to an even larger arse.
~*~
The Great Hall was filled with the excited chatter of students who had just returned from summer holidays and hence had a thousand and one things to say to one another, despite probably already having said it in letters. Anthony sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand; the noise level wasn’t helping his headache, which had started when he rose with not enough sleep and worsened when he came down to dinner to discover that both Minerva McGonagall and Aziraphale were in tartan robes that clashed with one another. As the Sorting Hat began its song, he considered Transfiguring his spoon into a pair of sunglasses.
“Still not feeling well, Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, next to him, and he imagined stabbing the man’s pudgy hand with his butter knife and cursing it not to heal. He could hardly teach DADA with an injured wand hand, after all, and it wasn’t as if Anthony didn’t know Dark spells. Still, he made himself smile.
“I’m fine, actually. Just a slight headache.” He stiffened as Aziraphale pulled out his wand. “What are y-”
“Relax, my dear, I’m not about to hex you,” Aziraphale smiled, touching the tip of his wand - rowan, from the looks of it, of course he’d have a do-gooder’s wand - to Anthony’s temple and murmuring something that almost sounded like song. Anthony was about to pull away when he felt the effects of the spell spread through his head, gently soothing the ache and relaxing him; his eyes wanted to close in sheer pleasure, and he stubbornly kept them open.
“Thanks,” he said, a little grudgingly, running his hand through his mussed black hair.
“You’re welcome.” Aziraphale put his wand away and turned back to him. “So now that you’re feeling better, would you like to discuss our collaboration in my rooms later or is there something else ailing you?”
Though there was nothing but sincerity and concern in Aziraphale’s expression, Anthony had the sneaking feeling that he was being made fun of. He shifted his gaze to the Hat, clapping automatically as a student was Sorted into Slytherin. “Sure.”
“Excellent.” Aziraphale beamed, and for a moment Anthony wondered why the candles in the Great Hall suddenly seemed exceptionally bright.
~*~
As he stepped into Aziraphale’s rooms, Anthony briefly wondered if he’d stepped into the library instead; very little wall was visible between the huge bookshelves and several paintings. He realised with a start that they were Muggle paintings and portraits; the unnatural stillness and vacant eyes made him uneasy. Aziraphale absentmindedly gestured at the fireplace before shrugging off his outer robe; flames immediately sprang up, crackling merrily. “Do take a seat, Anthony, I’ll just go and put the kettle on, unless you’d like something stronger?”
“Aziraphale, I have to deal with a bunch of brats tomorrow morning. As do you.” Unfortunately.
“Nothing a quick Sobrietus or a Hangover Potion can’t fix, surely, my dear. Although you probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway, with that headache. Make yourself comfortable.” With another disarmingly friendly smile, Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchenette, leaving Anthony blinking. Well. For someone who looked like a librarian or the proprietor of one of those dusty little second-hand bookstores with erratic opening hours, Aziraphale apparently wasn’t as prim as you’d expect.
Perhaps he would bring the other man out drinking on a school night, give him a faulty Hangover Potion, and watch the fun the next morning. Irresponsible behaviour like that wouldn’t get him fired, but he’d certainly be reprimanded and perhaps watched more closely. After all, Dumbledore had been going on about how they were supposed to be role models for the students. Smirking to himself, Anthony seated himself on the annoyingly cheery chintz couch and scrutinised the books and scrolls covering the coffee table.
There was what appeared to be a first-edition of Perseus Speculum’s Confronting the Faceless and a dusty little book with a cover so worn the title was illegible, but with a complex star-pattern still barely visible on it; both had the tassels of several bookmarks sticking out of them and were surrounded by scrolls of parchment covered with notes. He unrolled one and skimmed the neat copperplate handwriting; it appeared to be a translation of a text on wards. At the sound of Aziraphale clinking something in the kitchen, he quickly replaced the parchment.
Aziraphale came out bearing a tray and set it down, pouring Anthony a cup of fragrant apple tea. Anthony added three lumps of sugar. “So, er, you wanted to discuss something with me.”
The blond man nodded, blowing at his own tea before putting the cup down and unrolling a scroll. “I was thinking about training the sixth- and seventh-years in detecting poisons with spells, how to cast some basic spells like the Stasis Spell that could be used briefly in some cases until an antidote and medical care is available, how to recognise if someone is under the influence of potions like the Befuddlement Draught, and so on. What do you think?”
Anthony shrugged, silently and grudgingly acknowledging that Aziraphale did seem to know what he was talking about. “Sounds good. I can teach them about the properties that some common poison components like belladonna, hellebore and hemlock lend potions; ingredients like those have active magical components you can detect if you know which spells to cast, and the brewing of antidotes is already a major part of the syllabus. I’ll pass you a list of which spells affect poisons in any way. Frankly though, carrying a bezoar around would be more helpful than knowing which antidotes counter some poisons but exacerbate others, and it’d be in keeping with the capabilities of half my students.”
Aziraphale laughed, and for a moment Anthony caught his breath. He mentally shook himself, and met the twinkle in the other man’s blue eyes with - he hoped - no emotion showing in his own.
“Well, my dear -” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea. “- that isn’t much of a compliment to your teaching skills, is it? We have to be able to make something out of nothing, after all.”
A moment passed in which Anthony digested what Aziraphale had actually said. “Easy for you to say,” he snapped indignantly. “After you have cauldrons explode and potions turn into acid and other potions turn into solid masses you have to chip at with a hammer and chisel, you try having faith in your students’ abilities. If I had my way Goyle would be back in first-year Potions learning how to chop and stir, and that Lupin boy is a menace who should be barred from the vicinity of any cauldron - stop laughing!”
Aziraphale straightened up, lips pressed together. “I do apologise, dear boy. Lupin… isn’t he the werewolf? Albus mentioned that provisions had been made so that he could transform safely.”
Anthony nodded. He wished he could despise Lupin, but aside from his monthly absences, the only things you could fault the boy for were his taste in friends and his abysmal Potions. His essays were well-written - clearly he had no problem with the theory - and he himself was quiet, neat and polite; it was hard to look at the boy and think of him as a foul half-breed, as much as he wished he could.
“Anyway,” Aziraphale said brightly, “let’s finish this so that we can get a good night’s sleep, shall we? A quick run-through of some more areas of overlap and then a schedule discussion should do it, I think.” He produced two quills and some fresh parchment and, knees knocking occasionally, they bent over the table and worked in the warm firelight.
~*~
About a week later Anthony knocked on Aziraphale’s door, cradling a bottle of finely-aged elf-made wine in his other hand; he let his hand fall as he heard Aziraphale bustling about and approaching the door, brushing his pocket where two little vials sat. He’d cast charms so that they wouldn’t move about and clink, or ruin the line of his sleek black Twilfit and Tattings robes. As the door opened, he steeled himself against the inevitable tartan onslaught.
As expected, Aziraphale was wearing a salmon-pink tartan dressing gown. Anthony hadn’t known tartan came in that colour. He managed to smile pleasantly, holding up the bottle. “Drinking alone isn’t much fun, but if I suggested drinking on a school night to any of the others they’d look at me like I was proposing to kill an owl.”
He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s smile to be quite so grateful, though. “Oh, thank goodness, dear boy, I was praying for an interruption! Have none of our first-years attended lessons on basic English grammar?”
“Er.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Do come in.”
Anthony entered. Stacks of student essays sat on the table; he thought about the pile in his office that he had yet to tackle a little guiltily. He held up the bottle, and Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “I do hope you’ve got Hangover Potions ready; I’ve always found it extremely hard to perform a Sobrietus while drunk.”
“Of course.” Anthony produced the two vials of dark green liquid with a flourish and set them down on the table as Aziraphale quickly moved his books and the essays to a side table and left to get wineglasses. Anthony quickly pulled two tinier vials out as well, clearly labelled in Magic Marker2; one contained ground kola nut and the other, essence of sarsaparilla root. He quickly poured the sarsaparilla root into one vial of Hangover Potion, corked it and swirled it lightly; it promptly gained dark red flecks. He set it in front of himself, then poured the kola nut into the other vial, which also gained dark red flecks after he swirled it, and set it in front of Aziraphale’s seat. Sarsaparilla was the final active ingredient in Hangover Potions; kola nut, meanwhile, might improve the taste, replicate the look and had no ill effects, but without sarsaparilla the potion was useless.3 He slipped the empty vials into his pocket and was just opening the bottle when Aziraphale reappeared.
They clinked their wineglasses together. “To a long and happy collaboration as colleagues,” Aziraphale smiled.
“Cheers.”
Before long, they were on their way to getting well and truly drunk.
“Flobberworms need to go extant - extint - die off. Boringest creatures ever. I mean, all they do is eat and lie around in their tank.”
Aziraphale smiled indulgently at him, the firelight playing over his gold curls and turning his fair skin ruddy. Anthony found himself wondering about the softness of those plump lips. He wondered if he’d get to taste them before getting Aziraphale sacked. He also wondered how much he’d had to drink.
He thought about his family’s possible reaction, and a dark smile curled his lips. Aziraphale frowned. “What’sh wrong?”
Anthony shook his head. “Fam’ly. Blah blah purebl’d, blah blah Mudbl’d, blah blah duty to the bloody fam’ly name. Give me spells and potions any day. Y’know where you are with them.”
Aziraphale made as if to pat his shoulder, but ended up patting his collarbone. “You don’ need to let them forsh you. I think you’re nisher than that.”
Anthony found himself blinking more than was warranted. Damn dust. He shook his head. “And get blasted off and have a target painted on m’arse like young Black? I like my inheritance.”
Aziraphale frowned disapprovingly. “He’sh your cousin, isn’t he? Talented boy. Doeshn’t seem to like you. Ashked him. He called you a cauldron-headed coward.” He started giggling. Anthony glared.
“An’ the Slytherins call you a great big poofter.”
“As - astoo - shmart of them.”
Anthony gaped; Aziraphale simply twinkled at him and drank some more. They’d finished the bottle Anthony had brought, but Aziraphale proved to have a fairly nice selection of his own. Anthony eyed the little vials of potions blearily, and then looked at Aziraphale’s clock. It was a ridiculously cheery wooden cuckoo clock, and as he watched, there was a click and the little wooden bird popped out and began to chime. Several brightly painted little wooden people popped out, too, and Anthony entertained notions of a quick Incendio. They were so cheerful.
“’S midnight. We should sober up and sleep. Got seventh-years t’morrow morning. Arrogant buggers.”
Aziraphale nodded, then focused on the table, and a vial zoomed straight into his hand. Anthony stared; the man had pulled off a silent, wandless Summoning Charm while drunk, and - and that was the wrong vial!
“That’ss mine!” He was hissing in his stress, he dimly registered.
Aziraphale was already drinking it, though; he paused, wincing as the potion worked its way through his system, and blinked curiously at Anthony. “But there’sh another one right there.”4
Under that blue-eyed scrutiny, Anthony had no choice but to reach for and drink the useless Hangover Potion. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily. “Better be off. ‘M not going to sleep in these robes and ruin them.”
“Goodnight, dear boy.” Aziraphale beamed at him as he let himself out.
