Author's Note: This fic is part of the same universe as Ineffable Incantations, only it takes place in Aziraphale and Crowley's third year—two years before that fic. They're just cute little thirteen year olds. Crowley's less self-assured at this age, and a bit jumpy. Oh, and he doesn't have a crush on Aziraphale yet, wouldn't even dream of that being a possibility.
Sorry if this is choppy at any points, for some reason it took me a few weeks to write and I wrote in sporadic little leaps. But it's cute, I hope, a nice fic to publish on Christmas Eve. Merry Christmas and happy holidays, dear readers, and may the New Year bring you much bliss!
…
The morning was crisp, but not too cold, even by Crowley's standards. The wind had been considerate enough to take a break from its assault on the clothes and skin of all who dared to venture out, and so Crowley had acquiesced when Aziraphale had proposed the walk. His robes and heavy cloak, together with the scarf secured about his neck, hat shielding his head and ears, and extra-thick gloves, were keeping him sufficiently warm as he trekked across the Hogwarts grounds with Aziraphale.
The snow rose halfway up their shins at its highest points along their path, but fortunately the Ravenclaw had placed a handy charm on their feet before they'd headed out that prevented it from getting into their shoes. The sun slowly climbing upward in the east struck its rays along the white-swathed ground, causing glittering specks in the snow to flash and gleam dazzlingly bright. Crowley was grateful for his sunglasses as he watched Aziraphale squint against the glare.
Neither of them spoke, but it wasn't awkward. That was one thing, Crowley thought to himself, that allowed him and his Ravenclaw companion to get along so well, despite their radically differing personalities: both of them were generally comfortable with silence.
They reached the lake, which was sheathed in a crust of snow-dusted ice.
"We could try skating on it," Aziraphale suggested hopefully.
"Nah, it's not thick enough. We'll have to wait till January." He tossed a bit of toast they'd taken from breakfast out onto the ice. It skidded forward a ways, and slowed to a halt some fifteen feet away from where the pair of third years stood on the bank.
All was still for a moment. And then the stillness was split by a great creaking and cracking of ice as a massive tentacle burst through the surface of the lake. A sucker latched on to the piece of toast, and then the gargantuan limb, toast and all, slid back into the deep. The exposed water sloshed and swirled for a moment, and then all was quiet once more.
"So much for your hibernation theory," Crowley remarked.
"Humph. You never know—perhaps he just woke up for a quick snack."
They continued their trek around the lake. A light snow began to meander down from the pale sky, powdering the tartan cap balanced on top of Aziraphale's curls and the more subdued burgundy covering Crowley's head.
"I can scarcely believe the term is almost over," Aziraphale said. "Have you packed yet to go home?"
"I'm not going home," Crowley answered in as flippant a tone as he could manage.
Aziraphale stopped in his tracks. "Oh, Crowley, I'm so sorry! Why not?"
"Mum's on auror business in Bulgaria, and my grandfather's at St. Mungo's with Gran." He sighed, trying not to let the worry show in his voice. "She's…not well, and the healers say my coming to visit would be too much stress for her."
"I'm so sorry to hear that, dear," Aziraphale said sincerely. "So you'll be all alone for Christmas?"
"It's not a big deal, Az," Crowley told him, wishing he could change the subject, or at least lighten the mood. "I'll have the ghosts to keep me company, yeah? And the house elves to stuff me with food. Oh, and I think the Weasleys are staying, too."
Aziraphale sniffed. Fred and George, who had never been on the best of terms with the rule-abiding Ravenclaw, had gained his further disapproval a few days ago by bewitching snowballs to fly at poor Professor Quirrell's turban. He'd been treating the pair to a disdainful silence ever since.
"Well, all right. But I'll still feel bad to think of you here at Christmas when I'm at home with my family…" Aziraphale trailed off, withdrawing into his own thoughts. They walked on quietly for another minute, the crunch of snow underfoot the only sound. Then Aziraphale turned around abruptly and began marching back the way they'd come.
"What—Az, you could give some warning you know," Crowley called after him as he too turned and quickened his pace to catch up to the hastening Ravenclaw. "Where are you going?"
