Happy Holidays, sirius_luva!
Title: Hogwarts According to Adam
Author: sidesinger
Recipient: sirius_luva
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley, subtle hints of Pollution/Famine
Summary: There’s no bureaucracy upstairs or downstairs to worry about when you’re a wizard.
Author’s Notes: Endless thanks to my beta readers for their help and support! And, to the whole community, happy holidays!
"Excuse me. Are any of these seats taken?"
Crowley swiveled his head away from the window and peered over his sunglasses.
The boy standing in the doorway was wearing tartan. Maybe it was the fact that he was hugging a book to his chest, but the bloke looked mostly harmless. Some heavier blokes carried themselves around with an air of confidence, like they could sit on your chest and twist your elbow until you gave up your favourite chocolate frog card. Others tried to look as small and inconspicuous as possible. This chubby-cheeked, cardigan-sporting bloke was attempting the latter.
Crowley shrugged. "I don't see anyone sitting in them, do you?”
Flashing a nervous smile, the other boy sat down across from Crowley. "Are you a first year?"
Crowley went back to people-watching out the window. "Yeah.”
"Me too."
"I figured," said Crowley.
“Have you thought about where you want to be Sorted?”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Well, I have,” the bloke pressed on, ignoring all the obvious signals to stop talking that Crowley was dropping. “My first choice is Ravenclaw, but I won’t be disappointed if I’m a Hufflepuff.”
Crowley made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. The distinct feeling that he was in for a long, uneventful ride was growing on him.
“I don’t think I want to be a Slytherin.”
That grabbed Crowley’s attention. He looked over.
“Why not?”
“I’m a muggle-born.” He frowned. “I’ve heard they’re not exactly warm and welcoming to wizards like me.”
“Really? Where did you hear that?” Crowley asked sarcastically, but sarcasm seemed to be beyond the bloke’s comprehension because he held up his book, oozing with enthusiasm.
“In Hogwarts, A History, of course!” he said brightly. “I brought it along for some light reading.”
“Light reading?”
“I’ve already read it, so I’m just rereading parts,” the bloke admitted with a sheepish smile.
Crowley liked books, but Hogwarts: A History was the kind of book that any sensible person would stick under a table’s leg to stop it from wobbling. It was the kind of book that his parents read to fall asleep. It was the kind of book that pretentious people thought was too pretentious to keep on their pretentious coffee tables. He stared blankly at the other eleven year-old sitting across from him.
"Why are you wearing tartan?" he asked, because he had a feeling it might come across better than what is wrong with you?
The boy’s bright smile receded. He looked down at himself and defensively wrapped his arms around his book before mumbling, "Tartan is stylish."
"Maybe back in the fifties," Crowley muttered.
“Why do wizards wear robes?” asked the boy, thinking it better to point out another flaw in fashion rather than to defend his own tastes in attire. “They look like dresses. Gothic dresses for men.”
“Beats me,” Crowley admitted, but he had to admit that the bloke had a fair point. He couldn’t criticize tartan when it was okay to flounce around in an over-sized gown. And that was leaving out the whole other problem of dress robes.
He considered the question for a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Probably because it keeps them nice and shapeless when they become old and fat.”
Both eleven year-olds shared a laugh, and then dropped the discussion of tartan in favor of the merits of wizard robes.
And that was how Anthony Crowley first met Azra Fell on the Hogwarts Express before six other first year students crammed themselves into the same train compartment, packing it tighter than a can of sardines. It was a long, but not uneventful, ride.
After the Sorting Ceremony, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore announced with a magnanimous smile that Hogwarts was offering instruction in a whole new subject. Dressed all in black, the Professor of Post-Mortem Communications stood up and took a small wordless bow. No one could see his face beneath the hood, but everyone clapped politely for the newest faculty member.
Azra wanted to raise his hand and ask if Post-Mortem Communications was a nice way of saying Necromancy. He decided against it after he screened the question past an older Ravenclaw student. Gabriel Ludgate seemed nice and sensible. The sixth year smiled sympathetically and gave his hand a pat before, rather than after, he recommended that Azra keep the daft questions to himself if he wanted to be taken seriously in Ravenclaw.
Across the room, Crowley saw Azra’s shoulders droop and wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to be sitting next to the bibliophile. Maybe they could have been friends. It was an unsettling thought for a Slytherin. After mulling over it, he decided to chalk it up to being sandwiched between a glowering boy who smelled like sour grapes and a blond ponce who was pointing out all the Mudbloods they would be wise to avoid.
Tartan could appear to be the lesser evil in extreme circumstances.
When Professor Slughorn told everyone to partner up and find a cauldron, Azra looked around in a panic. In a matter of seconds, everyone had found someone else. He thought he was going to be the only one without a partner when his eyes landed on another Ravenclaw in his year. Azra inwardly groaned. Of course the only other person in the classroom without a partner was the bloke who didn’t seem to understand the basic principles of hygiene.
With a brittle smile, he walked up to Weiss White. The other Ravenclaws called him Chalky for some reason, but Azra had yet to find out why.
“Looks like we’re going to be partners,” said Azra, trying to be polite. Up close, he could detect a hint of sulfur clinging to his classmate. He tried not to stare at what appeared to be a beetle stuck in a tangled clump of long, straggly blond hair. Would it be rude of him to pick it out? It was entirely possible that he wanted it to be there.
“No need to look so disappointed, Mr. Fell!” Professor Slughorn boomed, clapping a hand on his shoulder and making him forget all about the beetle. “Mr. White comes from a family of talented brewers. They own Apothecaries all over the globe, don’t they?”
Chalky vacantly nodded.
“Ah,” Azra said intelligently.
“Now, why don’t you two lads hurry along and take the cauldron behind Mr. Crowley and Mr. Snape,” Slughorn said, steering them over in the right direction before lumbering around to address the whole class. “Everyone, open your textbooks to chapter four. We’re going to begin by brewing a simpler version of the Pepper-Up Potion.”
Crowley was smiling like a snake as they walked past him and his partner.
“Tough luck getting partnered up with Chalky in potions.”
Azra had been about to agree until he glanced up from his book and saw his own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.
“He’s not so bad,” Azra said, feeling it his duty to be loyal to his classmate when confronted by a Slytherin. House unity and such.
“How do you stand his funky smell?”
“Potion fumes cover it up.”
Crowley seemed to consider this for a moment before asking, “Why are you out here, and not in the library with all the other stodgy Ravenclaws?”
“I like the fresh air.”
“Really?”
“I could ask you the same, you know,” Azra pointed out as Crowley plopped down on the bench next to him.
“I like the sunshine.”
“You are rather tan for a Brit.”
“Mediterranean blood, or something,” Crowley replied with a shrug and something between a grin and a smirk. “Say, can I try something on you?”
“Try what on me?” Azra frowned, because like most normal people, he didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s lab rat.
“Cheering Charm. Learned it today in Charms class.”
“Are you good at them? You’re not going to jinx me on accident, are you?” Azra sunk his teeth into his lower lip. It was a legitimate concern, he reasoned. He hardly knew Crowley, aside from the fact that he was a Slytherin who didn’t like tartan.
“I’m aces at them, thankyouverymuch. Flitwick awarded me 5 points for my cheering expertise. Just hold still, yeah?”
For some reason, Azra felt that he could trust Crowley. With his eyes as wide as saucers, he nodded, trying not to flinch when Crowley pointed his wand at his temple.
Crowley murmured the incantation, and suddenly it was like having a first edition Oscar Wilde in his hands. A warm, floaty feeling washed over every part of his body. Azra couldn’t help but beam.
“My goodness,” he breathed, feeling incredible. “It feels like Christmas. Thank you. Thank you so much, Crowley.”
“Right?” Crowley smirked. “I told you so.”
Azra had been about to admit that all the other Ravenclaws (aside from Chalky) were prats when a group of Slytherins walked into the courtyard. Lucius Malfoy strolled at the head, flanked by two large brutes named Hastur Crabbe and Ligur Goyle. There was a palpable change in the relaxed air between them the moment Crowley noticed Malfoy and his posse.
“Listen... I’ll talk to you later. Gotta go,” Crowley muttered before pushing himself up and joining his group of classmates.
“Crowley,” Lucius said with surprise. “I told you to meet us at the Pitch.”
“And I thought I told you I don’t take orders, Malfoy,” Crowley replied airily.
The whole group fell silent. All eyes darted back and forth between the two Slytherins. No one ever talked back to Lucius Malfoy. If they did, they didn’t mention it in public. It was one of those unspoken rules everyone followed. Even Lucius looked stunned for a moment before he recovered himself.
“I wasn’t ordering you, Crowley. If I had, you would have obeyed,” Lucius replied coolly, but the desired effect was lost when all Crowley did was hitch his shoulders dismissively in response.
There was only a slightly imperceptible change behind those sunglasses when Lucius asked, “What were you doing with that Mudblood?”
“Nothing important. Mudbloods aren’t all that interesting, truth be told.”
That seemed to satisfy Lucius. He smiled mirthlessly.
“I swear, between you and Snape, people are going to start thinking we’re nice to Mudbloods.”
Without warning, the cheerfulness faded away from Azra as he watched Crowley join the older Slytherins.
He kept his head down, eyes glued to the book, but he could feel their gazes on him. He didn’t know what ‘Mudblood’ meant, but it must have been a joke because everyone else laughed before they left him alone in the courtyard.
But Azra wasn’t completely alone.
He didn’t notice, but there was a young man sitting across the courtyard on a bench. He wore jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No one noticed his lack of school robes. Had someone noticed him, they might have paused and thought he looked a bit out of place. No one noticed him.
The man leaned back on the heels of his palms. He was content to watch with a small, knowing smile on his face.
While he had a list of his own suppositions, Azra decided to approach Chalky for an answer. He found his classmate sitting in the Great Hall with a redheaded Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff who had sunken cheeks. He recognized them from his other classes, but he didn’t know their names. At first, he hesitated, but Chalky saw him and waved him over with a grubby hand.