The distance to his own rooms had never seemed so great. Anthony finally stumbled in and went straight to the corked bottle containing the rest of the potion he’d brewed, tipped an entire vial of sarsaparilla root inside and took a few large mouthfuls. Overdosing was not recommended, but then neither was dealing with students while sporting a hangover. When he finally went to bed, his insides were churning, and he woke up in the wee hours of the morning and vomited out what felt like everything he’d consumed in the past week. Damn you, Aziraphale.
~*~
2 Wizarding Magic Marker ink really never faded with rubbing or age, but could also be instantly erased by a spell. Colour-changing inks were also available, but Anthony usually stuck with plain black.
3 Yes, the author much prefers Sarsi and root beer to Coca-Cola.
4 Hangover Potions did not grant instant sobriety; they got rid of the toxins in the body while one slept so that there would be no hangover in the morning. The Sobrietus spell did grant sobriety, but required intense concentration and was near impossible to cast while drunk.
~*~
Remus Lupin stopped by Anthony’s desk on his way to his seat. “Are you alright, Professor? You look pale.”
His companion tossed his dark hair disdainfully. “Probably stayed up going over Dark spells with the Slytherins. Come on, Moony -”
“Five points from Gryffindor for that, Mr Black,” Anthony snapped. He was not in the mood to deal with this today. “Get to your seats.” The students settled down, the Gryffindors shooting him glares. “Five points to whoever can list the ingredients of the Antidote to Common Poisons in the next five seconds.”
“A crushed bezoar, standard herb mix, crushed unicorn horn and mistletoe berries,” Lily Evans reeled off.
“Five points to Gryffindor.” He flicked his wand and Golpalott’s Third Law5 appeared on the board. “There are vials of different blended poisons on that table; each of you is to select one and create an antidote to it according to this law - anyone asking for clarification will lose points, because I know we went over this last year and if you weren’t paying attention that’s your fault - and if I hear a whisper that’s not ‘pass the armadillo bile’, the guilty student will drink his poison and test his own antidote. Snape, Evans, if either of you try to hand in a bezoar again you’ll serve detention.” Frankly he’d been quite impressed and agreed wholeheartedly with them, but he doubted the NEWT examiners would take kindly to it.
Ah, blessed silence. They’d start swearing eventually as they progressed with their antidotes, and there would undoubtedly be an explosion soon, but for now it was all Anthony wanted.
He glanced into the DADA classroom while passing it on the way to lunch, and his mood was not improved by seeing Aziraphale, pink-cheeked and cheerful as ever, enthusiastically demonstrating the wand movement for a rather nasty jinx.
~*~
5 As in, the words ‘Golpalott’s Third Law’ appeared on the board. He knew the full law was in their textbooks, and they could damn well look it up if they’d forgotten it.
~*~
It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and the Three Broomsticks was packed. This was why Anthony was nursing a quiet Firewhisky in a corner of the Hog’s Head instead. He was just taking a long gulp of the fiery liquid when two men sat on either side of him; he promptly choked. The larger one pounded him on the back a little too enthusiastically. Anthony wiped his mouth and looked up at his cousins.
“Didn’t expect to see you two here. Weren’t you bullying people at the Ministry?”
“Yeah, and doing something productive,” Ligur, the shorter one, sniffed. “Spreading his word, getting new recruits.”
“We heard Dumbledore still won’t give you the DADA position. Gave it to a blood traitor instead,” Hastur added, sneering. “What’s he like? Faints at the thought of a Crucio?”
“He seems competent, unfortunately,” Anthony snapped. “Look, I’m trying my best to get him sacked and keep my hands clean.”
Hastur waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, it’s you we want. A professor at Hogwarts? Just what we need. Keep us informed of what the barmy old codger does, pick out kids that could be useful, sort of thing. Be better if you were the DADA professor though; you’re damned good at it. You could train up the students in nasty curses, groom them a bit, speak to the purebloods… you’d be a very useful Knight of Walpurgis.”
“I notice there’s nothing ever said about pay, perks, promotions or retirement,” Anthony muttered, sparing a moment of regret for the fact that if there was a synonym for ‘retirement’ that began with a ‘p’, he didn’t know it. “Look, I can, I dunno, help you out now and again if you need a potion. But I’m not interested in joining the Knights.” He didn’t particularly care for Muggles and Muggleb- Mudbloods, but he also didn’t feel like joining a group that advocated purging them. That was just asking for trouble, especially considering what had happened to Grindelwald. His office, at least, was safe. Mostly. He couldn’t exactly bar students from it. His private rooms were safe, then.
Hastur simply looked at him; on his other side, Ligur cracked his knuckles. “You don’t want to be on our bad side, Anthony. You’re a pureblood, a Crowley, and you got Black blood. We’re practically nobility. You don’t turn your back on that for a job at Hogwarts unless it’s useful. Hell, you don’t need to work.”
“It’s something to do. Look, guys, I’ll help if you ever have a potion that needs brewing and if something really big happens I’ll send a letter. I’m not sure I can -”
Hastur leaned forward menacingly. “That’ll do for now. But like I said, Anthony, you’ll be valuable and you don’t get to turn your back on us or the Dark Lord.” He seemed about to say something more, but at that moment both he and Ligur were distracted by the tall, dangerous-looking redheaded woman in form-fitting Quidditch leathers who had just walked into the bar. She winked at several men, who promptly started elbowing each other out of the way.
Anthony drained his glass and left a few Galleons on the table, thankful for Scarlett’s love for barfights - or fights in general, really; the fights on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch under her watch were legendary. “Cute title. Anyway, can’t stay long, I left a potion brewing and I should get back before it blows up the dungeons. Ciao!” He slid his tinted glasses on and left while they were still staring at Scarlett.
Outside, he ducked into a shadowed alley and leaned against the rough brick wall, breathing in deeply. Hastur and Ligur unnerved him; they weren’t the brightest of wizards, but it had never impeded their ability with curses. The Knights of Walpurgis were a growing force to be reckoned with, and the less said about their leader the better; one did not turn them down lightly. Especially if one saw most of them at Christmas dinners and other family gatherings. At least staying at Hogwarts got him out of that.
He nearly jumped as two more figures ducked into the alley. The two boys moved into a dimly lit patch, and he blinked at the sight of Sirius Black thoroughly snogging Remus Lupin; the two of them were clearly oblivious to the world.
Anthony cast a surreptitious Disillusionment Charm on himself anyway and began to carefully edge out of the alley, but he couldn’t help sneaking glances at them; Sirius had moved to nibbling Lupin’s neck, hands snaking up under his argyle jumper, and Lupin’s amber eyes fluttered shut as he buried his hands in Sirius’s hair. Anthony found himself picturing Lupin’s sandy-brown hair as lighter and wavier, his face rounder and unmarred save for laugh lines, the jumper a bright tartan, and shook himself as he exited the alley and made for Hogwarts. The castle was nearly deserted except for a few first- and second-years and, of course, the ghosts and Peeves; despite continually checking that his Disillusionment Charm was still effective, he avoided them all.
He cast Alohomora on the door of the Hospital Wing and entered, shutting it behind him. He knew Poppy Pomfrey was in Hogsmeade for once - he’d seen her entering the Three Broomsticks - but Filch was always prowling the castle with his mangy cat. Honestly. Doesn’t the man have a life? All he does is wander around with that cat in his arms - eurgh, on second thought, I don’t want to know.
He unlocked Poppy’s office door and made for the filing cabinets, pulling open the one marked Staff and flicking through the handwritten files until he found that of Aziraphale St. Michael. Eagerly, he flipped through it. Ah. Perfect.
Apparently, Aziraphale was allergic to coconut.
~*~
Although Anthony preferred to sleep until lunchtime on the weekends, occasionally he woke up early to enjoy the peace and quiet, and perhaps go for a flight. This was one of those mornings.
His Silver Arrow was an antique broomstick, but still in near-pristine condition; Anthony took great care of it, polishing its slender ash handle by hand and clipping the twigs to keep them aligned. He ran a loving hand over its smooth handle before mounting it and kicking off, exulting in the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair as he accelerated. It was a fairly chilly late October morning, but Warming Charms protected him from the worst of it, and he laughed out of sheer joy as he guided the broom up and through a complicated series of loops, a small dark figure against the pink-streaked sky.
He pulled the broom around to face the castle and looked down; he loved the feeling of being so high above the ground, the freedom that flight gave him. He squinted, flying lower; someone was standing on the pitch below. It was Aziraphale; those bright tartan robes were hard to mistake.
Anthony flew down until he was hovering just above Aziraphale, grinning down at him. Aziraphale’s hair was glowing in the sunlight, and there was an odd look of wonder in his eyes. “You fly very gracefully,” he murmured. “I’ve never been a very good flier, I’m afraid.”
Later, Anthony would blame the look in the other man’s eyes. He leaned down and held out a hand.
Aziraphale hesitated for the briefest moment before taking it. He was fairly heavy, Anthony realised, as he hoisted him up and the broom wobbled a little. “You need to lay off the cream cakes.”
Aziraphale glared, but given the look of nervousness in his eyes it wasn’t very effective. Anthony smirked at him and leaned forward on the broom. “Hold on, Aziraphale.” He tightened his grip and pulled the broom upwards sharply, and they shot up. Aziraphale let out a little gasp and tightened his arms around Anthony’s waist as Anthony brought the broom through another, simpler series of loops. It bore the added weight well, and he felt a stab of pride; the newer racing brooms would have struggled to make sharp turns with extra weight. There was a relieved exhale of breath by his ear as he gradually brought the broom to a halt and hovered in midair, and he shivered. Aziraphale was warm against his back, and the feel of those arms around him were doing odd things to his stomach.
The blond wizard leaned forward slightly. “Look at the castle,” he murmured, breathless, into Anthony’s ear. “It’s beautiful.” And it was; the rising sun was painting the castle’s grey walls golden so that they shone in the soft light, and just beyond it a flock of birds rose from the Forbidden Forest. Anthony leaned forward again, enjoying the feeling of Aziraphale’s arms tightening, and flew towards the castle. They wove around the high turrets and under the bridge, hair and robes flying in the wind, and as Anthony turned towards the loch Aziraphale’s arms relaxed slightly, though they remained where they were.
Anthony flew them over the loch and dipped down so that they barely skimmed the surface of the water, the tips of their shoes and the hems of their robes almost but not quite touching it. In the distance the Giant Squid was lazily uncoiling its tentacles, and the sun caught the ripples it created so that the lake surface looked as though it was encrusted with diamonds. Aziraphale laughed softly, and Anthony turned to grin at him before pulling the broom up and around.
They landed gently on the soft sand of the Quidditch pitch, and for a few moments they simply stood there looking at one another. Aziraphale was breathing fast, face flushed from the wind, hair tousled; it looked soft, and Anthony wanted to run his hands through it and pull him closer, wanted more of that warmth. Their eyes met, calm celestial-blue and deep amber. After a moment Anthony cleared his throat.
Aziraphale gestured to his broom. “I suppose you’ll need to put that back in the shed?”
Anthony shook his head, shouldering it; his fingers curled around the handle protectively. “Not in the least. I keep it in my rooms.”
Aziraphale nodded and they began to walk back up to the castle; now that the earlier spell was broken, a blanket of awkwardness seemed to have settled over them. “I haven’t seen your rooms yet.”
One part of Anthony’s mind snapped that of course not, they were hardly friends. Another part pointed out that Anthony would certainly like them to be more than friends and probably wouldn’t mind showing Aziraphale the bedroom. He viciously told both parts to shut it and shrugged. “My Runespoor doesn’t take well to strangers.”