"The Owlery," Aziraphale replied simply.
"Why?"
"To write to my parents. They'll want to know I'm bringing a friend home for the holidays."
…
There had been no dissuading the resolute Ravenclaw, and to be honest, Crowley hadn't protested with too much vigor. But now, as the train puffed into King's Cross station several days after their conversation at the lake, he found his nervousness mounting.
Aziraphale lived a non-magical lifestyle, he knew—his mother was a Squib, and, rather than attempt to fit into the magical community, she had married a muggle. Crowley had scarcely had the chance to interact with muggles in the past, let alone spend several weeks with a family of them. In fact, he'd rarely ever associated with any family besides his own—which could hardly be counted as the epitome of familial functionality. How was he supposed to behave? He felt childish even thinking it, but what if they simply didn't like him? He couldn't stop himself from worrying that he'd be spending most of this holiday feeling utterly out of place.
"Crowley, are you daydreaming? We've pulled into the station."
Aziraphale's voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up to see his short friend attempting to pull his trunk down from the rack.
"Whoa—here, let me do that," he said, springing up to grab the trunk before it could come crashing down on top of Aziraphale's head. "How about you carry Tiresias, and I'll take care of the trunk."
They'd decided that it made little sense for them both to bring a trunk, so they were sharing Aziraphale's; similarly, they were bringing only one of their owls: Crowley's. Aziraphale's aging Spectacled Owl, Scholastica, certainly wouldn't object to a few weeks of peace back at the Owlery, whereas Tiresias tended to take offense whenever Crowley left her alone for long.
"Oi, watch how you hold her!" Crowley remonstrated as Tiresias hooted indignantly; Aziraphale sheepishly righted the cage he'd allowed to tilt sideways in his grasp.
They followed the crowd of students disembarking from the train. Aziraphale craned his neck to see over them as they stepped into the station, scanning the faces of parents waiting for their children. "It'll likely be just my dad," he said. "Mum will probably be waiting in the car because she…" Aziraphale paused, his face flushing a bit, then continued quickly, "well, I don't think she feels at home among so many magic folk, being what she is. Anyway, Dad looks a lot like me, if you see him—only with significantly less hair."
Crowley joined Aziraphale in his search of the crowd, attempting to get a grip on his irrational nervousness. "Er, hey Az?" he found himself saying. "I…um…never mind."
"What is it?" Aziraphale asked, glancing at his friend. Crowley had on his sunglasses, but that never seemed to prevent the blasted Ravenclaw from knowing exactly what he was feeling. "Are you nervous about meeting my family?"
"What? No, of course not!"
"They'll like you, Crowley," Aziraphale assured him, looking up into the Gryffindor's face and smiling encouragingly. "I promise. This is going to be fun. —Oh, look, there he is!" Crowley looked in the direction Aziraphale was pointing, and saw a smallish, stout man with sparse remnants of dark curly hair, thick spectacles, and a well-kept tweed jacket. There certainly were many similarities between him and his wizard son.
Aziraphale dashed forward, curls bouncing, as Crowley followed more slowly behind him, luggage in tow. He watched his friend get pulled into a deep hug, which was only released after a good ten seconds.
"Dad, this is Crowley, the friend I told you about."
"Er, nice to meet you, Mr. Anchell," Crowley said, setting the trunk down so that he could reach out and shake the older man's hand.
"It's good to meet you too, Crowley," he said with a smile that caused the crow's feet around his eyes to deepen amiably. His grip around the Gryffindor's hand was warm, and Crowley felt some of his apprehension melt away. "It'll be a delight having you with us for the holidays. Aziraphale has told us so much about you."
"Oh he has, has he?" Crowley smirked, watching his friend redden a bit. "I can only imagine the stuff he's said about me."
"Only good things," Mr. Anchell assured him.
"Really. So he never told you about the time in first year Transfiguration when I turned that snail into—"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale interrupted him, his voice a delicious mix of horror, embarrassment and desperation that brought an evil grin to Crowley's face. "Do we really need to keep bringing that up? Why don't we talk about something more…pleasant?"