“Something troubling you, mate?” asked Chalky, absently stirring a finger through his goblet of pumpkin juice.
“Yes,” Azra said shortly, aware that he looked a little more than agitated. “What’s a Mudblood?”
“Bloody hell!” The redhead laughed. “This one has a mouth on him, doesn’t he?”
“Whoa.” Even Chalky managed to look distantly surprised.
“Is it a bad word?” Azra instantly deflated, looking between their faces guiltily. “I don’t know what it means. Someone called me that.”
“It’s a derogatory term for muggle-borns,” the gaunt Hufflepuff answered succinctly. “Commonly used by pure-blood supremacists.”
“Did some slimy Slytherin git call you that? I can break their kneecaps, if you want,” the Gryffindor offered with an easy smile. “My name’s Carmine, by the way.”
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” Azra answered meekly as his hand was crushed in the girl’s handshake. “My name’s Azra.”
“And this bag of bones is Raven,” Carmine added, giving the boy beside her a nudge in the ribs. “Bloody sharp, this one.”
“It’s nice to meet you both, but I should be going now,” Azra said, a little desperate to get away before she decided to elbow a softer target. “I’ve got Transfiguration next.”
“Which means I do too, huh?” Chalky didn’t stand up so much as glide to his feet. The haze of serenity he lived in seemed to extend to every part of him, down to his very body movements.
It reminded Azra of the time he had broken a thermometer and poked a twig in the small pool of mercury and glass shards. Chalky was so fluid, Azra almost didn’t notice him wipe his gravy-coated hands off on his robes as they left the Great Hall.
The next time Crowley found Azra, he was sitting in the library, buried in a book, as usual. Crowley felt ridiculous, standing behind a row of books and watching the Ravenclaw through the cracks. To be fair, it had happened by accident. He hadn’t gone out of his way to stalk the other boy.
Before he could walk away, Azra lifted his head and stared directly at him. Crowley saw his expression kaleidoscope from startled to confused, before settling on a frowny shade of upset.
“What?” Azra whispered loudly.
“Nothing,” Crowley hissed back.
“Fine.”
Crowley walked out from behind the bookshelf and sat down across from Azra. The Ravenclaw was trying to ignore his existence by holding the large, dusty tome a few centimeters away from his face.
“Hey,” Crowley started, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry, all right?”
“For what?”
“You know,” Crowley said, a hint of irritation edging into his voice. Why was Azra being such a prat about this when he was trying to be nice and apologize? Apologies didn’t grow on trees like apples. “For what happened in the courtyard.”
“I see.” Azra resolutely remained behind his book. “Is that all?”
“No, that’s not all. Would you just look at me? It’s difficult enough getting everyone to bugger off about my sunglasses, but if they caught me being friends with a muggle-born, they’d-”
Azra clapped the book shut loud enough to startle someone awake from their snoring.
“I’m going to stop you right there, Crowley. We’re not friends and I don’t think we’re ever going to be friends, so you can stop worrying about it.”
“But I-”
“Kindly shove off,” Azra cut him off before gathering up a stack of books in his arms and leaving.
Those were the last words they exchanged for the remainder of their first year at Hogwarts. It was a conversation that would haunt Crowley even more than the large, orange Librarian that swung down from the rafters and said, “Ook?” to him after it.
Nothing worth noting happened in their second year.
Unless you count the instance in which Carmine put James Potter in a headlock and dislocated his shoulder for calling her Lily Evans by mistake. In a rare show of benevolence, Filch rewarded the Gryffindor in detention by letting her pet Mrs. Norris without the thumbscrews.
But, other than that, nothing really interesting happened.
Their third year was a different story.
To compensate for the fact that many thirteen year-olds were embarking on the frightening, emotional, and sometimes nauseating roller coaster ride that was puberty, they were permitted to visit Hogsmeade with a parent or guardian’s permission.
For Azra, the real highlight was being able to select his elective classes. He would have taken them all had it been possible to fit every class into his schedule, but without a time-turner, there was simply no way to be in two classrooms at the same time. Chalky consoled him by calmly pointing out that it would be nothing short of suicidal to take that many O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
After a night of agonizing over what to take, Azra ended up selecting Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, and Ancient Runes. Muggle Studies was simply unnecessary for him and poking through tea leaves in Divination sounded like a joke.
Azra only had one weakness, and that was Herbology.
For some reason, plants didn’t agree with Azra, and he didn’t agree with the plants. He killed them, and in some instances he swore they tried to seek revenge for their fallen brethren. It didn’t help that Hogwarts had a visiting professor that year. While Madame Sprout larked off for research in Paraguay, Professor Anathema Device was filling in as her substitute. It wasn’t that Professor Device was incompetent or lacking knowledge in the field. She was an expert who had an uncanny ability to predict unruly plant behaviour, but it usually happened right after the tendrils were wrapped around your windpipe in a vice-grip.
Which was precisely how Azra ended up inside the Hospital Wing.
“How can I help you, Mr. Crowley?”
Crowley was at a loss for words when Madame Pomfrey caught him sneaking into the Infirmary. It was past curfew. If he didn’t come up with something, she would send him back to the dungeons with a point deduction or detention. Or both.
“My stomach hurts,” he lied, although it was partially true. His insides were squirming with nerves.
“Indigestion?”
“Er, yeah, that. I must’ve ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“Well, have a seat, dear. I’ll see if I don’t have a potion that will clear your tummy aches away. I’ll be just a moment,” she said, ushering him toward a bed before she bustled off to another room.
Crowley waited for a few moments. He didn’t know when the mediwitch would be back, but he was willing to take his chances. There was only one bed with the curtains drawn around it. He made a beeline for it. Azra looked more confused than awake when he pulled back the bed curtain.
“Crowley?” Azra’s voice was slurry with sleep, but he was conscious enough to sound distantly surprised.
“Sorry, I didn’t bring you flowers.”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t have much time, so I’m going to get straight to the point. You’re clearly hopeless in Herbology, and I’m lost in Muggle Studies. You help me, I help you. Deal?”
“You’re taking Muggle Studies?”
“I’ll explain that later. Time is, you know, of the essence right now,” Crowley whispered back, practically hissing.
“I’ll think about it,” Azra reluctantly allowed.
“How long will you need to think about it?”
The Ravenclaw shot back, “Aren’t you afraid to be seen associating with a Mudblood?” The question practically dripped with bitterness.
Crowley fell silent, and not because he needed to strain his ears for signs of Madame Pomfrey returning.
“If you want my help, meet me in the greenhouses during lunch tomorrow, all right? If you don’t, fine. I’ll find someone else and you can keep-” Crowley abruptly cut himself off. There were footsteps. Without a word more, he disappeared from Azra’s sight, but he wasn’t quick enough to make it back to the other bed on time.
“Mr. Crowley!” exclaimed Madame Pomfrey, keeping her voice just low enough not rouse any portraits awake. “I thought I made myself very clear when I told you to have a seat on the bed.”
“Sorry,” Crowley whispered back. His face must have had the right amount of apologetic in it, because the mediwitch’s stern face softened as he explained, “Pacing made my stomach feel a bit better.”
“Drink this, dearie, and be quick about it. I don’t want you making a mess on me.”
Grimacing, Crowley uncorked the phial and downed the contents. He almost retched from the taste alone, but managed to keep it down by gulping down a glass of water shortly after. Nothing but a toothbrush could help the aftertaste.
“There, there, my dear boy,” Madame Pomfrey soothed, guiding him back to the bed. “Lay down and let it settle. Once you feel better, you may return to your dormitory with this hall pass.”
“Okay,” Crowley croaked back. He knew that as soon as Madame Pomfrey cleared off, he would be emptying the contents of his stomach into the nearest rubbish bin and leaving the Infirmary before she could funnel any other foul potions down his throat.
Whereas Azra never felt at ease inside the greenhouses, Crowley seemed right at home. He found the Slytherin with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his hands buried in a bed of soil. Crowley was too engrossed sifting his fingers through the earth to notice he was there. It was hard to see it, but even with the sunglasses, Azra could tell there was a look of deep concentration on his face. Azra didn’t know what he was doing, but the motions of those hands were rather mesmerizing. Loathe though he was to get dirt under his fingernails, Crowley made it look enjoyable. Almost.
Azra watched from the doorway until the other boy seemed to sense his presence and peered up.
“There you are. For a moment, I thought you stood me up.”
“I thought about it,” Azra admitted before he stepped closer. “Couldn’t you do that with your wand?”
“Yeah, but then I might overdo it. It’s better to sift the soil with your fingers, that way you can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
A soft sigh escaped Crowley. He reached up, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. “We’ve got a lot to cover, don’t we? Why don’t you start by sticking your hands in that,” he said, pointing to the burlap sack that was right by Azra’s feet.
“What’s in here?” Azra hesitated before reaching in. It smelled wretched, but almost everything in the greenhouse smelled like owl droppings to him.
“Oh, just something every plant needs it if it expects to survive,” answered Crowley vaguely.
“Crowley.”
“What?”
“How am I supposed to learn if you don’t specify? I’m not going to get anywhere with guesswork.”
His hand had closed around something damp and solid when Crowley replied, “It’s dragon dung. Give me a handful, will you?”
“Good heavens!” Azra recoiled, eliciting a laugh from the Slytherin.
“What?” Crowley pulled on a face of pure innocence in response to Azra’s face of pure vexation. “It’s nothing you can’t wash off later.”
“I’ll never feel clean again,” Azra complained, frowning in dismay.
“I still need it, you know,” said Crowley, gesturing to the plant that was cupped in his palms. The green tendrils seemed to be shivering. “I wasn’t just having you on.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to wear gloves before I stick my hand in dragon dung again.”
“I’d leave them off if I were you.”
“But I-”
“When you don’t get an Outstanding mark in Herbology, don’t come whinging to me about it.”
Azra froze. “Is there really no other way?”
“Do you think I enjoy mucking around with dung?”
“I suppose not,” Azra wearily admitted.