The other man’s eyes lit up. “You have a Runespoor?”
“Fully licensed, and now missing its right head. And thankfully so, it was a right pain. Pun not intended. I use its venom in some potions.”
Aziraphale laughed. “I did read about the heads, but for some reason I thought you’d try to keep it intact. I must say you’re full of surprises, Anthony.”
Anthony shrugged again. “I don’t spend every spare minute brewing potions, and I doubt you spend every spare minute practising hexes. Far from it, judging from your bookshelves.” He found himself grinning as Aziraphale laughed again.
“Well, I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast?” Aziraphale asked as they approached the castle doors. “I did wonder why I so rarely saw you at breakfast on the weekends.”
Anthony’s answering grin was unrepentant. “I usually sleep in on weekends, actually. This,” he gestured to the broom, “isn’t something I do often. Not in the mornings, anyway, though sometimes in the evenings when the pitch is quiet I go for a flight.”
“Ah.” They stood in the Entrance Hall for a moment. “Well, I shall treasure this rare occurrence, then: Anthony Crowley up early on a weekend.”
With a smirk in reply, Anthony turned towards the stairs leading to his rooms. It wasn’t until after breakfast that he wondered why he hadn’t just Stunned and Obliviated Aziraphale, pushed him into the lake, and dropped a school broom in as well to make it look like an accident. Even if the squid rescued him, he’d hardly have been in a fit state to teach. He glared at the essay he was marking, drawing a red line across an entire paragraph so hard the parchment nearly tore.
~*~
Anthony was pouring himself some coffee at breakfast on Halloween morning when Aziraphale pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “Good morning, dear boy.”
“’Morning.” Except for rare occasions that involved flight, Anthony was not a morning person. He was actually quite awake and alert right now, focused on the tiny vial of Inhibition-Removing Draught6 in his left pocket, but the sight of him not glaring at people over his coffee in the mornings would have made the rest of the staff suspicious. He calmly buttered his toast and reached for the marmalade as he watched Aziraphale pour himself some tea and add milk and sugar, and waited for the arrival of the post.
There was a rustling of wings as the post-owls began to fly in, and as usual, Aziraphale looked up in anticipation of his Daily Prophet; at that moment Anthony quickly poured the contents of the vial into Aziraphale’s tea. He turned his attention back to his breakfast, but watched out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale stirred his tea, eyes focused on his newspaper; there was a photo of a harassed-looking Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, speaking to some Aurors before turning to glare at the photographer. Aziraphale raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip before frowning slightly, first at his cup and then at the pitcher of milk, but took another sip before putting his cup down. Anthony buried his smile in his own cup of coffee -
- and then Aziraphale’s owl, Gabriel, swooped down towards the staff table and knocked over Aziraphale’s teacup. Hot tea splashed over the table, and Anthony winced as he saw some drops land in Minerva’s porridge.
“Oh dear, I am so terribly sorry! Did any of it splash on you?” Aziraphale looked extremely worried, and Anthony bit his lip against the conflicting urges to laugh at him and pat him on the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s got into Gabriel, he’s usually so well-trained!” He rescued the tea-soaked letter, apologising profusely to the rest of the staff all the while, and pulled out his wand to siphon up the tea from the tablecloth. Anthony mentally sighed; Aziraphale would have had to drink the full cup to start doing the sort of things he was hoping for - surely nobody was naturally that nice - but even the small amount he had consumed would have an effect. He was a little worried about Minerva, though.
Ten minutes later Minerva was enthusiastically reciting the worst poem Anthony had ever heard to Albus - apparently it had been composed by an ancestor of hers, whom Anthony was silently cursing - and he was finding it very hard to concentrate on the sausage on his plate due to the foot running up and down his calf. When he dared to glance to his left, Aziraphale was calmly spearing a grilled mushroom on his fork and nibbling delicately at it. Anthony viciously stabbed at his sausage7 and considered wishing for the ground to open up under him8. He’d hoped for Aziraphale to do something like announce his orientation to his students or insult his colleagues, not slowly drive him mental. Thank Merlin for robes.
~*~
6 The Inhibition-Removing Draught was one of those grey areas; oddly it wasn’t illegal to own it or drink it willingly, and administering any potion to someone else without their knowledge was illegal, but the sale of it was illegal - which Anthony had gotten around by brewing it himself - and it was Heavily Frowned Upon since it worked on the mind, removing personal inhibitions. It was quite popular at parties, even if most of the partygoers were unaware of its presence in their punch and simply felt like shedding clothing and dancing on the tabletops.
7 The one on his plate, thank you very much.
8But not too hard, since witches and wizards in great stress had been known to accidentally cause the ground to open up and swallow them, and it wasn’t the sort of thing Anthony wanted to go down in wizarding history for.
~*~
By midnight on Halloween, Anthony was in a foul mood as he stomped back to his rooms, covered in sticky bright orange pumpkin gunk and seeds courtesy of his devil of a cousin and the aforementioned devil cousin’s friends - you’d think making Potter Head Boy would have stopped this sort of thing, but he’d simply sat there in the Great Hall when the pumpkins started spouting dirty limericks and looked as though he was shocked at his friends, though it had been funny when Evans slapped him after the pumpkins exploded.
He’d also been trying to avoid Aziraphale all day; the look in the other’s eyes every time he looked at Anthony, full of sheer heat, made him keep glancing down to check that his robes hadn’t suddenly disappeared. And he had passed several groups of students giggling about the Temporary Impotency Hex and other related jinxes Aziraphale had apparently taught that day, though all of them were fifth-years and above; apparently even with his inhibitions removed, Aziraphale was far too nice and moral to get in real trouble. Except, apparently, when it came to Anthony. Thankfully, the effects had started wearing off by the Halloween Feast, though Anthony had still kept his eyes straight ahead when Aziraphale started on his treacle pudding; an unwary glance to his left as he reached for the apples had given him an eyeful of Aziraphale licking treacle off his spoon, and he had spent the rest of dinner with his legs crossed until the pumpkins exploded. Aziraphale had been frowning a little, as though surprised at himself and not at the orange goo coating him, by the end of the feast, and Anthony had taken that as his cue to leave.
As he stepped into the shower and began to peel off his sticky robes - the pumpkin innards had proven resistant to all manner of Cleaning Charms, and he decided to let the house-elves deal with it9 - he firmly shoved all thoughts of Aziraphale and treacle out of his mind. No thinking of the way his plump lips had wrapped around the bowl of his spoon, the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucked the treacle off, how that pink tongue had darted out to lick a last drop of treacle…
It was a lost cause.
~*~
9 Anthony was, later, very pleased to learn that the Marauders had served detention by helping the house-elves with the pumpkin-encrusted laundry.
~*~
It had snowed the night before, and so most of the students were currently outside having snowfights. Anthony walked through the library, revelling in the silence. In his arms were all the Hogwarts library copies of Moste Potente Potions, with their cracked leather covers and yellowed, speckled pages. He was planning to set the seventh-years an essay that would need additional research, especially from this book, which was why he was removing all the school copies of the book and locking them in his room; they would need to use their own resources to get their hands on a copy. He considered it good training for life after the NEWTS.
Madam Pince - he may have been allowed to call her Irma now, but it was hard to think of the forbidding, vulture-like librarian as anything but Madam Pince - was not at her desk, though, so he wandered through the dusty aisles looking for her. He turned a corner and glanced between two bookshelves, and stared.
Aziraphale10 was there with Madam Pince, and they were standing on either side of a large orang-utan and holding a conversation with it. Anthony stared some more. Then he put the books down, left the library, went back to his rooms and tested himself for magical hallucinogenic substances. 11
~*~
10 They had avoided each other’s eyes a little for several days after Halloween, being scrupulously polite when they did have to interact, but Aziraphale had slowly gone back to his normal bright, cheerful self and being cold to that was a little like being mean to an owl. Anthony told himself that he’d preferred the avoidance.
11 He didn’t find any, but since the alternative was accepting that Madam Pince, of all people, and Aziraphale could hold a discussion about the care of old books with an orang-utan that went, “Ook!” he decided that he must have missed something.
~*~
A few days before Christmas, Anthony was seated in his rooms with a box of Honeydukes’ Finest Selection. His Runespoor watched curiously as he gingerly opened the lid and studied the diagram on the inside of the cover. Perfect; apparently the one in the corner shaped vaguely like a nautilus contained a coconut filling. He tapped the picture on the inside of the lid with his wand, murmuring a few words and casting a light glamour so that it now claimed that the chocolate in question contained a chocolate mousse filling. And even if Aziraphale tested it for spells, all Honeydukes’ chocolate boxes were charmed to stay cool on the inside. Now Anthony carefully wove a timed unravelling into the spell; it would fade by midnight on Christmas. If Aziraphale hadn’t eaten it by then, he’d have to think of something else, and if he had and someone investigated, it would seem like a simple error on Aziraphale’s part since the box so clearly stated that it contained coconut. He shut the box and charmed a black satin bow onto it.
~*~
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, but none of that made any difference to Anthony, who was still sleeping peacefully with the curtains drawn. He was eventually woken up by the tapping of an owl’s claws at the window; cursing, he groped for his wand and flicked it in the vague direction of the window. The Crowley family owl flew to his bedside table, and he blearily untied the scroll from its leg; as it flew out, he flicked his wand again and the window closed behind it, curtains swishing shut. He didn’t bother to read the letter; it would be the same as usual, wishing him a Merry Christmas and reminding him of his duty as a pureblood heir that he was neglecting. Pulling the blankets over his head, he went back to sleep.
Anthony finally woke up around noon, wandering into the shower and ignoring his letter. He was already almost fully dressed, tucking his ornate silver pocket-watch into his pocket, when he noticed the lone package on the carpet at the foot of his bed, next to the bottle of oak-matured mead each member of staff received. He stared at it. It stared back.
Despite the lack of a label, he knew it was from Aziraphale; nobody else would use bright tartan ribbon on top of tartan wrapping paper. He prodded it with his wand and muttered, “Specialis revelio!”, but nothing happened. After a moment’s hesitation, he took hold of the tartan ribbon between finger and thumb and tugged it off, and tried to unwrap the gift while touching as little of the tartan paper as possible.
Inside, there was a soft grey woollen scarf that appeared to be hand-knitted, and a piece of parchment reading:
Dear Anthony,
Merry Christmas.
~ Aziraphale
Anthony fingered the soft wool, and thought about the box of chocolates he’d instructed a house-elf to send to Aziraphale’s room the night before. He glanced at the still-unopened letter on his bedside table. Then he wrapped the scarf around his neck and went down for lunch.
~*~
The rest of Christmas Day would probably have been more enjoyable if something in Anthony’s stomach had not twisted unhappily each time Aziraphale smiled at him; the man had practically lit up when he saw Anthony wearing his scarf, and he had adjusted it and fussed with it for a few moments before thanking him for the chocolates. He had duck-patterned mittens, Anthony couldn’t help but notice.
He poked at his Christmas pudding and watched as Albus and Minerva pulled a Christmas cracker; the Headmaster promptly exchanged his own hat for the one from the cracker, a garish affair with ‘WIZZARD’ spelt on it in bright gold sequins. Aziraphale glanced at him with some concern. “Are you alright? You’ve been rather quiet.”