"Okay then, we can talk about about last year's Halloween feast; that was pretty pleasant." Aziraphale shot him a glare that clearly communicated his unspoken warning: Don't you dare. Crowley had been wrong, he decided; this Break was going to be a lot of fun.
They made it out of the station and found Mrs. Anchell in the car. She got out as they approached and hugged her son tight—and then, to Crowley's shock, hugged him as well.
"It's wonderful to meet you, dear, after hearing so much about you these past few years," she told him as she pulled back.
"Yeah," Crowley said awkwardly, still recovering from the unexpected embrace. "Thanks for letting Az bring me, it's really nice of you both."
"Not at all," she said, smiling. She was of a slightly lighter complexion than her son and husband, olive skinned, with dark brown hair and caramel eyes.
They got the trunk into the boot of the car and then Crowley and Aziraphale slid into the back seat, Tiresias in her cage between them. She took one look at her new surroundings, deemed them secure, and tucked her head under her wing to snooze.
"Buckle up," Aziraphale told Crowley, and demonstrated what he meant with his own seatbelt. "You've never been in a car, have you?"
"Can't say that I have," Crowley replied, knuckles tightening around the seatbelt as the vehicle began to move.
"Don't worry, Dad's a good driver." He lowered his voice. "Not Mum so much, since she didn't learn to drive till she was in her twenties. But Dad will get us there safe and sound."
"It's a pity to hear about your grandmother, Crowley," Mrs. Anchell was saying. "I do hope the folks at St. Mungo's can heal her up nicely. Do you typically stay with your grandparents over the holidays?"
"Normally, yeah, and my mum usually gets some time off around Christmas. This year, no such luck."
Mr. Anchell joined the conversation as he steered them out of the car park. "Aziraphale once said she was an…oh, what's it called—"
"An auror, honey," Mrs. Anchell said.
"Right. And they're sort of like our MI6?"
"Not quite," Aziraphale interjected, leaving Crowley to wonder what on earth an m eye six might be. "That's the closest comparison I could think to make; they also function as the police."
"But you can't tell us what she's doing right now, where she's at, right?" Mr. Anchell continued. "It's classified, I assume?"
"Yeah, though I can say she's somewhere in Southeastern Europe," Crowley responded, glad he didn't have to explain that he didn't have many details about what her assignment was at the moment. As a child he'd always been intensely interested in his mother's work, had loved to hear her tell him what she could. For years he'd even dreamt of following in her footsteps, had practiced by tracking wildlife and hurling spells at enemy trees in the wood behind their remote house. Nowadays he didn't bother much with pestering her for what information she could give.
"Well, you're always welcome at our home," Mrs. Anchell said.
The two adults continued asking Crowley questions for the rest of the drive—first about his family, but when they realized he didn't have much to say on that subject, about his hobbies and such. Eventually the discussion moved on to school, which gave Aziraphale a chance to join in and, thankfully, take some of the spotlight off the Gryffindor. Crowley didn't mind their questioning as much as he would from anyone else; Aziraphale's parents seemed well-meaning and genuinely interested. He learned a bit about them as well: Aziraphale's mother was a librarian, his father a schoolteacher. That explained the Ravenclaw's bookishness, Crowley mused.
They pulled up to a sizeable house, old looking, but in good condition, just outside the limits of a small town. With the serene black sky above and whiteness draped across the roof and the surrounding hills, it looked like something from a Christmas card.
"Here we are!" Aziraphale said brightly, springing from the car. Crowley unbuckled more slowly and picked up Tiresias' cage. The owl, jostled from slumber, poked one golden eye from behind her wing to glare at him.
Crowley gave a strange, startled hiss when he clambered out of the car only to sink into half a foot of snow. It filled his shoes, sending uncomfortable chills shooting up his legs and into his spine. He reached for his wand to charm the snow away before remembering that he wasn't allowed to use magic here.
"Sorry about the snow," Mrs. Anchell apologized; "we did shovel, but it must have snowed more while we were away."