With much grimacing and grumbling, the gloves were left off.
As he collected pus from a Bubotuber, the Ravenclaw comforted himself with the knowledge that he would eventually be teaching Crowley why bicycles needed brakes. It was a necessary lesson. Revenge had nothing to do with it.
“Are either of you staying here for the hols?” asked Carmine, wedging herself in between Azra and Chalky without ceremony.
“No, I’m going to Jaslovské Bohunice,” Chalky answered. His smile was serene.
“Where the bugger is that?” Carmine asked, and even Azra had to admit he wasn’t at all familiar.
“Czechoslovakia.”
“You’re going behind Soviet lines?” asked Azra, shocked.
“Only the Muggles are on the brink of killing each other over ideologies, but even now they’re starting to believe in ideological coexistence or some rubbish,” said Carmine, sounding disappointed.
“I didn’t know you followed politics.”
“Well, mister Fell,” she said, casting an arm over his shoulders in a way that was more rough than chummy. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“It’s beautiful village,” Chalky continued. “Lovely people. Quite isolated.”
“Is there a nuclear power plant around Bohunice?” Raven asked, joining the group. It was as if he had been there all along. Considering that he had appeared from behind Azra, it was quite possible that he had.
Laughter danced behind Chalky’s light gray eyes. “Maybe.”
“Well, what about either one of you?” Carmine asked, turning to Raven and Azra. “Are you staying for the hols?”
Raven merely shook his head, but Azra nodded.
“Yes, I’ll be here. Why? Will you?” he asked. A feeling of panic bubbled up inside his chest. Snowball fights and wrestling were not his idea of fun, and he was sure that any holiday with Carmine would be rolling in both.
“No-” Azra had a moment to sag in relief before she added, “but I wanna see if the rumours are true.”
“What rumours?”
“Rumour has it Crowley was disowned,” said Carmine, smiling a razor sharp smile. “I figure whoever stays here will see if it’s true.”
“Well, you shouldn’t trust rumours,” Azra said, frowning. He frowned partially out of concern, and partially because he was a little troubled to find himself concerned for Crowley. “Wouldn’t Malfoy and his posse stop associating with him if that were true?”
“Dunno.” Carmine shrugged. “But why else would he be staying here for the hols?”
Azra didn’t know either, but he stated in a firm tone, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it, but why should we care? It’s none of our business.”
The conversation moved on after that, but Azra couldn’t stop thinking about it later on. He went to sleep wondering if Crowley was disowned for taking Muggle Studies. And, if he was, why?
The next day, almost everyone left on the Hogwarts Express. Everyone save for a few other students and faculty members who, for their own assorted reasons, either had nowhere else to go or nowhere better to be for the winter holidays.
With the castle practically empty, Azra decided it was the perfect time to start helping Crowley with Muggle Studies. No one was out on the snow-covered Quidditch pitch field. There was only himself, Crowley, and a rusty red bicycle.
“So, I just sit on it and pedal?” Crowley asked. He eyed the Muggle object with skepticism.
“Yes. It’s simple. Why else would people say, ‘it’s just like riding a bicycle’?”
“I don’t know anyone who says that.”
“It’s a popular Muggle phrase.”
“Ah.”
Crowley fell over three times before Azra’s guilty conscience could no longer take it.
“How about we give it a rest?” he suggested, folding his arms for what little warmth the stance provided. “It’s just about lunch time. We should head back.”
“Oi! Stop thinking with your stomach. I think I’m starting to get the hang of it,” Crowley said before giving it another go. He made it about four feet before going “arse over tit” as Carmine might say. Amazingly, his sunglasses didn’t fall off in the tumble.
Sighing, Azra walked over and offered a mitten-covered hand, helping him up. “Really, Anthony. I think you’ve learned enough for today.”
“Crowley. Just call me Crowley, yeah? I like it better when you call me that.”
“Why? Are we not-”
Azra caught himself before uttering the word, but Crowley finished the question for him. “Friends?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Azra said in a hurry. “Of course we’re not friends. I’m a Mudblood, after all.” He knew it was silly, letting a little word that Crowley had called him two years ago bother him so much, but he couldn’t help it. It still made him upset, to think about that day in the courtyard.
“You can stay here, but I think I’d best leave off,” Azra added, turning around and starting back the way he had come. He didn’t get very far before a hand caught his wrist. It was Crowley.
“Will you stop being so bloody difficult?” Crowley frowned. His face was a conflicted mixture of exasperation and guilt. “You’re not a you-know-what, and I’m sorry that I ever said you were, all right? I didn’t know you were still rattled about that.”
Azra bit his lip. A question had been bothering him for a long time. “Why did you call me that name in the first place?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I have to keep up certain appearances if I don’t want my life to be miserable.”
“For Malfoy?”
“Malfoy, my parents, and just about every bloody Slytherin there is.”
“Then why are you taking Muggle Studies? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of pretending to be a git?”
“Well...” Crowley carded a hand through his hair. “I kind of lied about that. I’m not actually taking Muggle Studies. I want to take it, but obviously I can’t.”
“Then why did you...” Azra began, but he was already beginning to understand. “Why even bother? It’s just extra work.”
“Unlike my peers, I think it’ll be worth the effort,” Crowley replied. “So, I talked with Professor Pulsifer. He suggested this. He said I should read books on my own time and find another student to tutor me. Someone I could trust.”
“Why me?”
Crowley shrugged. “It’s convenient for both of us, isn’t it? You’re a muggle-born doing poorly in Herbology. I’m an ignorant pure-blood who puts the fear of Crowley into plants. We’re a match made in heaven - if you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Are you asking if I believe in heaven? Or if I’m religious in general?” Azra asked, which opened the door to a whole new discussion that lasted until they found themselves pushing the bicycle through the Entrance Hall, each of them on one side of the handle bars.
And so the Arrangement began.
Keeping the Arrangement hidden was, more or less, an unspoken part of the agreement.
Neither acknowledged that the other existed during what few classes they shared. In the hallways and the corridors, they traveled in different packs, steering clear of each other’s paths. During meals, they sat at their respective House tables and didn’t so much as glance in the other’s direction. When they needed to speak or meet, they sent barnyard owls to deliver coded messages. They met in empty classrooms. They found privacy underneath the Quidditch stands. They cleared enough space to wedge themselves in a cramped broom closet. They broke curfew more times than Azra cared to admit. Sometimes, even Hogsmeade trips were sacrificed to take advantage of the deserted castle.
The original intent was to help each other study and review. And, for a time, they did. Azra didn’t know when studying evolved into exchanging witticisms and banter and nonsensical talk until they stopped and realized that the minutes had somehow stretched into hours. It just sort of, well, happened.
Years three and four passed like so, without any breach to the Arrangement.
“Is his name Professor Deaf? Or Professor Death?”
It was the most popularly debated question in Hogwarts for years, and to this very day, no one has yet to determine a definite answer. Even the other professors found ways to avoid directly addressing their colleague. They were too embarrassed to admit they couldn’t recall his first or last name. Some were even more embarrassed to admit that all attempts to locate his name slipped away like water off a duck.
Most settled on Deaf rather than Death despite his area of expertise. They reached this conclusion based not on his hearing, but the way the Professor of Post-Mortem Communications managed to enunciate every single word as though the script in his head was written in large capital letters.
It took three years for everyone to comfortably accept the name Professor Deaf.
Sirius Black and James Potter were widely credited for turning this certainty on its head. They never confirmed or denied the credit, but it was, in fact, a Slytherin wearing sunglasses that posted the door placard that read, ‘PROFESSOR D’EATH MORT, POST-MORTEM COMMUNICATIONS.’
If confronted, the aforementioned Slytherin would shrug off any allegations. No one could know that a Slytherin was taking suggestions from a Ravenclaw.
While other fifteen year-old boys were finally starting to take notice of the fairer sex, fifth year meant only one thing to Azra: Ordinary Wizarding Level exams. Little else preoccupied his thoughts. Every waking moment, he kept himself buried in a book.
Chalky called him oblivious to the world around him. In point of fact, Azra didn’t hear him. He didn’t take any notice of his friend until Chalky put something wet and slimy in his ear. Azra thought it was a fish, but it turned out to be a finger. Chalky hadn’t licked it or dipped it in anything. It was naturally that way.
“You’re going to miss it,” Chalky said before Azra could demand to know why he had just stuck a finger in his ear.
“Miss what?” Azra asked, puzzled. He looked around the grounds. There were a few students walking toward the greenhouses. Something splashed in the lake. A breeze ran through the tall grass. He took all this in, but couldn’t find anything he would deem worthy of his attention. “I don’t see anything going on.”
“Living. Life.”
And if that wasn’t ominous, Azra didn’t know what was. But that was Chalky for you. Vague and ominous. He shook his head.
“I can live after I’ve passed all my O.W.L.s with flying colors, and I’ll live much happier for it,” he stated before he continued reading. Living was grand, but it wasn’t going to teach him every property known to Monkshood.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to go snog Raven.”
“Have a good time,” Azra automatically replied without listening.
While other fifteen year-old boys were finally starting to take notice of the fairer sex, Crowley was starting to notice Azra.
It was a strange attraction, as most attractions to pudgy, tartan-sporting teenagers happened to be. And it all started happening after a question occurred to him one day while they were sitting in the broom closet.
“How come you’ve never asked?” Crowley asked.
“Asked what?” Azra replied without looking up from his book.
“About the sunglasses. Ravenclaws are supposed to be curious, aren’t they?”
Azra surprised Crowley by pausing. He slid a piece of parchment between the pages and closed the book.
“Well, it wasn’t that I was never curious. I was very curious, but I thought it would be rude to ask. I figured you were probably bothered about them enough as it was and you’d tell me when you were ready to tell me,” Azra explained, shrugging.
“So, you were, and then you weren’t curious?”
“It’s not that I became apathetic. I simply accepted them as some inexplicable part of you.”
“Oh.” Crowley had been too stunned to think of something intelligent to say.
