i9. Demons Never Ask Directions./i
"Turn left."
"It says right."
"That goes into a lake, dear. You'll want to turn left."
"Why would it say right if it goes into a lake?"
"I think perhaps this map is older than the lake. Best turn left."
"Oh, bugger this."
The Bentley rolled to a bumpy halt in the middle of a squelchy field, and Crowley yanked the map out of Aziraphale's hands.
"That wasn't very nice."
Crowley ignored him.
"Look at this," he cried. "How're you supposed to be able to read that writing?"
He jabbed the map with his finger, pointing at the spindly letters sprawled across the parchment. He could tell London by the odegra – and was mildly amused by magical folk picking up on that – and he gathered that the large drawing of a castle was the infernal school itself, but everything in between was a complete mess of nonsensical words and ink blotches.
Aziraphale calmly plucked the map away from Crowley. He peered at it thoughtfully, over the top of his professorly spectacles. They were a recent acquisition in Aziraphale's effort to look more authorative and scholarly, and less like an eccentric old uncle.
"You know you don't need those things," said Crowley, thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently. "And they look rather silly."
Aziraphale frowned and adjusted his glasses. "I think they look dignified," he said, rather stiffly. "It's all part of the disguise, you see."
Crowley laughed, a short bark of mirth.
"Disguise? You? You're posing as a librarian, angel. That's not too far off the mark."
"I'm not just a librarian." Aziraphale turned the map upside down and squinted at it, as if perhaps now it would suddenly translate itself that way. "In his letter Dumbledore addressed me as a professor, too."
"Only because you signed your inquiry with it, Professor Fale." Crowley snorted. "If you were referring to the afternoon you spent getting blotto with Socrates-"
"It was very educational!" croaked Aziraphale. "Besides, you're no more qualified to be a teacher than I am, Professor Crowley."
"Actually," said Crowley, "I've a degree. In law." At the angel's sceptical frown he added, "Standard issue, Below. Everyone down there's got one."
"Ah."
Aziraphale studied the map again.
"I think we're lost."
The Bentley's engine roared. Or maybe it was Crowley. Aziraphale couldn't really tell.
They drove on in relative silence for a bit, rumbling over a bumpy sheep's path that gave way to a sludgey ribbon of mud that had, at some point in history, been a road. Crowley could feel the dirt clinging to the Bentley's normally spotless tyres.
This would not do. This was an outrage. His baby was getting positively filthy. Crowley hadn't even seen the bloody school yet, but already he-
"Oooooh!" said Aziraphale, suddenly, and he grabbed Crowley's arm and pointed. "Look at that."
Crowley looked, and a single word popped unbidden into his head.
Wow.
They had gone around the lake, even though it was a very big lake, and had come upon the backside of an enormous mountain. At the crest of the mountain loomed a castle, the likes of which Aziraphale had not seen in centuries. He missed the craftsmanship of a good castle – sturdy, reliable, if a bit drafty.
Crowley, however, his initial awe having faded, was more concerned about having to drive the Bentley "up the side of a bloody mountain."
"Hm," said Aziraphale unhelpfully. "Perhaps we should just, ah, leave it down here and…"
"Are you suggesting we abandon my car?" Crowley was appalled. It had taken the angel nearly a decade to convince Crowley that he could park the Bentley on the street in front of Aziraphale's shop, and that he really didn't need to replace the shop next door with a private garage because honestly, if he didn't want anyone to harm the car, then all he really needed to do was believe that no one would, and isn't that how he'd managed to keep it in mint condition for half a century anyway?
"Beside the point," said Crowley impatiently, when Aziraphale started to bring it up again. "I am not leaving it here."
Aziraphale frowned.
"Then how do you- oh," he said, as Crowley slowly smiled at him, and then they were on top of the mountain, coasting smoothly down a slight incline of grass with the castle straight ahead. Aziraphale calmly adjusted his fez, which had replaced his usual bowler hat when it became apparent that wizards had even more atrocious fashion sense than Aziraphale normally did, and tried his best to look disapproving.
"Well, that's one way, I suppose."
Crowley chuckled and said nothing as he manoeuvred the Bentley onto a cobblestone road, and the gates of Hogwarts came into view. They were closed.
"Er," said Aziraphale, shuffling through the parchment in his hands. "There ought to be something in here about how to open them."
"I'll open them," began Crowley, but before he could muster up a good glare Aziraphale poked him, and wagged a finger at him. Crowley stared at him.
"Enough of that," said the angel. "We're in their world now, so we need to obey a few of their rules."
"Did you just shake your finger at me?"
"Never mind that. Here, take some of these scrolls and see if you can find instructions for the gates."
"I can't believe you shook your finger at me."
"Crowley, my dear," said Aziraphale, "do shut up."
They scoured the scrolls, but nothing in them said anything about opening the gates. "Dumbledore must have forgotten we were coming," said Aziraphale, taking off the fez and scratching his head. "Of course, he may have thought we were coming by more… traditional means of transport."
Crowley looked at him. "What's more traditional than a Bentley?"
"For them I mean. You know. Broomsticks, the like."
"Broomsticks."
"Yes. They fly on broomsticks in this world." He frowned. "You didn't read Hogwarts, A History, then."
"I try not to read, angel," said Crowley grumpily. "Taxes the brain. Distracts one from tempting. You know."
"Right," said Aziraphale, who had been to Crowley's flat and had seen the well-worn books lining the demon's shelves. They were mostly ever book ever banned from the world's libraries, but Aziraphale was certain he'd seen The Chronicles of Narnia in there. Crowley had a soft spot for allegorical children's literature, though he'd never admit it.
Well, he did once, but get enough Shoggoth's Old Peculiar into Crowley and he would admit to anything – it was how Aziraphale found out exactly who had been responsible for Milton Keynes, and he'd been right.
"Well," said Aziraphale, crossing his arms and looking a bit ill. "Go ahead, then."
Crowley blinked. The gates swung open. He grinned.
"Last time," he said. "Promise."
"Mm," said Aziraphale, who knew exactly how much a demon's promise was worth.
The Bentley started forward, and Professors Crowley and Fale arrived at Hogwarts.