7. Those Two Men.

Aziraphale pulled them both into the nearest shop when all the squalling had begun to attract too much attention.

"Bloody psychotic chicken!" cried Crowley. "I should have roasted him right where he perched."

Aziraphale brushed the last few feathers from Crowley's hair. "That would have - how did you say it - gone down like a red balloon-"

"Lead balloon, angel."

"Whatever. We're supposed to be blending in, my dear, and setting owls on fire isn't the sort of subterfuge I had in mind."

Crowley glared. "What exactly do you have in mind, then?"

Several moments later they left the shop resplendent in robes of blue and black. Crowley tugged at his, and tripped over the bottom, and complained loudly that his robe was in fact really quite itchy.

"I didn't suffer the whole of the Dark Ages just to have it happen all over again," he whinged as they made their way down the street. Aziraphale peered into the shops, and would pause to consult the book before shaking his head and moving on. He tsked at Crowley without looking at him.

"Come on now," he scolded. "Buck up. Just... pretend it's 1666. Remember? You rather liked that year if I recall."

"Well, yes," said Crowley. "Plague year. Bloody good fun, that was."

"If a bit messy," added Aziraphale.

They walked the length of Diagon Alley, Aziraphale reading from his book and pointing things out to the very cranky demon trailing behind him. He didn't know what bothered him more, that they were stuck babysitting the spawn of Satan in an imagined world, or the fact that Aziraphale seemed to be enjoying himself. He was adapting rather quickly to his surroundings, his archaic mindset tickled pink to see people scratching with quills onto parchment, and messenger-owls and cauldrons.

Crowley hadn't seen him so happy in centuries, and it infuriated him somehow.

"Angel," he said, jogging a bit to keep up, "what are we doing here?"

Aziraphale held the book out to him, open to the back pages. "Look here. This book is enchanted. The pages actually rewrite themselves as time goes on."

"That's handy," said Crowley, approvingly. "I can think of another Book that could stand to do that once in a while."

"Shush. Anyway, it looks like there are positions open at Hogwarts, so I thought that we could, you know..."

A grin slithered onto Crowley's face. "Are you suggesting we lie, Aziraphale?" he asked. Now this was more like it.

"Heavens no." Aziraphale blanched. "Er, well, not lie per se, but... what was it Chaucer once said? 'Give the truth scope'?"

"It's lying, angel. Neither of us are- What are the positions, anyway?"

Aziraphale looked almost smug. "A professor of Dark Arts, and a librarian."

"Urk."

"All we need to do is send off an owl to Professor Dumbledore-"

Crowley's head was spinning. "Who?"

Aziraphale shot him a withering look.

"Dumbledore," he said. "He's the headmaster of Hogwarts. Big gray beard, pointy hats, the whole wizard business. A veritable Gandalf, if you will."

"Right, right," said Crowley, waving an impatient hand. "So we send owls to this man? We haven't got any owls, have we?"

Aziraphale pointed at something behind them, and Crowley was almost afraid to look. He turned, and groaned.

"That's easily fixed," said Aziraphale with a smile, and he took Crowley's arm and led him into Eeylops Owl Emporium.