“Sorry, should I have asked?” And it was that stupid sheepish smile of Azra’s that made Crowley awkwardly and abruptly rise to his feet.
“No, I just remembered. I forgot I told Severus I would help him collect the fangs off a Fanged Geranium,” he said, lying effortlessly. He pushed up the sunglasses even though they were in no remote danger of slipping down his nose. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Oh. Alright.” The sheepish smile gave way to a look of confusion tangling with skepticism; a typical look for a Ravenclaw in the company of a Slytherin. “Yes, of course. Be careful.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Crowley replied, regaining his usual self-assured air. “It’ll probably defang itself once it sees me.”
“They can defang themselves? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Azra said in awe, reminding Crowley that it was par for the course for the naive, tartan-loving bloke to take things much too literally.
“If it happens, you’ll be the first to know. But, just to be safe, don’t write that down on any exams,” Crowley tacked on before he stopped stalling and made his escape.
Azra had gone straight back to his book, and Crowley had left their hideaway knowing he might as well be damned. Father would never accept that his only heir was queer.
It was a troubling moment when he caught himself wondering what Azra’s mouth would taste like.
It was even more troubling that he came up with two possible answers: his mouth would taste like chamomile tea (Azra drank too much of it), or mint (from the Ice Mice that Azra devoured on a daily basis). Which would sometimes lead Crowley to contemplate what the two would taste like combined into one flavor.
Often, these contemplations would inconveniently happen while he was sitting directly across from Azra.
The evening before O.W.L.s began, Chalky had a plan.
To be fair, it was Raven’s idea, combined with Carmine’s goading, that spurred him to put it all into motion.
Azra, he could tell, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was one of many fifteen year-olds gnawing their fingernails down to stumps, but Chalky didn’t care about those other high-strung blokes. He found his friend in the library and approached. Some odor must have alerted Azra to his presence, because he peered up with his nose scrunched.
“Yes?” Azra asked, making no attempt to conceal his impatience.
“I have something to show you.”
“Please make it quick, if you don’t mind. I have a lot to review and only...” A panic-stricken look filled his eyes when he glanced down at his wristwatch. “Only nine hours and counting. Sweet Rowena.”
“Come,” said Chalky, closing the textbook in front of Azra despite the murderous glare such a treacherous act secured for him. “They’re waiting for us.”
“Weiss, I really don’t have time for any distractions,” Azra protested.
To shut him up, all Chalky needed to say was, “You make time for Mr. Shades, why not this?”
That silenced Azra all the way out of the library. When they started traveling across castle, Azra tried to ask where they were going. Chalky refused to do anything more than smile back at him. Just when he thought that his friend was going to turn around and say, ‘Well that was a nice walk, wasn’t it?’ Chalky opened the doors to a room.
Azra blinked.
“Is this where the Divination club meets?” he asked, because it was like no other room inside of Hogwarts that he had ever seen.
It was like walking into a huge blanket fort. Canopies of connected sheets hung above their heads, forcing them to bend their knees. The floor was covered in a colourful spread of Persian rugs and pillows. Chalky removed his trainers and continued to pad forward barefoot. Azra had no time to do the same. Otherwise, he might have lost sight of his friend as the fairer boy turned the corner of the quilted passageway.
“Now just hold on a moment,” Azra called out, stumbling over a cushion after Chalky.
Chalky slowed his pace, but didn’t stop or answer questions. Azra wasn’t sure how Chalky could navigate his way through the tunnels of patchwork covers. The other boy turned this way and that until they found Carmine and Raven sitting in the middle of a circular den. The air tasted sweet and hazy, and Azra noticed why. The slender Hufflepuff passed a hookah pipe over to Chalky.
“S’about time,” Carmine complained, throwing a pillow like it was a javelin. Chalky dodged out of the way of it effortlessly.
“Did you bring us anything other than him?” asked Raven.
“I brought the good stuff.” Chalky tossed a small haversack. Carmine wasted no time untying the twine holding it together. She cut it open with her flick knife and smiled like a feline when she found out what the ‘good stuff’ meant.
“I could kiss you on the fucking mouth.”
“She might bruise you, doing that.”
“Just shut up and roll us a joint, yeah?”
Azra frowned. He didn’t put any stock in Divination, but he was feeling a strong premonition that he was about to do something that broke a lot of rules in a short amount of time.
“What is that?” he whispered to Chalky, watching Raven’s slender fingers roll the dried leaves in a sheet of thin paper. He made what looked to Azra like a long, handmade cigarette, but Azra wasn’t born yesterday; he knew it wasn’t a cigarette.
“That’s the Saturday night special.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m so lost.”
“You’ve never smoked Gillyweed before, Fell?” Raven picked up on their conversation.
“He’s a bloody saint,” Carmine pointed out. “Of course he hasn’t. Let’s give him the first hit, yeah?”
“No, I really think I must politely decline,” Azra protested, trying to wave the offer away. “I’ll simply watch. I’m a good observer.”
“Trust me, angel-face, you’re taking a hit one way or another,” Carmine insisted, flexing her fingers.
“That won’t be necessary,” Raven said, laying a gentle hand over the Gryffindor’s fist. “We’re all friends, aren’t we? And as your friends, we haven’t told anyone certain information we know.”
Azra knew what they knew. They probably knew that he knew that they knew it, too. He had a terrible poker face.
“What information?” he asked, spectacularly failing to play naive.
“That Crowley is chummy with muggle-borns.”
Even though he had anticipated that answer, Azra didn’t know what to say. What could he say? They knew about the Arrangement. They were threatening him with it. He looked at Chalky for some sort of answer.
“This is what friends do?” he asked. “Blackmail each other?”
Hitching his shoulders in a sheepish shrug, Chalky smiled apologetically. “We just want you to have a good time, Azra. I promise it’ll be okay. It’ll help you relax. You need to relax or you’re going to crash and burn tomorrow.”
“Yeah, take it easy, man,” Carmine chimed in as Chalky’s damp hand put the joint into his palm.
“It’s harmless.”
“It’s wrong,” Azra said weakly, but his decision was already made.
He couldn’t betray Crowley, he reasoned. In the best case scenario, Crowley would be ostracized by his House. In the worst, his parents would disown him. Crowley would probably never speak to him again if that happened.
And maybe Chalky was right. Maybe he needed to unwind before the exams. Crowley might even agree. Maybe he needed to loosen up. Be hip to the jive.
Azra stuck out his hand. “Hand it over before I change my mind.”
“Atta boy!” Carmine grinned.
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see,” Chalky promised. “No different from smoking a regular cigarette.”
“Just try to hold the smoke in for as long as possible before exhaling,” Raven supplied.
Azra had never smoked a cigarette, but he knew the basic mechanics. You lit the end of it. And then you sucked.
All eyes locked on him as he murmured Incendio to light the Saturday night special.
It burned all the way down his throat straight to his lungs. Azra dropped the joint as his eyes teared up and he spluttered, coughing.
“Oi!” Carmine recovered the fallen joint before anything caught on fire.
“Drink this,” Chalky murmured, passing a glass into his hands. Azra gulped the liquid down. It didn’t help. It felt like someone had shoved a burning coal down his throat, only worse than that. “It happens to everyone their first time,” he added, as though it might make his scalding esophagus feel better.
“What- what was that?” Azra croaked, holding up the glass.
“Might’ve been vodka,” said Raven, shrugging.
“Think it was Firewhiskey,” Carmine opined. “Want another hit?”
“No.” Azra’s firm tone of voice brook no room for arguments.
“One drag should be enough for our friend, amigos,” Chalky assured them, gesturing for Carmine to go ahead. Without pressuring him to do anything else, they passed around the joint. No one else fell victim to a fit of coughing. They inhaled and exhaled with practiced ease, filling the small den with a smoky haze.
By the time the gillyweed circled back to Azra, he was feeling it. He stared down at the remainder of the joint.
“I feel it,” murmured Azra.
“How does it feel?”
“Mmm.” Azra hummed as the words slowly pieced themselves together. “Feels groovy.”
“Good,” said a voice.
He wasn’t sure whose voice it was. Or whose hand was tangled in his hair, dragging fingernails across his scalp. But it felt good. Everything felt delightful. Light-weight. It reminded him of that cheering charm.
“Why isn’t Crowley here?” he heard himself ask, but the others only laughed.
He saw the three faces melt together into one equine visage before a heaviness swept over and closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, he was alone in a cramped bookshop. There was an unpleasant damp smell in the air. He might have stayed to explore the titles on the bookshelves, but he had to go, didn’t he? He had a letter to send.
“Yes, quite right, dear boy,” he murmured, drifting out through the doors and returning to Hogwarts.
When Azra woke up the next morning, he remembered little from the previous night. What few patches he could distantly recall, he found himself doubting. None of it seemed real. The night came back to him piece by piece throughout the day as he sat through his exams.
One particular memory struck him as he was frantically writing down everything he knew about the Phoenix. His quill paused mid-sentence.
Had he really told the bronze eagle knocker to bugger his own riddle?
It always thought of clever little riddles to keep non-Ravenclaws out of the Tower. It hadn’t done anything to deserve any cheek. Would it accept an apology? Azra frowned to himself and found himself glancing over at the side of Crowley’s head. He wanted to tell his friend all about his wonky night with Gillyweed. Perhaps the Slytherin had a similar experience to share.
Crowley would probably dismiss the idea of apologizing to the eagle, but he wasn’t going to have to see that eagle every day for the next two years, was he?
Azra caught the paranoid eye of Professor Shadwell watching him with suspicion. He immediately darted his eyes back to his scroll. He had four more inches to write and only half an hour left. Now wasn’t the appropriate time to draft an apology to an enchanted object.
Azra wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember anything else.
Part 2: http://go-exchange.livejournal.com/139912.html#cutid1
Author: sidesinger
Recipient: sirius_luva
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s): Aziraphale/Crowley, subtle hints of Pollution/Famine
Summary: There’s no bureaucracy upstairs or downstairs to worry about when you’re a wizard.