They slogged through the snow and made it inside, kicking off their damp shoes in the foyer.
"Aziraphale, dear, why don't you show Crowley where he's sleeping and let him get warmed up before dinner," Mrs. Anchell said, noticing Crowley's poorly suppressed shivers.
Aziraphale led the way, carrying Tiresias, while Crowley and Mr. Anchell followed behind with the trunk. Luckily it wasn't too heavy, as they had to lug it up two flights of stairs into the attic.
"Here you are," Mr. Anchell said, panting a little, as he set the trunk down, and took his leave of them.
"Well, this is it. My room," Aziraphale announced, a little self-consciously. He set Tiresias down on the desk beside the window looking out upon the front yard as Crowley took in the scene. Apart from the desk and its spindly chair, the room's furniture was comprised of a bed, cleanly made, with a camp bed beside it, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf full to bursting with books.
"You don't mind the camp bed, do you?" Aziraphale asked nervously. "I can take it, if you prefer to sleep in the bed."
"This is fine," Crowley told him. "You know, this is exactly how I imagined your room would be—a nice desk and a bloody big bookcase."
"Watch you don't use that kind of language in front of my parents," Aziraphale chided.
"What, they won't like me if I say 'bloody'? Believe me, I've got much more colorful phrases in my repertoire, if you'd like to hear them."
"Crowley, really!" Aziraphale remonstrated. "I mean, I'm sure they'd still like you, but…I don't know, I want them to like you a lot, I suppose."
"Okay, okay, I'll be on my best behavior," he promised as he peeled off his snow-damp socks and rummaged through the trunk for a fresh pair. "I'll speak cleaner than the Fat Friar, Gryffindor's honor."
…
Unconsciousness dripped away from Crowley's brain as slowly as snow melting under sunlight, leaving him in the drowsy state between wakefulness and sleep. He lay with his eyes still shut for a few moments, trying to determine what had woken him. It was still dark, no rays piercing through the curtains to stir him, and he could hear Aziraphale's gentle snores from the bed to his left. So what had…?
He heard a soft creaking of floorboards, a stifled giggle, a shush. Suddenly wide awake, he reached for where he always kept his wand, just above his head—and found it wasn't there. He sat up quickly, body alert, his muscles coiled and ready to spring, and raised his arms into a defensive position.
He blinked once and his eyes shifted, the pupils becoming narrower slits than usual; he felt a tugging in his brain as it began processing heat sources in the room. Two smoky orange-red bodies stood out in the darkness, like tongues of flame molded into human forms. One of the glowing figures was near the foot of his camp bed, one over by the desk. Both were very short: kids.
His mind, slowed a little by the dregs of drowsiness fast slipping away, digested this information and finally drew up a memory that accounted for it. At dinner last night, he recalled, Mrs. Anchell had mentioned that an aunt would be arriving in the morning with her two children. These, he surmised, must be them. Crowley allowed his body to relax, blinked again to flick his eyes back to normal vision, and reached for the light switch.
Aziraphale's snores hitched and he groaned as light filled the room, turning onto his stomach and pulling the quilt up over his sleep-mussed curls. Crowley paid little attention to him, looking instead at the two children, who were gazing back at him with guilty expressions. They were, he gathered, brother and sister; both had hair as curly as their cousin's, only brown instead of black. The brother's hair was cropped close to his head, curbing the curls somewhat, whereas the sister's—who looked to be the elder by several years—hung down well past her should blades. The one had Crowley's sunglasses perched on his small nose, much too big for his face; the other had his wand gripped in her chubby little hand.
"Give me that, before you hurt yourself," he demanded, climbing out of bed and extending his hand for his wand. The girl scowled, but handed it over.
"It won't make any magic for me, anyway," she pouted. "I've been tryin' for a couple minutes now." She looked dejected. "Guess'm not a witch."
"Oh, hey, you don't know that for sure. How old are you?"
"Eight," she told him.
"Yeah, you've still got time."
"Crowley? What d'you have on your face?" Crowley looked over to see Aziraphale peering sleepily out from his cocoon of blankets.