Anthony shrugged. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced, but smiled at him. “Would you like to come to my rooms for some wine after dinner?”
No. I’m not supposed to be anywhere near the scene of the crime. “Sure.” He could try to get Aziraphale to eat the chocolates, feign shock and fear when his tongue started swelling or he started gagging, be slower than he should be in rushing him to the Hospital Wing.
~*~
Anthony sipped from his glass of wine as he stood before the largest painting in Aziraphale’s living room; it showed a Veela-like creature - well, the man was blond, pretty and had wings - in puffy blue armour and rather feminine sandals wielding a sword and stepping on the head of a darker man with bat wings. Despite the unnatural stillness he would never get used to, there was something oddly appealing about the colour and composition, the way the artist had captured motion in stillness, the story it hinted at.
“The Archangel Michael, by Guido Reni. My family’s namesake.” Aziraphale had come up behind him. He must have been standing quite close; Anthony could feel his body heat, and he was reminded of their broomstick ride. He was tempted to lean back into that warmth, but mentally shook himself. “I must say, I find Muggle religions fascinating; there’s such faith and hope in them. That’s Michael defeating Lucifer, the Devil, and casting him down into Hell. He’s the patron saint of warriors, and I’ve always loved this painting for its theme of light defeating darkness.”
“It’s quite stark, though.” Anthony took another mouthful of wine. “Light and dark. Good and evil. No grey areas.”
Aziraphale made a thoughtful little noise. “I must agree. I’ve always believed in the grey areas, but they simply aren’t portrayed enough, I think. Would you like a chocolate, my dear? I’d feel guilty finishing them all.”
Anthony turned; Aziraphale was holding out his box of chocolates with a soft smile. He glanced up at Aziraphale’s face, and back at the chocolates.
After a moment, he took one. “Thanks.” He bit into it, tasting coconut.
That was some good spellwork wasted, he thought. Still, he felt strangely relieved.
~*~
It was late January and still fairly cold, and so Anthony was wearing his grey woollen scarf as he trudged into Hogsmeade behind the students. Despite the noise, the Three Broomsticks was really the most comfortable place to be during this sort of weather. He hunched deeper into his cloak, feeling relieved as he finally entered the cosy little pub and looked around for an empty table; there wasn’t one, but Aziraphale enthusiastically waved him over to his own table, where he sat with Filius, Minerva and Pomona.
“You look cold, dear boy. Rosmerta, my dear, I think we could do with another Butterbeer over here.”
The curvy young barmaid bustled over with the drink as Anthony squeezed into the booth next to Aziraphale, all too aware of the way Aziraphale’s side was pressed against his. “Hi.” He removed his sunglasses and wrapped his hands around his glass, taking a long drink, savouring its warmth.
“We were just talking about the way the Knights’ actions are escalating,” Minerva murmured. “They used to be more subtle, but that poor young Muggleborn witch and her parents, she’d only just got her letter… And the attacks are coming closer. Albus and I aren’t sure about letting Hogsmeade weekends continue, not when they’ve proven they can attack children.”
“And they’re only growing in numbers. Some of them are barely out of Hogwarts and practising Unforgivables, apparently,” Filius added with a shudder.
“It makes me wonder about their recruitment,” Aziraphale said.
Despite the warming drink and Aziraphale’s heat at his side, Anthony felt cold. “You’re hardly going to see a ‘Join HERE if you want to torture Muggleborns and half-bloods!’ sign in the streets, you know,” he muttered. “They probably attend the private parties the pureblood families host, whisper in ears, spread ideas, that sort of thing. It’d be fertile ground anyway.”
Pomona stared at him. “You’re pureblood.”
“Well-spotted,” he said acidly, wishing he had just gone to the Hog’s Head instead.
“I mean,” she ploughed on, “you’ve actually seen that sort of thing, haven’t you? I heard the Crowleys approved of -” She paused at the long, cool stare Anthony was giving her.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I have, strangely enough, seen people talking to other people at parties. Forgive me for not running to the Aurors. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some supplies to restock.”
“And I need to drop by Obscurus Books, it’s on the way to the apothecary,” Aziraphale added. “Would you mind if I accompanied you?”
Anthony shrugged, finishing off his Butterbeer and leaving the payment on the table as he nodded to Minerva and Filius and headed out. Aziraphale caught up with him outside.
“I do apologise for Pomona, she’s just nervous about what’s going on, I think.”
Anthony grunted as they passed Madam Puddifoot’s.
“Oh, Miss Evans has finally agreed to go out with Mr Potter, I see, and it’s such a lovely little tea shop too.”
This made Anthony shoot him an incredulous look, forgetting colleagues and their remarks. “That place? It’s like someone used a six-year-old girl’s diary as a decorating manual and then vomited an extra dose of pink on everything.”
“Oh hush, Anthony. I’m not fond of the colour scheme, but it does look wonderfully cosy.” He laughed at the other’s expression of horror. “I’m only joking, my dear, I was wondering how you would react.”
“You,” Anthony said slowly, beginning to smile, “are a bit of a bastard sometimes.”
“And you’re quite pleasant, really, for a grumpy and reclusive Potions Master.”
“Don’t go ruining my reputation.”
Anthony had never seen Obscurus Books open, but now the proprietor, who resembled an older version of Aziraphale himself, was actually standing in the doorway and waving at Aziraphale. He eyed the shop; its sign was so old and faded that it lived up to its name, and the shop windows were so dusty on the inside that they were more mirror than window. He squinted at his reflection, and at the alley behind them; it seemed like there was someone there, or perhaps that was just the dust. He turned.
There was someone lurking in the alley, just coming out. Anthony recognised the squat gait, even though the man had his hood up and wore some sort of metallic mask under it. “Ligur?”
“Anthony!” Ligur approached him, seemingly unaware of the way Anthony was trying to back away and casting nervous looks over his shoulder. “Wondered if you’d be here! Got a spare mask if you want it.”
“Anthony?” Aziraphale was approaching, sounding confused. Ligur blinked at him.
“Say, isn’t that the blood traitor you’re trying to off?”
There was a scream from down the street, followed by several more and a cry of “Knights! Run!” Anthony swiftly cast a silent Confundus on Ligur even as he heard Hastur’s voice casting a spell and Minerva’s ringing, “Protego!” Students and the Hogsmeade villagers were running around in panic, some students running to them as the only professors nearby, and there were several more cloaked figures closing in on them. Ligur had turned, shooting a curse at one of the villagers.
“Anthony!” Aziraphale was standing by his side, wand drawn. “The students!”
Anthony raised a shield in front of the students before casting a silent Stunner at one of the black-cloaked figures, wondering as he did so which distant relative he had just knocked out. Some of the students huddled behind him and Aziraphale; others began firing off spells of their own.
“Get back there, Potter!” he snapped at the Head Boy, recognising the wand movement for the Entrail-Expelling Curse that one of the Knights was performing and promptly using a Cutting Curse on his hand. That curse was torture, bringing a slow painful death without swift medical care; he wasn’t going to see it used on children, whatever their parentage. “Get them into the bookshop. This isn’t a chance to show off.”
Potter looked furious, but his redheaded girlfriend was dragging him towards the shop by the hand, saying something about the other students, and he let himself be dragged. Anthony allowed himself a brief moment of private amusement at Potter’s sudden obedience before ducking as a spell flew over his head; Aziraphale aimed something that sounded like a Conjunctivitis Curse at the Knight, who dropped his wand to grab at his now inflamed eyes, and Anthony promptly knocked him out and Summoned his wand. They grinned at one another, before Aziraphale suddenly froze under a Body-Bind and Anthony’s blood ran cold; Ligur seemed to have recovered and now stood behind Aziraphale, wand pointed at him, lips pronouncing the word Avada -
TBC
Part 2
Gift For: sidesinger
Gift from: sirius_luva
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Tartan overload, a rather anticlimactic battle scene, and a sex scene (which is thankfully - for the participants - not anticlimactic).
Request: Crowley/Aziraphale cross-over with Harry Potter. You can make it as AU as you want, but basically, I want Aziraphale to be the new DADA professor with Crowley as the resident Potions Master at Hogwarts. Similar to Snape, Crowley has always wanted the DADA position… and he'll stop at nothing to get it. Or will he? Feel free to include as many other GO characters as you like. M to NC-17. .
There can never be enough banter, fluff, drunken conversations, and snark. Hurt/comfort works as long as there's not too much angst. Cross-overs and references made with Pratchett's Discworld characters or Harry Potter. AU and crack is dandy. I love sexual tension that's built up before it's resolved. Aziraphale's pudginess. Footnotes, but don't overdo it. Smut is encouraged -- high ratings, please.
A/N: MWPP era. Crowley is a pureblood and related to the Blacks on his mother’s side. Aziraphale is also pureblood but considered a blood traitor [like the Weasleys, whom he is probably related to] due to his and his family’s fascination with Muggles. I decided that Slughorn took early retirement and Crowley took over for one year before this story takes place. If you don’t recognise certain spells or potions from canon, they’re either fandom inventions or I pulled them out of my arse. The Death Eaters did call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis at first before settling on their current name. Credit for Aziraphale’s surname and coconut allergy goes to one of my betas. To my dear recipient, sidesinger: I apologise. I tried to write crack, I really did, but I fail at it. I also fail at titles.
Mod's Note: Your Secret Writer requested we suggest a title. This is what your mod came up with. Don't blame your SA for it, and if your SA hates it, we'll remove it.
Dear Professor Crowley,
I regret to inform you that your application for the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been rejected. This is partly due to your stellar work as Potions Master in the last year and the lack of anyone to take over that post, and partly due to the presence of another, more eligible candidate for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post.
Please be reminded that all Hogwarts staff members are expected to arrive on the afternoon of the 31st of August and that there will be a staff meeting that evening.
Yours,
Albus Dumbledore.
Dear Aziraphale St. Michael,
I am pleased to inform you that your application for the post of Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts has been approved. The Hogwarts Board of Governors and I agree that with your credentials and experience, you are our best candidate.
Please be reminded that all Hogwarts staff members are expected to arrive on the afternoon of the 31st of August and that there will be a staff meeting that evening. The Deputy Headmistress and I would appreciate it if you would have a lesson plan and some of your chocolate cake ready by then.
Yours,
Albus Dumbledore.
~*~
The quarters of Hogwarts’ resident Potions Master were quite spartan; the furniture was minimal, with the only sign of the rooms’ being lived in were the large, luxurious bed, the unusually verdant plants by the window, and a large terrarium containing a Runespoor. If snakes could roll their eyes, this one would roll all four1; its owner was currently stomping up and down in a foul mood.
Anthony James Crowley was not happy. He’d overslept and missed the train, resulting in his having to Portkey to the outskirts of Hogwarts - nobody but Albus Dumbledore could Portkey into Hogwarts - and lug his things up to the castle. Another letter from family members reminding him of his duty had done nothing to improve his mood. And on top of all that, he’d have to leave for the staff meeting soon and meet the more eligible candidate for his DADA position.
As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Anthony stopped pacing and smoothed his black robes, pulling out his wand and casting a silent Alohomora. “Yes?”
The door opened and Anthony blinked, trying to will away the afterimages of hideously bright tartan robes. He finally managed to focus on the man wearing them; he looked a little older than Anthony himself, and was slightly pudgy.