Author’s Notes: Endless thanks to my beta readers for their help and support! And, to the whole community, happy holidays!
"Excuse me. Are any of these seats taken?"
Crowley swiveled his head away from the window and peered over his sunglasses.
The boy standing in the doorway was wearing tartan. Maybe it was the fact that he was hugging a book to his chest, but the bloke looked mostly harmless. Some heavier blokes carried themselves around with an air of confidence, like they could sit on your chest and twist your elbow until you gave up your favourite chocolate frog card. Others tried to look as small and inconspicuous as possible. This chubby-cheeked, cardigan-sporting bloke was attempting the latter.
Crowley shrugged. "I don't see anyone sitting in them, do you?”
Flashing a nervous smile, the other boy sat down across from Crowley. "Are you a first year?"
Crowley went back to people-watching out the window. "Yeah.”
"Me too."
"I figured," said Crowley.
“Have you thought about where you want to be Sorted?”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Well, I have,” the bloke pressed on, ignoring all the obvious signals to stop talking that Crowley was dropping. “My first choice is Ravenclaw, but I won’t be disappointed if I’m a Hufflepuff.”
Crowley made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. The distinct feeling that he was in for a long, uneventful ride was growing on him.
“I don’t think I want to be a Slytherin.”
That grabbed Crowley’s attention. He looked over.
“Why not?”
“I’m a muggle-born.” He frowned. “I’ve heard they’re not exactly warm and welcoming to wizards like me.”
“Really? Where did you hear that?” Crowley asked sarcastically, but sarcasm seemed to be beyond the bloke’s comprehension because he held up his book, oozing with enthusiasm.
“In Hogwarts, A History, of course!” he said brightly. “I brought it along for some light reading.”
“Light reading?”
“I’ve already read it, so I’m just rereading parts,” the bloke admitted with a sheepish smile.
Crowley liked books, but Hogwarts: A History was the kind of book that any sensible person would stick under a table’s leg to stop it from wobbling. It was the kind of book that his parents read to fall asleep. It was the kind of book that pretentious people thought was too pretentious to keep on their pretentious coffee tables. He stared blankly at the other eleven year-old sitting across from him.
"Why are you wearing tartan?" he asked, because he had a feeling it might come across better than what is wrong with you?
The boy’s bright smile receded. He looked down at himself and defensively wrapped his arms around his book before mumbling, "Tartan is stylish."
"Maybe back in the fifties," Crowley muttered.
“Why do wizards wear robes?” asked the boy, thinking it better to point out another flaw in fashion rather than to defend his own tastes in attire. “They look like dresses. Gothic dresses for men.”
“Beats me,” Crowley admitted, but he had to admit that the bloke had a fair point. He couldn’t criticize tartan when it was okay to flounce around in an over-sized gown. And that was leaving out the whole other problem of dress robes.
He considered the question for a moment before reaching a conclusion. “Probably because it keeps them nice and shapeless when they become old and fat.”
Both eleven year-olds shared a laugh, and then dropped the discussion of tartan in favor of the merits of wizard robes.
And that was how Anthony Crowley first met Azra Fell on the Hogwarts Express before six other first year students crammed themselves into the same train compartment, packing it tighter than a can of sardines. It was a long, but not uneventful, ride.
After the Sorting Ceremony, Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore announced with a magnanimous smile that Hogwarts was offering instruction in a whole new subject. Dressed all in black, the Professor of Post-Mortem Communications stood up and took a small wordless bow. No one could see his face beneath the hood, but everyone clapped politely for the newest faculty member.
Azra wanted to raise his hand and ask if Post-Mortem Communications was a nice way of saying Necromancy. He decided against it after he screened the question past an older Ravenclaw student. Gabriel Ludgate seemed nice and sensible. The sixth year smiled sympathetically and gave his hand a pat before, rather than after, he recommended that Azra keep the daft questions to himself if he wanted to be taken seriously in Ravenclaw.
Across the room, Crowley saw Azra’s shoulders droop and wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to be sitting next to the bibliophile. Maybe they could have been friends. It was an unsettling thought for a Slytherin. After mulling over it, he decided to chalk it up to being sandwiched between a glowering boy who smelled like sour grapes and a blond ponce who was pointing out all the Mudbloods they would be wise to avoid.
Tartan could appear to be the lesser evil in extreme circumstances.
When Professor Slughorn told everyone to partner up and find a cauldron, Azra looked around in a panic. In a matter of seconds, everyone had found someone else. He thought he was going to be the only one without a partner when his eyes landed on another Ravenclaw in his year. Azra inwardly groaned. Of course the only other person in the classroom without a partner was the bloke who didn’t seem to understand the basic principles of hygiene.
With a brittle smile, he walked up to Weiss White. The other Ravenclaws called him Chalky for some reason, but Azra had yet to find out why.
“Looks like we’re going to be partners,” said Azra, trying to be polite. Up close, he could detect a hint of sulfur clinging to his classmate. He tried not to stare at what appeared to be a beetle stuck in a tangled clump of long, straggly blond hair. Would it be rude of him to pick it out? It was entirely possible that he wanted it to be there.
“No need to look so disappointed, Mr. Fell!” Professor Slughorn boomed, clapping a hand on his shoulder and making him forget all about the beetle. “Mr. White comes from a family of talented brewers. They own Apothecaries all over the globe, don’t they?”
Chalky vacantly nodded.
“Ah,” Azra said intelligently.
“Now, why don’t you two lads hurry along and take the cauldron behind Mr. Crowley and Mr. Snape,” Slughorn said, steering them over in the right direction before lumbering around to address the whole class. “Everyone, open your textbooks to chapter four. We’re going to begin by brewing a simpler version of the Pepper-Up Potion.”
Crowley was smiling like a snake as they walked past him and his partner.
“Tough luck getting partnered up with Chalky in potions.”
Azra had been about to agree until he glanced up from his book and saw his own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.
“He’s not so bad,” Azra said, feeling it his duty to be loyal to his classmate when confronted by a Slytherin. House unity and such.
“How do you stand his funky smell?”
“Potion fumes cover it up.”
Crowley seemed to consider this for a moment before asking, “Why are you out here, and not in the library with all the other stodgy Ravenclaws?”
“I like the fresh air.”
“Really?”
“I could ask you the same, you know,” Azra pointed out as Crowley plopped down on the bench next to him.
“I like the sunshine.”
“You are rather tan for a Brit.”
“Mediterranean blood, or something,” Crowley replied with a shrug and something between a grin and a smirk. “Say, can I try something on you?”
“Try what on me?” Azra frowned, because like most normal people, he didn’t like the idea of being anyone’s lab rat.
“Cheering Charm. Learned it today in Charms class.”
“Are you good at them? You’re not going to jinx me on accident, are you?” Azra sunk his teeth into his lower lip. It was a legitimate concern, he reasoned. He hardly knew Crowley, aside from the fact that he was a Slytherin who didn’t like tartan.
“I’m aces at them, thankyouverymuch. Flitwick awarded me 5 points for my cheering expertise. Just hold still, yeah?”
For some reason, Azra felt that he could trust Crowley. With his eyes as wide as saucers, he nodded, trying not to flinch when Crowley pointed his wand at his temple.
Crowley murmured the incantation, and suddenly it was like having a first edition Oscar Wilde in his hands. A warm, floaty feeling washed over every part of his body. Azra couldn’t help but beam.
“My goodness,” he breathed, feeling incredible. “It feels like Christmas. Thank you. Thank you so much, Crowley.”
“Right?” Crowley smirked. “I told you so.”
Azra had been about to admit that all the other Ravenclaws (aside from Chalky) were prats when a group of Slytherins walked into the courtyard. Lucius Malfoy strolled at the head, flanked by two large brutes named Hastur Crabbe and Ligur Goyle. There was a palpable change in the relaxed air between them the moment Crowley noticed Malfoy and his posse.
“Listen... I’ll talk to you later. Gotta go,” Crowley muttered before pushing himself up and joining his group of classmates.
“Crowley,” Lucius said with surprise. “I told you to meet us at the Pitch.”
“And I thought I told you I don’t take orders, Malfoy,” Crowley replied airily.
The whole group fell silent. All eyes darted back and forth between the two Slytherins. No one ever talked back to Lucius Malfoy. If they did, they didn’t mention it in public. It was one of those unspoken rules everyone followed. Even Lucius looked stunned for a moment before he recovered himself.
“I wasn’t ordering you, Crowley. If I had, you would have obeyed,” Lucius replied coolly, but the desired effect was lost when all Crowley did was hitch his shoulders dismissively in response.
There was only a slightly imperceptible change behind those sunglasses when Lucius asked, “What were you doing with that Mudblood?”
“Nothing important. Mudbloods aren’t all that interesting, truth be told.”
That seemed to satisfy Lucius. He smiled mirthlessly.
“I swear, between you and Snape, people are going to start thinking we’re nice to Mudbloods.”
Without warning, the cheerfulness faded away from Azra as he watched Crowley join the older Slytherins.
He kept his head down, eyes glued to the book, but he could feel their gazes on him. He didn’t know what ‘Mudblood’ meant, but it must have been a joke because everyone else laughed before they left him alone in the courtyard.
But Azra wasn’t completely alone.
He didn’t notice, but there was a young man sitting across the courtyard on a bench. He wore jeans and a plain white t-shirt. No one noticed his lack of school robes. Had someone noticed him, they might have paused and thought he looked a bit out of place. No one noticed him.
The man leaned back on the heels of his palms. He was content to watch with a small, knowing smile on his face.
While he had a list of his own suppositions, Azra decided to approach Chalky for an answer. He found his classmate sitting in the Great Hall with a redheaded Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff who had sunken cheeks. He recognized them from his other classes, but he didn’t know their names. At first, he hesitated, but Chalky saw him and waved him over with a grubby hand.
“Something troubling you, mate?” asked Chalky, absently stirring a finger through his goblet of pumpkin juice.
