When Crowley sauntered into the Great Hall the next day for what most students called lunch but he considered breakfast,* he didn't think anything of Aziraphale's absence from the Ravenclaw table. His friend often spent his Saturdays lost in a book or completing assignments in the library, so that he tended to lose track of time and miss meals, much to his own dismay. Crowley made a mental note to stuff an apple and some rolls in his bag before leaving the Hall—he knew how grumpy Aziraphale could get when he didn't eat.

He glanced around for any of his other friends, but there was no sign of Newt, Anathema, or the twins, so he settled down on an empty bench at the Gryffindor table to eat in solitude.

Loading his plate with mashed potato, peas, and a few chicken legs, Crowley was only able to enjoy several bites before four short figures plopped down on the bench, two on either side of him.

He glanced to his left: a pair of first-year Hufflepuffs he didn't know. One's dark hair and robes gave off an air of permanent dishevelment, and the other (significantly tidier) one blinked up at him through thick, square black frames with wise-looking eyes that would have better fit an ancient sage than an eleven year old child.

He glanced to his right: Adam and Pepper, naturally. He rolled his eyes toward the cloudy skies of the enchanted ceiling from behind his sunglasses. "Merlin give me strength," he muttered under his breath, then turned to Adam and Pepper.

"Do I look like a daycare service or something?" he grumbled. "You can pick seats that aren't next to me, you know. And you two," he added to the pair to his left, "see the yellow on your robes? That matches—can you guess—the yellow banners above that table over there. So why don't you go on and join your house now?"

"I've only got here two days ago," the bespectacled first-year replied, "but the more I see of inter-house in'eractions, the more corroborates my feelings that this house system is at least somewhat rubbish."

Crowley gaped at him a moment. Then he whirled to his left to address Adam: "Okay, what first-year knows the word 'corroborate'?" Adam shrugged, while Pepper had her freckled nose scrunched up, looking like she was trying to figure out what such a big word could possibly mean.

"Also," the perplexing little Hufflepuff added, so that Crowley had to turn his head back to him,** "I've already seen you with members of all four houses, not just Gryffindors, so I can bet you agree with me that the house divisions don't really mean all that much."

"...Right," was all Crowley could think to reply.

"These," Adam broke in brightly, "are Wensley and Brian."

"Adam and I met them in Charms yesterday and now we're all real good friends," Pepper chimed in.

"Yeah!" the dark-haired Hufflepuff agreed enthusiastically, his mouth full of pastry, spilling powered sugar all down his robes. "But not till af'er Professor Flitwick saved me from Pepper."

"I had Brian in a real good headlock," Pepper agreed proudly. "No way he'd a got out of it without Flitwick magicin' us apart!"

"It was so cool," Brian said. "There was this flash o' real bright light and it was like two magnets when you try an' connect'em the wrong way—we jus' sorta, rocketed apart!" He brought his hands together and threw them apart to demonstrate, causing the pastry he was still holding to shower powdered sugar all over Wensley's hair beside him.

"What did he do to deserve a headlock?" Crowley asked the fiery-haired little Gryffindor curiously.

"He asked me why I was wearin' trousers when girls are s'posed to wear skirts," Pepper answered. "I told 'im you won't catch me wearin' any skirts—they're sexist," she declared.

"What's this about skirts being sexist?" a cool voice broke in as Anathema appeared, seating herself across from Crowley and his gaggle of first-years. There were a few boos and protests from a little further down the table; Gryffindors didn't take kindly to Slytherins invading their table. Anathema ignored them, focusing on the first-years surrounding Crowley instead. "Seems like you've got yourself quite a fan club, Crowley," she noted, before turning her attention on Pepper.

"Men use skirts to oppress women," Pepper explained. "They were invented to keep us from bein' able to run an' hunt an' do other active stuff. That's what my mum says."

"Hmm...I'm not sure about how accurate that history is, but even if that is true, why should that stop anyone who wants to wear skirts from wearing them?" Anathema asked, her sharp gaze holding the younger girl's green eyes. "If men really do mean for skirts to keep women tied down, wouldn't that make wearing one and being just as successful as they are...subversive?"

Pepper had look of someone hit by a surprise stunning spell. "Oh...well…they're still too girly for me," she finally said, but she looked thoughtful.

"And what's wrong with girly?" Anathema queried.

"I...don't know..." Pepper said slowly.