“You must be Professor Crowley. I’m Aziraphale St. Michael, the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, as he shifted a scroll and a cake-tin to his left arm before holding out his right hand.
Anthony stared at him. Aziraphale’s smile faltered slightly.
“I’ve heard some wonderful things about your talent at Potions, and since our two disciplines have a fair amount in common, I was wondering if we could collaborate on some lessons. I mean, knowledge of Potions and the antidotes to poisons or curses, and other uses of Potions in combating the Dark Arts, is essential for the students to know, and I do hope we can work together on this…?”
Anthony shut the door in his face.
~*~
1 Runespoors have three heads: the left head is the ‘planner’, the middle head is the ‘dreamer’ and the right head is the ‘critic’ with highly venomous fangs; it evaluates the efforts of the left and middle heads with a continual irritable hissing. Because of this, it is common to see the far right head missing as the other two heads often band together to bite it off when it criticises them too much. This is what had happened to Anthony’s Runespoor; he’d been highly amused and rather thankful. It had been very noisy.
~*~
The meeting in the staff common room, unsurprisingly, was a drag. Pleasantries about each others’ holidays, with food being passed around - there was some rich, moist chocolate cake that Anthony rather liked, and he helped himself to a second slice, carefully ignoring Hagrid’s rock cakes - and comparing of lesson plans, were followed by Dumbledore reminding them to be ever-vigilant against the growing darkness in the wizarding world, and that safeguarding the students and teaching them to choose the right paths was their responsibility. Perhaps Anthony was imagining it, but he could have sworn that Dumbledore’s piercing blue gaze rested on him for a moment longer than usual at that.
After introducing Aziraphale to the rest of the faculty, the official meeting ended and they broke up into groups of twos and threes. Anthony chatted briefly to Flitwick and Kettleburn, and was just getting into a heated discussion with Pomona Sprout about the care of magical cacti when someone cleared their throat politely behind him. “Professor Crowley?”
Bugger. Well, he could hardly be rude here, especially not with Minerva McGonagall coming his way. He managed to smile as he turned. “Professor St. Michael, what a pleasure. I hope you’re settling in alright?”
Professor St. Michael’s eyes were a disarmingly bright blue, rather like Dumbledore’s, and Anthony wondered fleetingly if they were related. Perhaps that would explain how he’d got his post.
“Oh, do call me Aziraphale,” the older man smiled, all innocence. “I just wanted to say that I’m glad you enjoyed my cake, and I look forward to working with you.”
His - ? … Well, no wonder he’s so plump, then. Anthony wasn’t Head of Slytherin House for nothing, though. He flashed his best charming smile, holding out a hand. “Likewise, Aziraphale, and do call me Anthony. And I must apologise for my earlier behaviour, I wasn’t feeling well.”
Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, looking slightly sceptical, but took his hand, and Anthony noted with surprise that the other man’s hand was extremely soft, with well-manicured nails. Some Defense professor.
“I do hope you feel better soon, my dear.” They shook hands, Anthony fighting not to react to the endearment. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think Filius is calling me.”
Anthony watched him go, absentmindedly thinking about tasteless, delayed-reaction poisons. It wasn’t until Pomona touched his shoulder that he realised he’d been staring at Aziraphale’s tartan-clad arse. Well, it was a fine arse. Pity it was also attached to an even larger arse.
~*~
The Great Hall was filled with the excited chatter of students who had just returned from summer holidays and hence had a thousand and one things to say to one another, despite probably already having said it in letters. Anthony sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand; the noise level wasn’t helping his headache, which had started when he rose with not enough sleep and worsened when he came down to dinner to discover that both Minerva McGonagall and Aziraphale were in tartan robes that clashed with one another. As the Sorting Hat began its song, he considered Transfiguring his spoon into a pair of sunglasses.
“Still not feeling well, Anthony?” Aziraphale asked, next to him, and he imagined stabbing the man’s pudgy hand with his butter knife and cursing it not to heal. He could hardly teach DADA with an injured wand hand, after all, and it wasn’t as if Anthony didn’t know Dark spells. Still, he made himself smile.
“I’m fine, actually. Just a slight headache.” He stiffened as Aziraphale pulled out his wand. “What are y-”
“Relax, my dear, I’m not about to hex you,” Aziraphale smiled, touching the tip of his wand - rowan, from the looks of it, of course he’d have a do-gooder’s wand - to Anthony’s temple and murmuring something that almost sounded like song. Anthony was about to pull away when he felt the effects of the spell spread through his head, gently soothing the ache and relaxing him; his eyes wanted to close in sheer pleasure, and he stubbornly kept them open.
“Thanks,” he said, a little grudgingly, running his hand through his mussed black hair.
“You’re welcome.” Aziraphale put his wand away and turned back to him. “So now that you’re feeling better, would you like to discuss our collaboration in my rooms later or is there something else ailing you?”
Though there was nothing but sincerity and concern in Aziraphale’s expression, Anthony had the sneaking feeling that he was being made fun of. He shifted his gaze to the Hat, clapping automatically as a student was Sorted into Slytherin. “Sure.”
“Excellent.” Aziraphale beamed, and for a moment Anthony wondered why the candles in the Great Hall suddenly seemed exceptionally bright.
~*~
As he stepped into Aziraphale’s rooms, Anthony briefly wondered if he’d stepped into the library instead; very little wall was visible between the huge bookshelves and several paintings. He realised with a start that they were Muggle paintings and portraits; the unnatural stillness and vacant eyes made him uneasy. Aziraphale absentmindedly gestured at the fireplace before shrugging off his outer robe; flames immediately sprang up, crackling merrily. “Do take a seat, Anthony, I’ll just go and put the kettle on, unless you’d like something stronger?”
“Aziraphale, I have to deal with a bunch of brats tomorrow morning. As do you.” Unfortunately.
“Nothing a quick Sobrietus or a Hangover Potion can’t fix, surely, my dear. Although you probably shouldn’t be drinking anyway, with that headache. Make yourself comfortable.” With another disarmingly friendly smile, Aziraphale disappeared into the kitchenette, leaving Anthony blinking. Well. For someone who looked like a librarian or the proprietor of one of those dusty little second-hand bookstores with erratic opening hours, Aziraphale apparently wasn’t as prim as you’d expect.
Perhaps he would bring the other man out drinking on a school night, give him a faulty Hangover Potion, and watch the fun the next morning. Irresponsible behaviour like that wouldn’t get him fired, but he’d certainly be reprimanded and perhaps watched more closely. After all, Dumbledore had been going on about how they were supposed to be role models for the students. Smirking to himself, Anthony seated himself on the annoyingly cheery chintz couch and scrutinised the books and scrolls covering the coffee table.
There was what appeared to be a first-edition of Perseus Speculum’s Confronting the Faceless and a dusty little book with a cover so worn the title was illegible, but with a complex star-pattern still barely visible on it; both had the tassels of several bookmarks sticking out of them and were surrounded by scrolls of parchment covered with notes. He unrolled one and skimmed the neat copperplate handwriting; it appeared to be a translation of a text on wards. At the sound of Aziraphale clinking something in the kitchen, he quickly replaced the parchment.
Aziraphale came out bearing a tray and set it down, pouring Anthony a cup of fragrant apple tea. Anthony added three lumps of sugar. “So, er, you wanted to discuss something with me.”
The blond man nodded, blowing at his own tea before putting the cup down and unrolling a scroll. “I was thinking about training the sixth- and seventh-years in detecting poisons with spells, how to cast some basic spells like the Stasis Spell that could be used briefly in some cases until an antidote and medical care is available, how to recognise if someone is under the influence of potions like the Befuddlement Draught, and so on. What do you think?”
Anthony shrugged, silently and grudgingly acknowledging that Aziraphale did seem to know what he was talking about. “Sounds good. I can teach them about the properties that some common poison components like belladonna, hellebore and hemlock lend potions; ingredients like those have active magical components you can detect if you know which spells to cast, and the brewing of antidotes is already a major part of the syllabus. I’ll pass you a list of which spells affect poisons in any way. Frankly though, carrying a bezoar around would be more helpful than knowing which antidotes counter some poisons but exacerbate others, and it’d be in keeping with the capabilities of half my students.”
Aziraphale laughed, and for a moment Anthony caught his breath. He mentally shook himself, and met the twinkle in the other man’s blue eyes with - he hoped - no emotion showing in his own.
“Well, my dear -” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea. “- that isn’t much of a compliment to your teaching skills, is it? We have to be able to make something out of nothing, after all.”
A moment passed in which Anthony digested what Aziraphale had actually said. “Easy for you to say,” he snapped indignantly. “After you have cauldrons explode and potions turn into acid and other potions turn into solid masses you have to chip at with a hammer and chisel, you try having faith in your students’ abilities. If I had my way Goyle would be back in first-year Potions learning how to chop and stir, and that Lupin boy is a menace who should be barred from the vicinity of any cauldron - stop laughing!”
Aziraphale straightened up, lips pressed together. “I do apologise, dear boy. Lupin… isn’t he the werewolf? Albus mentioned that provisions had been made so that he could transform safely.”
Anthony nodded. He wished he could despise Lupin, but aside from his monthly absences, the only things you could fault the boy for were his taste in friends and his abysmal Potions. His essays were well-written - clearly he had no problem with the theory - and he himself was quiet, neat and polite; it was hard to look at the boy and think of him as a foul half-breed, as much as he wished he could.
“Anyway,” Aziraphale said brightly, “let’s finish this so that we can get a good night’s sleep, shall we? A quick run-through of some more areas of overlap and then a schedule discussion should do it, I think.” He produced two quills and some fresh parchment and, knees knocking occasionally, they bent over the table and worked in the warm firelight.
~*~
About a week later Anthony knocked on Aziraphale’s door, cradling a bottle of finely-aged elf-made wine in his other hand; he let his hand fall as he heard Aziraphale bustling about and approaching the door, brushing his pocket where two little vials sat. He’d cast charms so that they wouldn’t move about and clink, or ruin the line of his sleek black Twilfit and Tattings robes. As the door opened, he steeled himself against the inevitable tartan onslaught.
As expected, Aziraphale was wearing a salmon-pink tartan dressing gown. Anthony hadn’t known tartan came in that colour. He managed to smile pleasantly, holding up the bottle. “Drinking alone isn’t much fun, but if I suggested drinking on a school night to any of the others they’d look at me like I was proposing to kill an owl.”
He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s smile to be quite so grateful, though. “Oh, thank goodness, dear boy, I was praying for an interruption! Have none of our first-years attended lessons on basic English grammar?”
“Er.”
“I’ll take that as a no. Do come in.”
Anthony entered. Stacks of student essays sat on the table; he thought about the pile in his office that he had yet to tackle a little guiltily. He held up the bottle, and Aziraphale’s eyes brightened. “I do hope you’ve got Hangover Potions ready; I’ve always found it extremely hard to perform a Sobrietus while drunk.”
“Of course.” Anthony produced the two vials of dark green liquid with a flourish and set them down on the table as Aziraphale quickly moved his books and the essays to a side table and left to get wineglasses. Anthony quickly pulled two tinier vials out as well, clearly labelled in Magic Marker2; one contained ground kola nut and the other, essence of sarsaparilla root. He quickly poured the sarsaparilla root into one vial of Hangover Potion, corked it and swirled it lightly; it promptly gained dark red flecks. He set it in front of himself, then poured the kola nut into the other vial, which also gained dark red flecks after he swirled it, and set it in front of Aziraphale’s seat. Sarsaparilla was the final active ingredient in Hangover Potions; kola nut, meanwhile, might improve the taste, replicate the look and had no ill effects, but without sarsaparilla the potion was useless.3 He slipped the empty vials into his pocket and was just opening the bottle when Aziraphale reappeared.