“Yes,” Azra said shortly, aware that he looked a little more than agitated. “What’s a Mudblood?”
“Bloody hell!” The redhead laughed. “This one has a mouth on him, doesn’t he?”
“Whoa.” Even Chalky managed to look distantly surprised.
“Is it a bad word?” Azra instantly deflated, looking between their faces guiltily. “I don’t know what it means. Someone called me that.”
“It’s a derogatory term for muggle-borns,” the gaunt Hufflepuff answered succinctly. “Commonly used by pure-blood supremacists.”
“Did some slimy Slytherin git call you that? I can break their kneecaps, if you want,” the Gryffindor offered with an easy smile. “My name’s Carmine, by the way.”
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you,” Azra answered meekly as his hand was crushed in the girl’s handshake. “My name’s Azra.”
“And this bag of bones is Raven,” Carmine added, giving the boy beside her a nudge in the ribs. “Bloody sharp, this one.”
“It’s nice to meet you both, but I should be going now,” Azra said, a little desperate to get away before she decided to elbow a softer target. “I’ve got Transfiguration next.”
“Which means I do too, huh?” Chalky didn’t stand up so much as glide to his feet. The haze of serenity he lived in seemed to extend to every part of him, down to his very body movements.
It reminded Azra of the time he had broken a thermometer and poked a twig in the small pool of mercury and glass shards. Chalky was so fluid, Azra almost didn’t notice him wipe his gravy-coated hands off on his robes as they left the Great Hall.
The next time Crowley found Azra, he was sitting in the library, buried in a book, as usual. Crowley felt ridiculous, standing behind a row of books and watching the Ravenclaw through the cracks. To be fair, it had happened by accident. He hadn’t gone out of his way to stalk the other boy.
Before he could walk away, Azra lifted his head and stared directly at him. Crowley saw his expression kaleidoscope from startled to confused, before settling on a frowny shade of upset.
“What?” Azra whispered loudly.
“Nothing,” Crowley hissed back.
“Fine.”
Crowley walked out from behind the bookshelf and sat down across from Azra. The Ravenclaw was trying to ignore his existence by holding the large, dusty tome a few centimeters away from his face.
“Hey,” Crowley started, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry, all right?”
“For what?”
“You know,” Crowley said, a hint of irritation edging into his voice. Why was Azra being such a prat about this when he was trying to be nice and apologize? Apologies didn’t grow on trees like apples. “For what happened in the courtyard.”
“I see.” Azra resolutely remained behind his book. “Is that all?”
“No, that’s not all. Would you just look at me? It’s difficult enough getting everyone to bugger off about my sunglasses, but if they caught me being friends with a muggle-born, they’d-”
Azra clapped the book shut loud enough to startle someone awake from their snoring.
“I’m going to stop you right there, Crowley. We’re not friends and I don’t think we’re ever going to be friends, so you can stop worrying about it.”
“But I-”
“Kindly shove off,” Azra cut him off before gathering up a stack of books in his arms and leaving.
Those were the last words they exchanged for the remainder of their first year at Hogwarts. It was a conversation that would haunt Crowley even more than the large, orange Librarian that swung down from the rafters and said, “Ook?” to him after it.
Nothing worth noting happened in their second year.
Unless you count the instance in which Carmine put James Potter in a headlock and dislocated his shoulder for calling her Lily Evans by mistake. In a rare show of benevolence, Filch rewarded the Gryffindor in detention by letting her pet Mrs. Norris without the thumbscrews.
But, other than that, nothing really interesting happened.
Their third year was a different story.
To compensate for the fact that many thirteen year-olds were embarking on the frightening, emotional, and sometimes nauseating roller coaster ride that was puberty, they were permitted to visit Hogsmeade with a parent or guardian’s permission.
For Azra, the real highlight was being able to select his elective classes. He would have taken them all had it been possible to fit every class into his schedule, but without a time-turner, there was simply no way to be in two classrooms at the same time. Chalky consoled him by calmly pointing out that it would be nothing short of suicidal to take that many O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.
After a night of agonizing over what to take, Azra ended up selecting Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, and Ancient Runes. Muggle Studies was simply unnecessary for him and poking through tea leaves in Divination sounded like a joke.
Azra only had one weakness, and that was Herbology.
For some reason, plants didn’t agree with Azra, and he didn’t agree with the plants. He killed them, and in some instances he swore they tried to seek revenge for their fallen brethren. It didn’t help that Hogwarts had a visiting professor that year. While Madame Sprout larked off for research in Paraguay, Professor Anathema Device was filling in as her substitute. It wasn’t that Professor Device was incompetent or lacking knowledge in the field. She was an expert who had an uncanny ability to predict unruly plant behaviour, but it usually happened right after the tendrils were wrapped around your windpipe in a vice-grip.
Which was precisely how Azra ended up inside the Hospital Wing.
“How can I help you, Mr. Crowley?”
Crowley was at a loss for words when Madame Pomfrey caught him sneaking into the Infirmary. It was past curfew. If he didn’t come up with something, she would send him back to the dungeons with a point deduction or detention. Or both.
“My stomach hurts,” he lied, although it was partially true. His insides were squirming with nerves.
“Indigestion?”
“Er, yeah, that. I must’ve ate something that didn’t agree with me.”
“Well, have a seat, dear. I’ll see if I don’t have a potion that will clear your tummy aches away. I’ll be just a moment,” she said, ushering him toward a bed before she bustled off to another room.
Crowley waited for a few moments. He didn’t know when the mediwitch would be back, but he was willing to take his chances. There was only one bed with the curtains drawn around it. He made a beeline for it. Azra looked more confused than awake when he pulled back the bed curtain.
“Crowley?” Azra’s voice was slurry with sleep, but he was conscious enough to sound distantly surprised.
“Sorry, I didn’t bring you flowers.”
“What do you want?”
“Don’t have much time, so I’m going to get straight to the point. You’re clearly hopeless in Herbology, and I’m lost in Muggle Studies. You help me, I help you. Deal?”
“You’re taking Muggle Studies?”
“I’ll explain that later. Time is, you know, of the essence right now,” Crowley whispered back, practically hissing.
“I’ll think about it,” Azra reluctantly allowed.
“How long will you need to think about it?”
The Ravenclaw shot back, “Aren’t you afraid to be seen associating with a Mudblood?” The question practically dripped with bitterness.
Crowley fell silent, and not because he needed to strain his ears for signs of Madame Pomfrey returning.
“If you want my help, meet me in the greenhouses during lunch tomorrow, all right? If you don’t, fine. I’ll find someone else and you can keep-” Crowley abruptly cut himself off. There were footsteps. Without a word more, he disappeared from Azra’s sight, but he wasn’t quick enough to make it back to the other bed on time.
“Mr. Crowley!” exclaimed Madame Pomfrey, keeping her voice just low enough not rouse any portraits awake. “I thought I made myself very clear when I told you to have a seat on the bed.”
“Sorry,” Crowley whispered back. His face must have had the right amount of apologetic in it, because the mediwitch’s stern face softened as he explained, “Pacing made my stomach feel a bit better.”
“Drink this, dearie, and be quick about it. I don’t want you making a mess on me.”
Grimacing, Crowley uncorked the phial and downed the contents. He almost retched from the taste alone, but managed to keep it down by gulping down a glass of water shortly after. Nothing but a toothbrush could help the aftertaste.
“There, there, my dear boy,” Madame Pomfrey soothed, guiding him back to the bed. “Lay down and let it settle. Once you feel better, you may return to your dormitory with this hall pass.”
“Okay,” Crowley croaked back. He knew that as soon as Madame Pomfrey cleared off, he would be emptying the contents of his stomach into the nearest rubbish bin and leaving the Infirmary before she could funnel any other foul potions down his throat.
Whereas Azra never felt at ease inside the greenhouses, Crowley seemed right at home. He found the Slytherin with his sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his hands buried in a bed of soil. Crowley was too engrossed sifting his fingers through the earth to notice he was there. It was hard to see it, but even with the sunglasses, Azra could tell there was a look of deep concentration on his face. Azra didn’t know what he was doing, but the motions of those hands were rather mesmerizing. Loathe though he was to get dirt under his fingernails, Crowley made it look enjoyable. Almost.
Azra watched from the doorway until the other boy seemed to sense his presence and peered up.
“There you are. For a moment, I thought you stood me up.”
“I thought about it,” Azra admitted before he stepped closer. “Couldn’t you do that with your wand?”
“Yeah, but then I might overdo it. It’s better to sift the soil with your fingers, that way you can feel it.”
“Feel what?”
A soft sigh escaped Crowley. He reached up, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow with the back of his arm. “We’ve got a lot to cover, don’t we? Why don’t you start by sticking your hands in that,” he said, pointing to the burlap sack that was right by Azra’s feet.
“What’s in here?” Azra hesitated before reaching in. It smelled wretched, but almost everything in the greenhouse smelled like owl droppings to him.
“Oh, just something every plant needs it if it expects to survive,” answered Crowley vaguely.
“Crowley.”
“What?”
“How am I supposed to learn if you don’t specify? I’m not going to get anywhere with guesswork.”
His hand had closed around something damp and solid when Crowley replied, “It’s dragon dung. Give me a handful, will you?”
“Good heavens!” Azra recoiled, eliciting a laugh from the Slytherin.
“What?” Crowley pulled on a face of pure innocence in response to Azra’s face of pure vexation. “It’s nothing you can’t wash off later.”
“I’ll never feel clean again,” Azra complained, frowning in dismay.
“I still need it, you know,” said Crowley, gesturing to the plant that was cupped in his palms. The green tendrils seemed to be shivering. “I wasn’t just having you on.”
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to wear gloves before I stick my hand in dragon dung again.”
“I’d leave them off if I were you.”
“But I-”
“When you don’t get an Outstanding mark in Herbology, don’t come whinging to me about it.”
Azra froze. “Is there really no other way?”
“Do you think I enjoy mucking around with dung?”
“I suppose not,” Azra wearily admitted.