Confused, the Gryffindor reached his hand up to his face and felt something fluffy on his upper lip and chin. "What the—" The boy giggled, and held up a bottle of shaving cream. The two little buggers must have taken the liberty of decorating his face with a mustache and goatee as he slept. "Ah bugger, are you bloody serious?" he grumbled, wiping at the foam with his pajama sleeve.
"Crowley, language!" Aziraphale exclaimed, popping out from the blankets and looking scandalized.
"Oops," Crowley said, as the two children snickered.
"We were gonna do you, too, Aziraphale," the boy piped up, "but you sleep on your stomach, so we couldn't reach your face."
"Well, that's not too awful, as pranks go," Aziraphale sighed resignedly. "Last year," he related to Crowley, "they set up water balloons above my door…that was not a pleasant way to start the day."
Crowley sniggered. "I think I like you two," he told the pair.
"I suppose I should make the introductions," Aziraphale said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and reached for his glasses . "Crowley, these are my cousins, Gabrielle—"
"—Gabby!" the girl interjected.
"Right, sorry, Gabby. And Jacob. And yes, this is my friend Crowley."
"Good to meet you both." He turned to Jacob. "Now give me my sunglasses back, will you?"
"Aw, but I look so good in 'em," the boy complained, preening in the mirror hanging from the wardrobe's inner door.
…
Crowley didn't wear his sunglasses at breakfast; he found he wasn't as self-conscious around the Anchells as he'd expected to be, and no one, not even Gabby and Jacob, commented on his strange eyes. He did put them back on, however, after they'd eaten their fill of pancakes and scrambled eggs and trooped outside, as they were sensitive to the sunlight that was flashing across the surface of the snow.
Aziraphale lent him an old pair of boots that, luckily, fit him pretty well, so that he didn't have to worry about his shoes filling up with snow. How did muggles live without simple charms to keep snow out? Not to mention washing up after meals, as they just had, by hand! It was amazing, really. Crowley hadn't given them enough credit in the past, he decided.
"Wanna build a snowman?" Jacob chirruped, skipping backwards through the snow in front of Crowley.
"I suppose," Crowley said, trying not to grin too widely at the six year old, whose hat kept slipping off his curls and whose gloves were a couple sizes too big.
They got to work, Crowley rolling the ball that would be the base as Jacob worked on the middle section. The snow was crisp, perfect for packing, and made the most satisfying crunch underfoot.
Crowley forgot to keep track of where Aziraphale and Gabby had gone until he felt something hard and cold slam into the back of his head. "Umph!"
Quick as a whirlwind, he drew his wand from his pocket and spun to face his attacker—and found himself pointing his wand directly at Gabby ten feet away. She dove behind a hastily constructed wall of snow, squealing, "No magic, no magic, that's not fair!"
Crowley quickly stowed his wand, reddening a bit in the cold winter air. "Yeah, no magic, definitely not. Sorry, Gabby."
Aziraphale, who was holding a snowball of his own, approached Crowley and murmured, "You know there's nothing here to harm you. Really. You can relax."
"Yeah, yeah I know," Crowley replied, sheepish but a tad defensive. "I'm just not too good at the whole 'relaxing' thing."
Aziraphale sighed. "Well…maybe a snowball fight will release some of that tension." And suddenly there was a second snowball slamming into him.
"Hey!" Crowley wheezed as the wind was knocked out of him, but there was laughter in his voice. "Wait till I've got some defenses up, at least, you prat!"
He and Jacob set to work, hurriedly building a snow fort some twenty feet off from Aziraphale's and Gabby's. Soon snowballs were whistling through the air, shouts and laughter echoing through the field.
The days leading to Christmas Eve slipped by, one by one. Some days trickled lazily along, with hot cocoa drinking and cookie baking and reading and snoozing in front of the cozy fireplace. Others whirred past with sledding and ice skating and outings to the town. Crowley was enthralled with the big screen at the cinema when they went there, and dragged Aziraphale back for two more movies after the first. Aziraphale enjoyed the rapture in his friend's eyes more than any of the films. It wasn't hard to find things that thrilled the Gryffindor with their muggle-ness, and Aziraphale scoured his house and the town for every non-magical pastime he could think of, simply for the delight of seeing Crowley's wonderment.