They clinked their wineglasses together. “To a long and happy collaboration as colleagues,” Aziraphale smiled.
“Cheers.”
Before long, they were on their way to getting well and truly drunk.
“Flobberworms need to go extant - extint - die off. Boringest creatures ever. I mean, all they do is eat and lie around in their tank.”
Aziraphale smiled indulgently at him, the firelight playing over his gold curls and turning his fair skin ruddy. Anthony found himself wondering about the softness of those plump lips. He wondered if he’d get to taste them before getting Aziraphale sacked. He also wondered how much he’d had to drink.
He thought about his family’s possible reaction, and a dark smile curled his lips. Aziraphale frowned. “What’sh wrong?”
Anthony shook his head. “Fam’ly. Blah blah purebl’d, blah blah Mudbl’d, blah blah duty to the bloody fam’ly name. Give me spells and potions any day. Y’know where you are with them.”
Aziraphale made as if to pat his shoulder, but ended up patting his collarbone. “You don’ need to let them forsh you. I think you’re nisher than that.”
Anthony found himself blinking more than was warranted. Damn dust. He shook his head. “And get blasted off and have a target painted on m’arse like young Black? I like my inheritance.”
Aziraphale frowned disapprovingly. “He’sh your cousin, isn’t he? Talented boy. Doeshn’t seem to like you. Ashked him. He called you a cauldron-headed coward.” He started giggling. Anthony glared.
“An’ the Slytherins call you a great big poofter.”
“As - astoo - shmart of them.”
Anthony gaped; Aziraphale simply twinkled at him and drank some more. They’d finished the bottle Anthony had brought, but Aziraphale proved to have a fairly nice selection of his own. Anthony eyed the little vials of potions blearily, and then looked at Aziraphale’s clock. It was a ridiculously cheery wooden cuckoo clock, and as he watched, there was a click and the little wooden bird popped out and began to chime. Several brightly painted little wooden people popped out, too, and Anthony entertained notions of a quick Incendio. They were so cheerful.
“’S midnight. We should sober up and sleep. Got seventh-years t’morrow morning. Arrogant buggers.”
Aziraphale nodded, then focused on the table, and a vial zoomed straight into his hand. Anthony stared; the man had pulled off a silent, wandless Summoning Charm while drunk, and - and that was the wrong vial!
“That’ss mine!” He was hissing in his stress, he dimly registered.
Aziraphale was already drinking it, though; he paused, wincing as the potion worked its way through his system, and blinked curiously at Anthony. “But there’sh another one right there.”4
Under that blue-eyed scrutiny, Anthony had no choice but to reach for and drink the useless Hangover Potion. He got to his feet, a little unsteadily. “Better be off. ‘M not going to sleep in these robes and ruin them.”
“Goodnight, dear boy.” Aziraphale beamed at him as he let himself out.
The distance to his own rooms had never seemed so great. Anthony finally stumbled in and went straight to the corked bottle containing the rest of the potion he’d brewed, tipped an entire vial of sarsaparilla root inside and took a few large mouthfuls. Overdosing was not recommended, but then neither was dealing with students while sporting a hangover. When he finally went to bed, his insides were churning, and he woke up in the wee hours of the morning and vomited out what felt like everything he’d consumed in the past week. Damn you, Aziraphale.
~*~
2 Wizarding Magic Marker ink really never faded with rubbing or age, but could also be instantly erased by a spell. Colour-changing inks were also available, but Anthony usually stuck with plain black.
3 Yes, the author much prefers Sarsi and root beer to Coca-Cola.
4 Hangover Potions did not grant instant sobriety; they got rid of the toxins in the body while one slept so that there would be no hangover in the morning. The Sobrietus spell did grant sobriety, but required intense concentration and was near impossible to cast while drunk.
~*~
Remus Lupin stopped by Anthony’s desk on his way to his seat. “Are you alright, Professor? You look pale.”
His companion tossed his dark hair disdainfully. “Probably stayed up going over Dark spells with the Slytherins. Come on, Moony -”
“Five points from Gryffindor for that, Mr Black,” Anthony snapped. He was not in the mood to deal with this today. “Get to your seats.” The students settled down, the Gryffindors shooting him glares. “Five points to whoever can list the ingredients of the Antidote to Common Poisons in the next five seconds.”
“A crushed bezoar, standard herb mix, crushed unicorn horn and mistletoe berries,” Lily Evans reeled off.
“Five points to Gryffindor.” He flicked his wand and Golpalott’s Third Law5 appeared on the board. “There are vials of different blended poisons on that table; each of you is to select one and create an antidote to it according to this law - anyone asking for clarification will lose points, because I know we went over this last year and if you weren’t paying attention that’s your fault - and if I hear a whisper that’s not ‘pass the armadillo bile’, the guilty student will drink his poison and test his own antidote. Snape, Evans, if either of you try to hand in a bezoar again you’ll serve detention.” Frankly he’d been quite impressed and agreed wholeheartedly with them, but he doubted the NEWT examiners would take kindly to it.
Ah, blessed silence. They’d start swearing eventually as they progressed with their antidotes, and there would undoubtedly be an explosion soon, but for now it was all Anthony wanted.
He glanced into the DADA classroom while passing it on the way to lunch, and his mood was not improved by seeing Aziraphale, pink-cheeked and cheerful as ever, enthusiastically demonstrating the wand movement for a rather nasty jinx.
~*~
5 As in, the words ‘Golpalott’s Third Law’ appeared on the board. He knew the full law was in their textbooks, and they could damn well look it up if they’d forgotten it.
~*~
It was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, and the Three Broomsticks was packed. This was why Anthony was nursing a quiet Firewhisky in a corner of the Hog’s Head instead. He was just taking a long gulp of the fiery liquid when two men sat on either side of him; he promptly choked. The larger one pounded him on the back a little too enthusiastically. Anthony wiped his mouth and looked up at his cousins.
“Didn’t expect to see you two here. Weren’t you bullying people at the Ministry?”
“Yeah, and doing something productive,” Ligur, the shorter one, sniffed. “Spreading his word, getting new recruits.”
“We heard Dumbledore still won’t give you the DADA position. Gave it to a blood traitor instead,” Hastur added, sneering. “What’s he like? Faints at the thought of a Crucio?”
“He seems competent, unfortunately,” Anthony snapped. “Look, I’m trying my best to get him sacked and keep my hands clean.”
Hastur waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, it’s you we want. A professor at Hogwarts? Just what we need. Keep us informed of what the barmy old codger does, pick out kids that could be useful, sort of thing. Be better if you were the DADA professor though; you’re damned good at it. You could train up the students in nasty curses, groom them a bit, speak to the purebloods… you’d be a very useful Knight of Walpurgis.”
“I notice there’s nothing ever said about pay, perks, promotions or retirement,” Anthony muttered, sparing a moment of regret for the fact that if there was a synonym for ‘retirement’ that began with a ‘p’, he didn’t know it. “Look, I can, I dunno, help you out now and again if you need a potion. But I’m not interested in joining the Knights.” He didn’t particularly care for Muggles and Muggleb- Mudbloods, but he also didn’t feel like joining a group that advocated purging them. That was just asking for trouble, especially considering what had happened to Grindelwald. His office, at least, was safe. Mostly. He couldn’t exactly bar students from it. His private rooms were safe, then.
Hastur simply looked at him; on his other side, Ligur cracked his knuckles. “You don’t want to be on our bad side, Anthony. You’re a pureblood, a Crowley, and you got Black blood. We’re practically nobility. You don’t turn your back on that for a job at Hogwarts unless it’s useful. Hell, you don’t need to work.”
“It’s something to do. Look, guys, I’ll help if you ever have a potion that needs brewing and if something really big happens I’ll send a letter. I’m not sure I can -”
Hastur leaned forward menacingly. “That’ll do for now. But like I said, Anthony, you’ll be valuable and you don’t get to turn your back on us or the Dark Lord.” He seemed about to say something more, but at that moment both he and Ligur were distracted by the tall, dangerous-looking redheaded woman in form-fitting Quidditch leathers who had just walked into the bar. She winked at several men, who promptly started elbowing each other out of the way.
Anthony drained his glass and left a few Galleons on the table, thankful for Scarlett’s love for barfights - or fights in general, really; the fights on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch under her watch were legendary. “Cute title. Anyway, can’t stay long, I left a potion brewing and I should get back before it blows up the dungeons. Ciao!” He slid his tinted glasses on and left while they were still staring at Scarlett.
Outside, he ducked into a shadowed alley and leaned against the rough brick wall, breathing in deeply. Hastur and Ligur unnerved him; they weren’t the brightest of wizards, but it had never impeded their ability with curses. The Knights of Walpurgis were a growing force to be reckoned with, and the less said about their leader the better; one did not turn them down lightly. Especially if one saw most of them at Christmas dinners and other family gatherings. At least staying at Hogwarts got him out of that.
He nearly jumped as two more figures ducked into the alley. The two boys moved into a dimly lit patch, and he blinked at the sight of Sirius Black thoroughly snogging Remus Lupin; the two of them were clearly oblivious to the world.
Anthony cast a surreptitious Disillusionment Charm on himself anyway and began to carefully edge out of the alley, but he couldn’t help sneaking glances at them; Sirius had moved to nibbling Lupin’s neck, hands snaking up under his argyle jumper, and Lupin’s amber eyes fluttered shut as he buried his hands in Sirius’s hair. Anthony found himself picturing Lupin’s sandy-brown hair as lighter and wavier, his face rounder and unmarred save for laugh lines, the jumper a bright tartan, and shook himself as he exited the alley and made for Hogwarts. The castle was nearly deserted except for a few first- and second-years and, of course, the ghosts and Peeves; despite continually checking that his Disillusionment Charm was still effective, he avoided them all.
He cast Alohomora on the door of the Hospital Wing and entered, shutting it behind him. He knew Poppy Pomfrey was in Hogsmeade for once - he’d seen her entering the Three Broomsticks - but Filch was always prowling the castle with his mangy cat. Honestly. Doesn’t the man have a life? All he does is wander around with that cat in his arms - eurgh, on second thought, I don’t want to know.
He unlocked Poppy’s office door and made for the filing cabinets, pulling open the one marked Staff and flicking through the handwritten files until he found that of Aziraphale St. Michael. Eagerly, he flipped through it. Ah. Perfect.
Apparently, Aziraphale was allergic to coconut.
~*~
Although Anthony preferred to sleep until lunchtime on the weekends, occasionally he woke up early to enjoy the peace and quiet, and perhaps go for a flight. This was one of those mornings.
His Silver Arrow was an antique broomstick, but still in near-pristine condition; Anthony took great care of it, polishing its slender ash handle by hand and clipping the twigs to keep them aligned. He ran a loving hand over its smooth handle before mounting it and kicking off, exulting in the feeling of the wind whipping through his hair as he accelerated. It was a fairly chilly late October morning, but Warming Charms protected him from the worst of it, and he laughed out of sheer joy as he guided the broom up and through a complicated series of loops, a small dark figure against the pink-streaked sky.