With much grimacing and grumbling, the gloves were left off.
As he collected pus from a Bubotuber, the Ravenclaw comforted himself with the knowledge that he would eventually be teaching Crowley why bicycles needed brakes. It was a necessary lesson. Revenge had nothing to do with it.
“Are either of you staying here for the hols?” asked Carmine, wedging herself in between Azra and Chalky without ceremony.
“No, I’m going to Jaslovské Bohunice,” Chalky answered. His smile was serene.
“Where the bugger is that?” Carmine asked, and even Azra had to admit he wasn’t at all familiar.
“Czechoslovakia.”
“You’re going behind Soviet lines?” asked Azra, shocked.
“Only the Muggles are on the brink of killing each other over ideologies, but even now they’re starting to believe in ideological coexistence or some rubbish,” said Carmine, sounding disappointed.
“I didn’t know you followed politics.”
“Well, mister Fell,” she said, casting an arm over his shoulders in a way that was more rough than chummy. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“It’s beautiful village,” Chalky continued. “Lovely people. Quite isolated.”
“Is there a nuclear power plant around Bohunice?” Raven asked, joining the group. It was as if he had been there all along. Considering that he had appeared from behind Azra, it was quite possible that he had.
Laughter danced behind Chalky’s light gray eyes. “Maybe.”
“Well, what about either one of you?” Carmine asked, turning to Raven and Azra. “Are you staying for the hols?”
Raven merely shook his head, but Azra nodded.
“Yes, I’ll be here. Why? Will you?” he asked. A feeling of panic bubbled up inside his chest. Snowball fights and wrestling were not his idea of fun, and he was sure that any holiday with Carmine would be rolling in both.
“No-” Azra had a moment to sag in relief before she added, “but I wanna see if the rumours are true.”
“What rumours?”
“Rumour has it Crowley was disowned,” said Carmine, smiling a razor sharp smile. “I figure whoever stays here will see if it’s true.”
“Well, you shouldn’t trust rumours,” Azra said, frowning. He frowned partially out of concern, and partially because he was a little troubled to find himself concerned for Crowley. “Wouldn’t Malfoy and his posse stop associating with him if that were true?”
“Dunno.” Carmine shrugged. “But why else would he be staying here for the hols?”
Azra didn’t know either, but he stated in a firm tone, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for it, but why should we care? It’s none of our business.”
The conversation moved on after that, but Azra couldn’t stop thinking about it later on. He went to sleep wondering if Crowley was disowned for taking Muggle Studies. And, if he was, why?
The next day, almost everyone left on the Hogwarts Express. Everyone save for a few other students and faculty members who, for their own assorted reasons, either had nowhere else to go or nowhere better to be for the winter holidays.
With the castle practically empty, Azra decided it was the perfect time to start helping Crowley with Muggle Studies. No one was out on the snow-covered Quidditch pitch field. There was only himself, Crowley, and a rusty red bicycle.
“So, I just sit on it and pedal?” Crowley asked. He eyed the Muggle object with skepticism.
“Yes. It’s simple. Why else would people say, ‘it’s just like riding a bicycle’?”
“I don’t know anyone who says that.”
“It’s a popular Muggle phrase.”
“Ah.”
Crowley fell over three times before Azra’s guilty conscience could no longer take it.
“How about we give it a rest?” he suggested, folding his arms for what little warmth the stance provided. “It’s just about lunch time. We should head back.”
“Oi! Stop thinking with your stomach. I think I’m starting to get the hang of it,” Crowley said before giving it another go. He made it about four feet before going “arse over tit” as Carmine might say. Amazingly, his sunglasses didn’t fall off in the tumble.
Sighing, Azra walked over and offered a mitten-covered hand, helping him up. “Really, Anthony. I think you’ve learned enough for today.”
“Crowley. Just call me Crowley, yeah? I like it better when you call me that.”
“Why? Are we not-”
Azra caught himself before uttering the word, but Crowley finished the question for him. “Friends?”
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Azra said in a hurry. “Of course we’re not friends. I’m a Mudblood, after all.” He knew it was silly, letting a little word that Crowley had called him two years ago bother him so much, but he couldn’t help it. It still made him upset, to think about that day in the courtyard.
“You can stay here, but I think I’d best leave off,” Azra added, turning around and starting back the way he had come. He didn’t get very far before a hand caught his wrist. It was Crowley.
“Will you stop being so bloody difficult?” Crowley frowned. His face was a conflicted mixture of exasperation and guilt. “You’re not a you-know-what, and I’m sorry that I ever said you were, all right? I didn’t know you were still rattled about that.”
Azra bit his lip. A question had been bothering him for a long time. “Why did you call me that name in the first place?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I have to keep up certain appearances if I don’t want my life to be miserable.”
“For Malfoy?”
“Malfoy, my parents, and just about every bloody Slytherin there is.”
“Then why are you taking Muggle Studies? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose of pretending to be a git?”
“Well...” Crowley carded a hand through his hair. “I kind of lied about that. I’m not actually taking Muggle Studies. I want to take it, but obviously I can’t.”
“Then why did you...” Azra began, but he was already beginning to understand. “Why even bother? It’s just extra work.”
“Unlike my peers, I think it’ll be worth the effort,” Crowley replied. “So, I talked with Professor Pulsifer. He suggested this. He said I should read books on my own time and find another student to tutor me. Someone I could trust.”
“Why me?”
Crowley shrugged. “It’s convenient for both of us, isn’t it? You’re a muggle-born doing poorly in Herbology. I’m an ignorant pure-blood who puts the fear of Crowley into plants. We’re a match made in heaven - if you believe in that sort of thing.”
“Are you asking if I believe in heaven? Or if I’m religious in general?” Azra asked, which opened the door to a whole new discussion that lasted until they found themselves pushing the bicycle through the Entrance Hall, each of them on one side of the handle bars.
And so the Arrangement began.
Keeping the Arrangement hidden was, more or less, an unspoken part of the agreement.
Neither acknowledged that the other existed during what few classes they shared. In the hallways and the corridors, they traveled in different packs, steering clear of each other’s paths. During meals, they sat at their respective House tables and didn’t so much as glance in the other’s direction. When they needed to speak or meet, they sent barnyard owls to deliver coded messages. They met in empty classrooms. They found privacy underneath the Quidditch stands. They cleared enough space to wedge themselves in a cramped broom closet. They broke curfew more times than Azra cared to admit. Sometimes, even Hogsmeade trips were sacrificed to take advantage of the deserted castle.
The original intent was to help each other study and review. And, for a time, they did. Azra didn’t know when studying evolved into exchanging witticisms and banter and nonsensical talk until they stopped and realized that the minutes had somehow stretched into hours. It just sort of, well, happened.
Years three and four passed like so, without any breach to the Arrangement.
“Is his name Professor Deaf? Or Professor Death?”
It was the most popularly debated question in Hogwarts for years, and to this very day, no one has yet to determine a definite answer. Even the other professors found ways to avoid directly addressing their colleague. They were too embarrassed to admit they couldn’t recall his first or last name. Some were even more embarrassed to admit that all attempts to locate his name slipped away like water off a duck.
Most settled on Deaf rather than Death despite his area of expertise. They reached this conclusion based not on his hearing, but the way the Professor of Post-Mortem Communications managed to enunciate every single word as though the script in his head was written in large capital letters.
It took three years for everyone to comfortably accept the name Professor Deaf.
Sirius Black and James Potter were widely credited for turning this certainty on its head. They never confirmed or denied the credit, but it was, in fact, a Slytherin wearing sunglasses that posted the door placard that read, ‘PROFESSOR D’EATH MORT, POST-MORTEM COMMUNICATIONS.’
If confronted, the aforementioned Slytherin would shrug off any allegations. No one could know that a Slytherin was taking suggestions from a Ravenclaw.
While other fifteen year-old boys were finally starting to take notice of the fairer sex, fifth year meant only one thing to Azra: Ordinary Wizarding Level exams. Little else preoccupied his thoughts. Every waking moment, he kept himself buried in a book.
Chalky called him oblivious to the world around him. In point of fact, Azra didn’t hear him. He didn’t take any notice of his friend until Chalky put something wet and slimy in his ear. Azra thought it was a fish, but it turned out to be a finger. Chalky hadn’t licked it or dipped it in anything. It was naturally that way.
“You’re going to miss it,” Chalky said before Azra could demand to know why he had just stuck a finger in his ear.
“Miss what?” Azra asked, puzzled. He looked around the grounds. There were a few students walking toward the greenhouses. Something splashed in the lake. A breeze ran through the tall grass. He took all this in, but couldn’t find anything he would deem worthy of his attention. “I don’t see anything going on.”
“Living. Life.”
And if that wasn’t ominous, Azra didn’t know what was. But that was Chalky for you. Vague and ominous. He shook his head.
“I can live after I’ve passed all my O.W.L.s with flying colors, and I’ll live much happier for it,” he stated before he continued reading. Living was grand, but it wasn’t going to teach him every property known to Monkshood.
“While you’re doing that, I’m going to go snog Raven.”
“Have a good time,” Azra automatically replied without listening.
While other fifteen year-old boys were finally starting to take notice of the fairer sex, Crowley was starting to notice Azra.
It was a strange attraction, as most attractions to pudgy, tartan-sporting teenagers happened to be. And it all started happening after a question occurred to him one day while they were sitting in the broom closet.
“How come you’ve never asked?” Crowley asked.
“Asked what?” Azra replied without looking up from his book.
“About the sunglasses. Ravenclaws are supposed to be curious, aren’t they?”
Azra surprised Crowley by pausing. He slid a piece of parchment between the pages and closed the book.
“Well, it wasn’t that I was never curious. I was very curious, but I thought it would be rude to ask. I figured you were probably bothered about them enough as it was and you’d tell me when you were ready to tell me,” Azra explained, shrugging.
“So, you were, and then you weren’t curious?”
“It’s not that I became apathetic. I simply accepted them as some inexplicable part of you.”