The days were scattered through with pranks from Aziraphale's two cousins—sometimes they had Crowley's help, but more often the poor Gryffindor was the object of their mischief. Crowley was introduced to the refined and subtle art of comedy that is the whoopee cushion, among other things. One memorable morning, Crowley staggered sleepily into the kitchen just in time to witness a very befuddled Aunt Ruth pulling a pair of briefs, coated in ice, out of the freezer. He'd taken them from her, blushing furiously as Gabby and Jacob fell out of their chairs at the table, overcome by giggling.
Then it was Christmas Eve. After much wheedling, Aziraphale convinced Crowley to accompany them to a church service in the late afternoon. Crowley had never so much as stepped foot in a church before, and had the strange and ludicrous feeling that he'd be prevented from entering, somehow—perhaps struck by lightning at the threshold, or forced back by a gust of divine wind—but he made it to the pew intact. The service was surprisingly pleasant; the hymns were all Christmas carols and everyone in the church was in a festive mood, their voices blending and rising cheerfully towards the high ceiling. For reasons he couldn't explain, he flinched backwards as the priest walked down the aisle flicking holy water over the congregation, gasping as a few droplets landed on his face. But, of course, nothing happened, and he felt silly for reacting so bizarrely—it was only water, after all.
They traipsed homeward in high spirits, Mr. and Mrs. Anchell and Aunt Ruth belting out carols as the younger members of the group ambled along in front of them. A light snow was falling from the darkened sky, the flakes swirling and glistening in the beams of the streetlamps. It was bitter cold, the wind slicing through Crowley's thick wool scarf as easily as gauze, and as he had forgotten his gloves his fingers were fast going numb. Yet there was a warmth in his chest as he marched along, Aziraphale to his right and the Anchell cousins to his left, and he couldn't stop a smile from stretching his lips beneath his scarf.
After dinner, they all sat in front of the fire, slumped in a food-induced stupor until Gabby and Jacob stirred, whining for presents.
"I've got a few for you," Aziraphale told them, causing them to cheer. Aziraphale always brought the best gifts—little objects endowed with innocuous charms. In past years they'd gotten tin soldiers that winked their little painted-on eyes, teddy bears that grew warm when you hugged them in a chilly bed, and origami swans that fluttered their wings and hovered a few centimeters in the air when gazed at from the corner of your eye.
Crowley and Aziraphale made the trek up to the attic bedroom to gather up the gifts they had. Crowley only had one, a present for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale had his arms piled high brightly wrapped boxes.
"Want me to take some of those?" Crowley asked.
"No, no, I've got them—oh!" Aziraphale stopped short just in front of the doorway, causing Crowley to bump into him.
"What?" Crowley asked, and followed the blushing Ravenclaw's gaze to just above the door…where a sprig of mistletoe was hanging, cheerfully green and heavy with round white berries. "Oh. Um…"
"Gabby and Jacob must have…oh, I'll kill them, I really will."
"But why would they…?" Crowley trailed off and felt his face grow hot.
"I reckon they, er, think that I—that we—well, it's hardly important, they're just—here, I'll take it down."
"No, your arms are full," Crowley said awkwardly; "I'll get it."
He brushed past Aziraphale and reached up to pull the mistletoe down…and felt lips press against his cheek.
It was just a peck—light, feathery, brief—but undeniably a kiss. Then his friend was gone, scurrying down the stairs and out of Crowley's sight.
Crowley stood there for a moment, too stunned to move, his arms still extended towards the mistletoe. Then, unconsciously, he pulled it down. Went and set it down on Aziraphale's desk. Moved his hand up to his cheek to touch where his best friend's lips had been, soft and warm.
Strange. Very strange.
He shook his head slightly. Aziraphale was prone to strange displays of affection. Surely that was all the kiss had been. Yes. He shrugged it off with a small smile. There were presents to be opened, a warm fire to curl up beside, a family to join. He made his way downstairs.