He pulled the broom around to face the castle and looked down; he loved the feeling of being so high above the ground, the freedom that flight gave him. He squinted, flying lower; someone was standing on the pitch below. It was Aziraphale; those bright tartan robes were hard to mistake.
Anthony flew down until he was hovering just above Aziraphale, grinning down at him. Aziraphale’s hair was glowing in the sunlight, and there was an odd look of wonder in his eyes. “You fly very gracefully,” he murmured. “I’ve never been a very good flier, I’m afraid.”
Later, Anthony would blame the look in the other man’s eyes. He leaned down and held out a hand.
Aziraphale hesitated for the briefest moment before taking it. He was fairly heavy, Anthony realised, as he hoisted him up and the broom wobbled a little. “You need to lay off the cream cakes.”
Aziraphale glared, but given the look of nervousness in his eyes it wasn’t very effective. Anthony smirked at him and leaned forward on the broom. “Hold on, Aziraphale.” He tightened his grip and pulled the broom upwards sharply, and they shot up. Aziraphale let out a little gasp and tightened his arms around Anthony’s waist as Anthony brought the broom through another, simpler series of loops. It bore the added weight well, and he felt a stab of pride; the newer racing brooms would have struggled to make sharp turns with extra weight. There was a relieved exhale of breath by his ear as he gradually brought the broom to a halt and hovered in midair, and he shivered. Aziraphale was warm against his back, and the feel of those arms around him were doing odd things to his stomach.
The blond wizard leaned forward slightly. “Look at the castle,” he murmured, breathless, into Anthony’s ear. “It’s beautiful.” And it was; the rising sun was painting the castle’s grey walls golden so that they shone in the soft light, and just beyond it a flock of birds rose from the Forbidden Forest. Anthony leaned forward again, enjoying the feeling of Aziraphale’s arms tightening, and flew towards the castle. They wove around the high turrets and under the bridge, hair and robes flying in the wind, and as Anthony turned towards the loch Aziraphale’s arms relaxed slightly, though they remained where they were.
Anthony flew them over the loch and dipped down so that they barely skimmed the surface of the water, the tips of their shoes and the hems of their robes almost but not quite touching it. In the distance the Giant Squid was lazily uncoiling its tentacles, and the sun caught the ripples it created so that the lake surface looked as though it was encrusted with diamonds. Aziraphale laughed softly, and Anthony turned to grin at him before pulling the broom up and around.
They landed gently on the soft sand of the Quidditch pitch, and for a few moments they simply stood there looking at one another. Aziraphale was breathing fast, face flushed from the wind, hair tousled; it looked soft, and Anthony wanted to run his hands through it and pull him closer, wanted more of that warmth. Their eyes met, calm celestial-blue and deep amber. After a moment Anthony cleared his throat.
Aziraphale gestured to his broom. “I suppose you’ll need to put that back in the shed?”
Anthony shook his head, shouldering it; his fingers curled around the handle protectively. “Not in the least. I keep it in my rooms.”
Aziraphale nodded and they began to walk back up to the castle; now that the earlier spell was broken, a blanket of awkwardness seemed to have settled over them. “I haven’t seen your rooms yet.”
One part of Anthony’s mind snapped that of course not, they were hardly friends. Another part pointed out that Anthony would certainly like them to be more than friends and probably wouldn’t mind showing Aziraphale the bedroom. He viciously told both parts to shut it and shrugged. “My Runespoor doesn’t take well to strangers.”
The other man’s eyes lit up. “You have a Runespoor?”
“Fully licensed, and now missing its right head. And thankfully so, it was a right pain. Pun not intended. I use its venom in some potions.”
Aziraphale laughed. “I did read about the heads, but for some reason I thought you’d try to keep it intact. I must say you’re full of surprises, Anthony.”
Anthony shrugged again. “I don’t spend every spare minute brewing potions, and I doubt you spend every spare minute practising hexes. Far from it, judging from your bookshelves.” He found himself grinning as Aziraphale laughed again.
“Well, I suppose I’ll see you at breakfast?” Aziraphale asked as they approached the castle doors. “I did wonder why I so rarely saw you at breakfast on the weekends.”
Anthony’s answering grin was unrepentant. “I usually sleep in on weekends, actually. This,” he gestured to the broom, “isn’t something I do often. Not in the mornings, anyway, though sometimes in the evenings when the pitch is quiet I go for a flight.”
“Ah.” They stood in the Entrance Hall for a moment. “Well, I shall treasure this rare occurrence, then: Anthony Crowley up early on a weekend.”
With a smirk in reply, Anthony turned towards the stairs leading to his rooms. It wasn’t until after breakfast that he wondered why he hadn’t just Stunned and Obliviated Aziraphale, pushed him into the lake, and dropped a school broom in as well to make it look like an accident. Even if the squid rescued him, he’d hardly have been in a fit state to teach. He glared at the essay he was marking, drawing a red line across an entire paragraph so hard the parchment nearly tore.
~*~
Anthony was pouring himself some coffee at breakfast on Halloween morning when Aziraphale pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “Good morning, dear boy.”
“’Morning.” Except for rare occasions that involved flight, Anthony was not a morning person. He was actually quite awake and alert right now, focused on the tiny vial of Inhibition-Removing Draught6 in his left pocket, but the sight of him not glaring at people over his coffee in the mornings would have made the rest of the staff suspicious. He calmly buttered his toast and reached for the marmalade as he watched Aziraphale pour himself some tea and add milk and sugar, and waited for the arrival of the post.
There was a rustling of wings as the post-owls began to fly in, and as usual, Aziraphale looked up in anticipation of his Daily Prophet; at that moment Anthony quickly poured the contents of the vial into Aziraphale’s tea. He turned his attention back to his breakfast, but watched out of the corner of his eye as Aziraphale stirred his tea, eyes focused on his newspaper; there was a photo of a harassed-looking Minister for Magic, Millicent Bagnold, speaking to some Aurors before turning to glare at the photographer. Aziraphale raised the cup to his lips and took a long sip before frowning slightly, first at his cup and then at the pitcher of milk, but took another sip before putting his cup down. Anthony buried his smile in his own cup of coffee -
- and then Aziraphale’s owl, Gabriel, swooped down towards the staff table and knocked over Aziraphale’s teacup. Hot tea splashed over the table, and Anthony winced as he saw some drops land in Minerva’s porridge.
“Oh dear, I am so terribly sorry! Did any of it splash on you?” Aziraphale looked extremely worried, and Anthony bit his lip against the conflicting urges to laugh at him and pat him on the shoulder. “I don’t know what’s got into Gabriel, he’s usually so well-trained!” He rescued the tea-soaked letter, apologising profusely to the rest of the staff all the while, and pulled out his wand to siphon up the tea from the tablecloth. Anthony mentally sighed; Aziraphale would have had to drink the full cup to start doing the sort of things he was hoping for - surely nobody was naturally that nice - but even the small amount he had consumed would have an effect. He was a little worried about Minerva, though.
Ten minutes later Minerva was enthusiastically reciting the worst poem Anthony had ever heard to Albus - apparently it had been composed by an ancestor of hers, whom Anthony was silently cursing - and he was finding it very hard to concentrate on the sausage on his plate due to the foot running up and down his calf. When he dared to glance to his left, Aziraphale was calmly spearing a grilled mushroom on his fork and nibbling delicately at it. Anthony viciously stabbed at his sausage7 and considered wishing for the ground to open up under him8. He’d hoped for Aziraphale to do something like announce his orientation to his students or insult his colleagues, not slowly drive him mental. Thank Merlin for robes.
~*~
6 The Inhibition-Removing Draught was one of those grey areas; oddly it wasn’t illegal to own it or drink it willingly, and administering any potion to someone else without their knowledge was illegal, but the sale of it was illegal - which Anthony had gotten around by brewing it himself - and it was Heavily Frowned Upon since it worked on the mind, removing personal inhibitions. It was quite popular at parties, even if most of the partygoers were unaware of its presence in their punch and simply felt like shedding clothing and dancing on the tabletops.
7 The one on his plate, thank you very much.
8But not too hard, since witches and wizards in great stress had been known to accidentally cause the ground to open up and swallow them, and it wasn’t the sort of thing Anthony wanted to go down in wizarding history for.
~*~
By midnight on Halloween, Anthony was in a foul mood as he stomped back to his rooms, covered in sticky bright orange pumpkin gunk and seeds courtesy of his devil of a cousin and the aforementioned devil cousin’s friends - you’d think making Potter Head Boy would have stopped this sort of thing, but he’d simply sat there in the Great Hall when the pumpkins started spouting dirty limericks and looked as though he was shocked at his friends, though it had been funny when Evans slapped him after the pumpkins exploded.
He’d also been trying to avoid Aziraphale all day; the look in the other’s eyes every time he looked at Anthony, full of sheer heat, made him keep glancing down to check that his robes hadn’t suddenly disappeared. And he had passed several groups of students giggling about the Temporary Impotency Hex and other related jinxes Aziraphale had apparently taught that day, though all of them were fifth-years and above; apparently even with his inhibitions removed, Aziraphale was far too nice and moral to get in real trouble. Except, apparently, when it came to Anthony. Thankfully, the effects had started wearing off by the Halloween Feast, though Anthony had still kept his eyes straight ahead when Aziraphale started on his treacle pudding; an unwary glance to his left as he reached for the apples had given him an eyeful of Aziraphale licking treacle off his spoon, and he had spent the rest of dinner with his legs crossed until the pumpkins exploded. Aziraphale had been frowning a little, as though surprised at himself and not at the orange goo coating him, by the end of the feast, and Anthony had taken that as his cue to leave.
As he stepped into the shower and began to peel off his sticky robes - the pumpkin innards had proven resistant to all manner of Cleaning Charms, and he decided to let the house-elves deal with it9 - he firmly shoved all thoughts of Aziraphale and treacle out of his mind. No thinking of the way his plump lips had wrapped around the bowl of his spoon, the hollowing of his cheeks as he sucked the treacle off, how that pink tongue had darted out to lick a last drop of treacle…
It was a lost cause.
~*~
9 Anthony was, later, very pleased to learn that the Marauders had served detention by helping the house-elves with the pumpkin-encrusted laundry.
~*~
It had snowed the night before, and so most of the students were currently outside having snowfights. Anthony walked through the library, revelling in the silence. In his arms were all the Hogwarts library copies of Moste Potente Potions, with their cracked leather covers and yellowed, speckled pages. He was planning to set the seventh-years an essay that would need additional research, especially from this book, which was why he was removing all the school copies of the book and locking them in his room; they would need to use their own resources to get their hands on a copy. He considered it good training for life after the NEWTS.
Madam Pince - he may have been allowed to call her Irma now, but it was hard to think of the forbidding, vulture-like librarian as anything but Madam Pince - was not at her desk, though, so he wandered through the dusty aisles looking for her. He turned a corner and glanced between two bookshelves, and stared.
Aziraphale10 was there with Madam Pince, and they were standing on either side of a large orang-utan and holding a conversation with it. Anthony stared some more. Then he put the books down, left the library, went back to his rooms and tested himself for magical hallucinogenic substances. 11
~*~
10 They had avoided each other’s eyes a little for several days after Halloween, being scrupulously polite when they did have to interact, but Aziraphale had slowly gone back to his normal bright, cheerful self and being cold to that was a little like being mean to an owl. Anthony told himself that he’d preferred the avoidance.