“Oh.” Crowley had been too stunned to think of something intelligent to say.
“Sorry, should I have asked?” And it was that stupid sheepish smile of Azra’s that made Crowley awkwardly and abruptly rise to his feet.
“No, I just remembered. I forgot I told Severus I would help him collect the fangs off a Fanged Geranium,” he said, lying effortlessly. He pushed up the sunglasses even though they were in no remote danger of slipping down his nose. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
“Oh. Alright.” The sheepish smile gave way to a look of confusion tangling with skepticism; a typical look for a Ravenclaw in the company of a Slytherin. “Yes, of course. Be careful.”
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Crowley replied, regaining his usual self-assured air. “It’ll probably defang itself once it sees me.”
“They can defang themselves? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Azra said in awe, reminding Crowley that it was par for the course for the naive, tartan-loving bloke to take things much too literally.
“If it happens, you’ll be the first to know. But, just to be safe, don’t write that down on any exams,” Crowley tacked on before he stopped stalling and made his escape.
Azra had gone straight back to his book, and Crowley had left their hideaway knowing he might as well be damned. Father would never accept that his only heir was queer.
It was a troubling moment when he caught himself wondering what Azra’s mouth would taste like.
It was even more troubling that he came up with two possible answers: his mouth would taste like chamomile tea (Azra drank too much of it), or mint (from the Ice Mice that Azra devoured on a daily basis). Which would sometimes lead Crowley to contemplate what the two would taste like combined into one flavor.
Often, these contemplations would inconveniently happen while he was sitting directly across from Azra.
The evening before O.W.L.s began, Chalky had a plan.
To be fair, it was Raven’s idea, combined with Carmine’s goading, that spurred him to put it all into motion.
Azra, he could tell, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was one of many fifteen year-olds gnawing their fingernails down to stumps, but Chalky didn’t care about those other high-strung blokes. He found his friend in the library and approached. Some odor must have alerted Azra to his presence, because he peered up with his nose scrunched.
“Yes?” Azra asked, making no attempt to conceal his impatience.
“I have something to show you.”
“Please make it quick, if you don’t mind. I have a lot to review and only...” A panic-stricken look filled his eyes when he glanced down at his wristwatch. “Only nine hours and counting. Sweet Rowena.”
“Come,” said Chalky, closing the textbook in front of Azra despite the murderous glare such a treacherous act secured for him. “They’re waiting for us.”
“Weiss, I really don’t have time for any distractions,” Azra protested.
To shut him up, all Chalky needed to say was, “You make time for Mr. Shades, why not this?”
That silenced Azra all the way out of the library. When they started traveling across castle, Azra tried to ask where they were going. Chalky refused to do anything more than smile back at him. Just when he thought that his friend was going to turn around and say, ‘Well that was a nice walk, wasn’t it?’ Chalky opened the doors to a room.
Azra blinked.
“Is this where the Divination club meets?” he asked, because it was like no other room inside of Hogwarts that he had ever seen.
It was like walking into a huge blanket fort. Canopies of connected sheets hung above their heads, forcing them to bend their knees. The floor was covered in a colourful spread of Persian rugs and pillows. Chalky removed his trainers and continued to pad forward barefoot. Azra had no time to do the same. Otherwise, he might have lost sight of his friend as the fairer boy turned the corner of the quilted passageway.
“Now just hold on a moment,” Azra called out, stumbling over a cushion after Chalky.
Chalky slowed his pace, but didn’t stop or answer questions. Azra wasn’t sure how Chalky could navigate his way through the tunnels of patchwork covers. The other boy turned this way and that until they found Carmine and Raven sitting in the middle of a circular den. The air tasted sweet and hazy, and Azra noticed why. The slender Hufflepuff passed a hookah pipe over to Chalky.
“S’about time,” Carmine complained, throwing a pillow like it was a javelin. Chalky dodged out of the way of it effortlessly.
“Did you bring us anything other than him?” asked Raven.
“I brought the good stuff.” Chalky tossed a small haversack. Carmine wasted no time untying the twine holding it together. She cut it open with her flick knife and smiled like a feline when she found out what the ‘good stuff’ meant.
“I could kiss you on the fucking mouth.”
“She might bruise you, doing that.”
“Just shut up and roll us a joint, yeah?”
Azra frowned. He didn’t put any stock in Divination, but he was feeling a strong premonition that he was about to do something that broke a lot of rules in a short amount of time.
“What is that?” he whispered to Chalky, watching Raven’s slender fingers roll the dried leaves in a sheet of thin paper. He made what looked to Azra like a long, handmade cigarette, but Azra wasn’t born yesterday; he knew it wasn’t a cigarette.
“That’s the Saturday night special.”
“But it’s Sunday.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m so lost.”
“You’ve never smoked Gillyweed before, Fell?” Raven picked up on their conversation.
“He’s a bloody saint,” Carmine pointed out. “Of course he hasn’t. Let’s give him the first hit, yeah?”
“No, I really think I must politely decline,” Azra protested, trying to wave the offer away. “I’ll simply watch. I’m a good observer.”
“Trust me, angel-face, you’re taking a hit one way or another,” Carmine insisted, flexing her fingers.
“That won’t be necessary,” Raven said, laying a gentle hand over the Gryffindor’s fist. “We’re all friends, aren’t we? And as your friends, we haven’t told anyone certain information we know.”
Azra knew what they knew. They probably knew that he knew that they knew it, too. He had a terrible poker face.
“What information?” he asked, spectacularly failing to play naive.
“That Crowley is chummy with muggle-borns.”
Even though he had anticipated that answer, Azra didn’t know what to say. What could he say? They knew about the Arrangement. They were threatening him with it. He looked at Chalky for some sort of answer.
“This is what friends do?” he asked. “Blackmail each other?”
Hitching his shoulders in a sheepish shrug, Chalky smiled apologetically. “We just want you to have a good time, Azra. I promise it’ll be okay. It’ll help you relax. You need to relax or you’re going to crash and burn tomorrow.”
“Yeah, take it easy, man,” Carmine chimed in as Chalky’s damp hand put the joint into his palm.
“It’s harmless.”
“It’s wrong,” Azra said weakly, but his decision was already made.
He couldn’t betray Crowley, he reasoned. In the best case scenario, Crowley would be ostracized by his House. In the worst, his parents would disown him. Crowley would probably never speak to him again if that happened.
And maybe Chalky was right. Maybe he needed to unwind before the exams. Crowley might even agree. Maybe he needed to loosen up. Be hip to the jive.
Azra stuck out his hand. “Hand it over before I change my mind.”
“Atta boy!” Carmine grinned.
“It’ll be all right, you’ll see,” Chalky promised. “No different from smoking a regular cigarette.”
“Just try to hold the smoke in for as long as possible before exhaling,” Raven supplied.
Azra had never smoked a cigarette, but he knew the basic mechanics. You lit the end of it. And then you sucked.
All eyes locked on him as he murmured Incendio to light the Saturday night special.
It burned all the way down his throat straight to his lungs. Azra dropped the joint as his eyes teared up and he spluttered, coughing.
“Oi!” Carmine recovered the fallen joint before anything caught on fire.
“Drink this,” Chalky murmured, passing a glass into his hands. Azra gulped the liquid down. It didn’t help. It felt like someone had shoved a burning coal down his throat, only worse than that. “It happens to everyone their first time,” he added, as though it might make his scalding esophagus feel better.
“What- what was that?” Azra croaked, holding up the glass.
“Might’ve been vodka,” said Raven, shrugging.
“Think it was Firewhiskey,” Carmine opined. “Want another hit?”
“No.” Azra’s firm tone of voice brook no room for arguments.
“One drag should be enough for our friend, amigos,” Chalky assured them, gesturing for Carmine to go ahead. Without pressuring him to do anything else, they passed around the joint. No one else fell victim to a fit of coughing. They inhaled and exhaled with practiced ease, filling the small den with a smoky haze.
By the time the gillyweed circled back to Azra, he was feeling it. He stared down at the remainder of the joint.
“I feel it,” murmured Azra.
“How does it feel?”
“Mmm.” Azra hummed as the words slowly pieced themselves together. “Feels groovy.”
“Good,” said a voice.
He wasn’t sure whose voice it was. Or whose hand was tangled in his hair, dragging fingernails across his scalp. But it felt good. Everything felt delightful. Light-weight. It reminded him of that cheering charm.
“Why isn’t Crowley here?” he heard himself ask, but the others only laughed.
He saw the three faces melt together into one equine visage before a heaviness swept over and closed his eyes.
When he reopened them, he was alone in a cramped bookshop. There was an unpleasant damp smell in the air. He might have stayed to explore the titles on the bookshelves, but he had to go, didn’t he? He had a letter to send.
“Yes, quite right, dear boy,” he murmured, drifting out through the doors and returning to Hogwarts.
When Azra woke up the next morning, he remembered little from the previous night. What few patches he could distantly recall, he found himself doubting. None of it seemed real. The night came back to him piece by piece throughout the day as he sat through his exams.
One particular memory struck him as he was frantically writing down everything he knew about the Phoenix. His quill paused mid-sentence.
Had he really told the bronze eagle knocker to bugger his own riddle?
It always thought of clever little riddles to keep non-Ravenclaws out of the Tower. It hadn’t done anything to deserve any cheek. Would it accept an apology? Azra frowned to himself and found himself glancing over at the side of Crowley’s head. He wanted to tell his friend all about his wonky night with Gillyweed. Perhaps the Slytherin had a similar experience to share.
Crowley would probably dismiss the idea of apologizing to the eagle, but he wasn’t going to have to see that eagle every day for the next two years, was he?
Azra caught the paranoid eye of Professor Shadwell watching him with suspicion. He immediately darted his eyes back to his scroll. He had four more inches to write and only half an hour left. Now wasn’t the appropriate time to draft an apology to an enchanted object.
Azra wasn’t sure if he wanted to remember anything else.
Part 2: http://go-exchange.livejournal.com/139912.html#cutid1