Crowley was hardly paying attention to this exchange, taking the opportunity to shovel down his food. But he whipped his head up as suddenly a chicken leg whizzed through the air, heading straight for Anathema's face.

Before Crowley could blink once, however, the missile had stopped dead in midair, a half a yard away from its target. Anathema had her wand out, pointed at the immobilized hunk of meat. With a lazy flick of her wrist, she sent it whistling back the way it had come, nailing the Gryffindor who'd thrown it her way square in the chest.

"Oomph!" he exhaled, almost falling off the bench.

"Aw, come on!" his friends exclaimed angrily. "Get back to your own table, Slytherin!" one of them jeered.

"I don't think I'm wanted here, sorry Crowley. See you later. Kids," she nodded at the four first-years, and came to a focus on Adam. "Ah, Adam Young," she stated, giving him an appraising stare. "It's so nice to meet you after so long."

"Er…" Adam said, looking utterly nonplussed. "Nice to meet you, too…"

"Anathema."

"Anathema," he repeated solemnly, trying out the strange name on his tongue.

The fifth-year witch rose from the table and turned to head to the Slytherin table, the fabric of her gray skirt swaying as she walked away. Pepper watched her go, looking star-struck.

"Wow," she breathed. "I wanna…I wanna be like her!" Crowley snorted. Anathema often had such an effect on those who first met her. Then he thought of something he'd wanted to ask her.

"Oi, Anathema, wait a moment!"

The Slytherin's silky sheet of black hair swished as she turned back around. "Yeah?"

"Have you seen Aziraphale today?"

"At breakfast, yes," she replied, taking a few steps back toward the table so she wouldn't have to shout. "His aura seemed cloudy, and he was more terse than usual; you wouldn't know why, would you?"

"No," Crowley replied, puzzled.

"No? Well, if you say so…" Anathema turned once more to walk away.

Suddenly his stomach dropped as he realized he did have a good idea why. The memory of his last exchange with the Ravenclaw flooded back into his brain, and he grimaced. He'd been rude to Aziraphale last night, offering to walk him to his dormitory and then leaving him alone. Oh, and he'd snapped at him a good bit first. Aziraphale was probably upset about that.

He sighed; Aziraphale frequently treated Crowley brusquely, and Crowley simply took it in stride. It wouldn't have been out of character for the Ravenclaw to leave Crowley suddenly, and indeed he had done so countless times—rushing away with the recollection of an assignment unfinished, or as a way to express disapproval at one of the Gryffindor's pranks. He snapped at Crowley pretty often, too. Why was it all right for Aziraphale to be a bit rude, but if Crowley offended his admittedly rather stuffy friend, it meant being treated to the cold shoulder for days?

"Is Aziraphale the one with the dark curly hair and the glasses?" A voice startled Crowley from his thoughts.

"Huh?" He looked to the source of the voice—it was the Hufflepuff who looked too old for his age, Wensley. "Yeah, that's Aziraphale, have you seen him?"

"He and the tall one were playin' chess in the Hufflepuff common room when Brian and I left it a little while ago," Wensley informed him. "Only it was some sort of magical chess, the pieces moved, I wanted to stay an' watch but Brian was hungry."

"I can't help bein' hungry, Wensley," Brian retorted defensively. "We can go back an' watch 'em now."

"I'll come with you," Crowley told them.

He gathered some food into a napkin for Aziraphale—tucking a sizable piece of pie in among the apple and rolls, figuring it would make a good peace offering if Aziraphale really was upset with him—and rose from the table to leave.

Passing the Slytherin table, he saw that Anathema had seated herself at the end furthest from that third-year prat, Draco Malfoy, whom she detested. She was chatting with a few of her fellow fifth-years. Draco, nearer to the Hall's exit, was surrounded by his usual retinue of third-years. His arm was in a sling, Crowley assumed from his incident with Buckbeak the Hippogriff, and Pansy Parkinson was fawning over him like some sort of war hero. Ugh. Crowley made a mental note to brainstorm some nasty pranks to play on the blond-haired little git at the nearest opportunity, and followed the pair of first-year Hufflepuffs out of the Hall.

Footnotes:

*Sleeping was one of Crowley's favorite pastimes, and he often spent entire Saturdays curled up in bed; getting up by noon was actually early for him.

**He was bound to get whiplash from turning his head from his left to his right to his left again so much; why did these little imps have to sit on either side of him?