11 He didn’t find any, but since the alternative was accepting that Madam Pince, of all people, and Aziraphale could hold a discussion about the care of old books with an orang-utan that went, “Ook!” he decided that he must have missed something.
~*~
A few days before Christmas, Anthony was seated in his rooms with a box of Honeydukes’ Finest Selection. His Runespoor watched curiously as he gingerly opened the lid and studied the diagram on the inside of the cover. Perfect; apparently the one in the corner shaped vaguely like a nautilus contained a coconut filling. He tapped the picture on the inside of the lid with his wand, murmuring a few words and casting a light glamour so that it now claimed that the chocolate in question contained a chocolate mousse filling. And even if Aziraphale tested it for spells, all Honeydukes’ chocolate boxes were charmed to stay cool on the inside. Now Anthony carefully wove a timed unravelling into the spell; it would fade by midnight on Christmas. If Aziraphale hadn’t eaten it by then, he’d have to think of something else, and if he had and someone investigated, it would seem like a simple error on Aziraphale’s part since the box so clearly stated that it contained coconut. He shut the box and charmed a black satin bow onto it.
~*~
Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, but none of that made any difference to Anthony, who was still sleeping peacefully with the curtains drawn. He was eventually woken up by the tapping of an owl’s claws at the window; cursing, he groped for his wand and flicked it in the vague direction of the window. The Crowley family owl flew to his bedside table, and he blearily untied the scroll from its leg; as it flew out, he flicked his wand again and the window closed behind it, curtains swishing shut. He didn’t bother to read the letter; it would be the same as usual, wishing him a Merry Christmas and reminding him of his duty as a pureblood heir that he was neglecting. Pulling the blankets over his head, he went back to sleep.
Anthony finally woke up around noon, wandering into the shower and ignoring his letter. He was already almost fully dressed, tucking his ornate silver pocket-watch into his pocket, when he noticed the lone package on the carpet at the foot of his bed, next to the bottle of oak-matured mead each member of staff received. He stared at it. It stared back.
Despite the lack of a label, he knew it was from Aziraphale; nobody else would use bright tartan ribbon on top of tartan wrapping paper. He prodded it with his wand and muttered, “Specialis revelio!”, but nothing happened. After a moment’s hesitation, he took hold of the tartan ribbon between finger and thumb and tugged it off, and tried to unwrap the gift while touching as little of the tartan paper as possible.
Inside, there was a soft grey woollen scarf that appeared to be hand-knitted, and a piece of parchment reading:
Dear Anthony,
Merry Christmas.
~ Aziraphale
Anthony fingered the soft wool, and thought about the box of chocolates he’d instructed a house-elf to send to Aziraphale’s room the night before. He glanced at the still-unopened letter on his bedside table. Then he wrapped the scarf around his neck and went down for lunch.
~*~
The rest of Christmas Day would probably have been more enjoyable if something in Anthony’s stomach had not twisted unhappily each time Aziraphale smiled at him; the man had practically lit up when he saw Anthony wearing his scarf, and he had adjusted it and fussed with it for a few moments before thanking him for the chocolates. He had duck-patterned mittens, Anthony couldn’t help but notice.
He poked at his Christmas pudding and watched as Albus and Minerva pulled a Christmas cracker; the Headmaster promptly exchanged his own hat for the one from the cracker, a garish affair with ‘WIZZARD’ spelt on it in bright gold sequins. Aziraphale glanced at him with some concern. “Are you alright? You’ve been rather quiet.”
Anthony shrugged. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
Aziraphale didn’t seem convinced, but smiled at him. “Would you like to come to my rooms for some wine after dinner?”
No. I’m not supposed to be anywhere near the scene of the crime. “Sure.” He could try to get Aziraphale to eat the chocolates, feign shock and fear when his tongue started swelling or he started gagging, be slower than he should be in rushing him to the Hospital Wing.
~*~
Anthony sipped from his glass of wine as he stood before the largest painting in Aziraphale’s living room; it showed a Veela-like creature - well, the man was blond, pretty and had wings - in puffy blue armour and rather feminine sandals wielding a sword and stepping on the head of a darker man with bat wings. Despite the unnatural stillness he would never get used to, there was something oddly appealing about the colour and composition, the way the artist had captured motion in stillness, the story it hinted at.
“The Archangel Michael, by Guido Reni. My family’s namesake.” Aziraphale had come up behind him. He must have been standing quite close; Anthony could feel his body heat, and he was reminded of their broomstick ride. He was tempted to lean back into that warmth, but mentally shook himself. “I must say, I find Muggle religions fascinating; there’s such faith and hope in them. That’s Michael defeating Lucifer, the Devil, and casting him down into Hell. He’s the patron saint of warriors, and I’ve always loved this painting for its theme of light defeating darkness.”
“It’s quite stark, though.” Anthony took another mouthful of wine. “Light and dark. Good and evil. No grey areas.”
Aziraphale made a thoughtful little noise. “I must agree. I’ve always believed in the grey areas, but they simply aren’t portrayed enough, I think. Would you like a chocolate, my dear? I’d feel guilty finishing them all.”
Anthony turned; Aziraphale was holding out his box of chocolates with a soft smile. He glanced up at Aziraphale’s face, and back at the chocolates.
After a moment, he took one. “Thanks.” He bit into it, tasting coconut.
That was some good spellwork wasted, he thought. Still, he felt strangely relieved.
~*~
It was late January and still fairly cold, and so Anthony was wearing his grey woollen scarf as he trudged into Hogsmeade behind the students. Despite the noise, the Three Broomsticks was really the most comfortable place to be during this sort of weather. He hunched deeper into his cloak, feeling relieved as he finally entered the cosy little pub and looked around for an empty table; there wasn’t one, but Aziraphale enthusiastically waved him over to his own table, where he sat with Filius, Minerva and Pomona.
“You look cold, dear boy. Rosmerta, my dear, I think we could do with another Butterbeer over here.”
The curvy young barmaid bustled over with the drink as Anthony squeezed into the booth next to Aziraphale, all too aware of the way Aziraphale’s side was pressed against his. “Hi.” He removed his sunglasses and wrapped his hands around his glass, taking a long drink, savouring its warmth.
“We were just talking about the way the Knights’ actions are escalating,” Minerva murmured. “They used to be more subtle, but that poor young Muggleborn witch and her parents, she’d only just got her letter… And the attacks are coming closer. Albus and I aren’t sure about letting Hogsmeade weekends continue, not when they’ve proven they can attack children.”
“And they’re only growing in numbers. Some of them are barely out of Hogwarts and practising Unforgivables, apparently,” Filius added with a shudder.
“It makes me wonder about their recruitment,” Aziraphale said.
Despite the warming drink and Aziraphale’s heat at his side, Anthony felt cold. “You’re hardly going to see a ‘Join HERE if you want to torture Muggleborns and half-bloods!’ sign in the streets, you know,” he muttered. “They probably attend the private parties the pureblood families host, whisper in ears, spread ideas, that sort of thing. It’d be fertile ground anyway.”
Pomona stared at him. “You’re pureblood.”
“Well-spotted,” he said acidly, wishing he had just gone to the Hog’s Head instead.
“I mean,” she ploughed on, “you’ve actually seen that sort of thing, haven’t you? I heard the Crowleys approved of -” She paused at the long, cool stare Anthony was giving her.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I have, strangely enough, seen people talking to other people at parties. Forgive me for not running to the Aurors. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some supplies to restock.”
“And I need to drop by Obscurus Books, it’s on the way to the apothecary,” Aziraphale added. “Would you mind if I accompanied you?”
Anthony shrugged, finishing off his Butterbeer and leaving the payment on the table as he nodded to Minerva and Filius and headed out. Aziraphale caught up with him outside.
“I do apologise for Pomona, she’s just nervous about what’s going on, I think.”
Anthony grunted as they passed Madam Puddifoot’s.
“Oh, Miss Evans has finally agreed to go out with Mr Potter, I see, and it’s such a lovely little tea shop too.”
This made Anthony shoot him an incredulous look, forgetting colleagues and their remarks. “That place? It’s like someone used a six-year-old girl’s diary as a decorating manual and then vomited an extra dose of pink on everything.”
“Oh hush, Anthony. I’m not fond of the colour scheme, but it does look wonderfully cosy.” He laughed at the other’s expression of horror. “I’m only joking, my dear, I was wondering how you would react.”
“You,” Anthony said slowly, beginning to smile, “are a bit of a bastard sometimes.”
“And you’re quite pleasant, really, for a grumpy and reclusive Potions Master.”
“Don’t go ruining my reputation.”
Anthony had never seen Obscurus Books open, but now the proprietor, who resembled an older version of Aziraphale himself, was actually standing in the doorway and waving at Aziraphale. He eyed the shop; its sign was so old and faded that it lived up to its name, and the shop windows were so dusty on the inside that they were more mirror than window. He squinted at his reflection, and at the alley behind them; it seemed like there was someone there, or perhaps that was just the dust. He turned.
There was someone lurking in the alley, just coming out. Anthony recognised the squat gait, even though the man had his hood up and wore some sort of metallic mask under it. “Ligur?”
“Anthony!” Ligur approached him, seemingly unaware of the way Anthony was trying to back away and casting nervous looks over his shoulder. “Wondered if you’d be here! Got a spare mask if you want it.”
“Anthony?” Aziraphale was approaching, sounding confused. Ligur blinked at him.
“Say, isn’t that the blood traitor you’re trying to off?”
There was a scream from down the street, followed by several more and a cry of “Knights! Run!” Anthony swiftly cast a silent Confundus on Ligur even as he heard Hastur’s voice casting a spell and Minerva’s ringing, “Protego!” Students and the Hogsmeade villagers were running around in panic, some students running to them as the only professors nearby, and there were several more cloaked figures closing in on them. Ligur had turned, shooting a curse at one of the villagers.
“Anthony!” Aziraphale was standing by his side, wand drawn. “The students!”
Anthony raised a shield in front of the students before casting a silent Stunner at one of the black-cloaked figures, wondering as he did so which distant relative he had just knocked out. Some of the students huddled behind him and Aziraphale; others began firing off spells of their own.
“Get back there, Potter!” he snapped at the Head Boy, recognising the wand movement for the Entrail-Expelling Curse that one of the Knights was performing and promptly using a Cutting Curse on his hand. That curse was torture, bringing a slow painful death without swift medical care; he wasn’t going to see it used on children, whatever their parentage. “Get them into the bookshop. This isn’t a chance to show off.”
Potter looked furious, but his redheaded girlfriend was dragging him towards the shop by the hand, saying something about the other students, and he let himself be dragged. Anthony allowed himself a brief moment of private amusement at Potter’s sudden obedience before ducking as a spell flew over his head; Aziraphale aimed something that sounded like a Conjunctivitis Curse at the Knight, who dropped his wand to grab at his now inflamed eyes, and Anthony promptly knocked him out and Summoned his wand. They grinned at one another, before Aziraphale suddenly froze under a Body-Bind and Anthony’s blood ran cold; Ligur seemed to have recovered and now stood behind Aziraphale, wand pointed at him, lips pronouncing the word Avada -
TBC
Part 2