12. Crowley's Day Keeps Getting
Better.
They reached the castle and its enormous oak doors, which Crowley pushed open like a man on a mission. The foyer was empty when they stepped inside, but Aziraphale could hear voices coming from somewhere.
Crowley sniffed the air. "I smell food," he said. "Someone's here, anyway."
"There," said Aziraphale, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. He quickly dropped his bags and Eldritch's cage and hurried to it, peering through the crack. "Oh."
"What is it?" said Crowley, coming up behind him and trying to see around Aziraphale's fez.
"A feast," said Aziraphale. "Looks like the students beat us here. Look at them all!"
With an impatient grunt Crowley pushed him out of the way and peeked through the door. The room beyond it was absolutely gigantic and brightly lit by thousands of candles floating in midair. Torches aligned the walls, and multicoloured banners bearing pictures of lions and badgers, snakes and ravens. Several very long tables stretched the length of the hall, filled with children chattering merrily amongst themselves.
Crowley's eyes narrowed. He did not mind children individually, but after the incident with the Boy Who Was Not the Antichrist's birthday party, he was not fond of them in groups. His heart - or what amounted to a heart - sank at the thought of spending Go- Lo- who knows how long having to deal with rooms full of the little bastards every day.
He had better be able to get alcohol in this world, or someone was going to pay.
Something scraped against his jacket. Aziraphale was pawing at him and looking positively giddy. "Aren't they precious?" he breathed, eyes shining. Crowley looked at him and opened his mouth to say something extremely rude, when the door burst open and struck him right in the eye.
Crowley toppled over onto the floor in a cursing heap.
"Ah!" A thin, extreme-looking woman looked down at him with an expression of bewilderment. "I apologise, I didn't see you there, er…"
"Professor Fale, madam," said Aziraphale, doffing his fez. "This is my associate, Professor, er, Crowley. Here, let me..."
He hauled Crowley to his feet and made a show of dusting him off while surreptiously rearranging his clothes to better resemble wizard's robes. He hadn't been able to convince Crowley to put them on before they'd left London, and the woman had been eyeing him as if she'd never seen anything like him before. She would not notice, however, that his clothes had been altered; Aziraphale smiled at her, and her expression softened.
"Charmed," said Crowley, rubbing his eye with one hand and extending the other.
"Minerva McGonagall." She grasped his hand, and Crowley smirked when she retracted it quickly. No one held hands with a demon for very long. Except for Aziraphale, but he was sentimental like that.
McGonagall spoke. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor," she said, earnestly. "I was coming to see if you'd arrived and- you should have come right in."
"We didn't want to interrupt," said Aziraphale. "We've only just arrived. Had a bit of car trouble, you see, and-"
"Car trouble?" McGonagall frowned. "You drove?"
"Er," said Aziraphale, but Crowley cut him off before he could attempt an explanation. They didn't have all night.
"It's quaint," he said, lowering his hand and resting it lightly on McGonagall's shoulder. He wouldn't have a black eye if he could help it. "Old Az, here, he's quite attached to those strange Muggle methods of doing things, getting around. You know. I thought I'd humour him."
Aziraphale poked him. Crowley smiled. McGonagall flushed, slightly.
"How nice," she said. "Well, then. Let's get you inside, shall we? The Sorting is about to begin."
She turned to lead them into the hall. Crowley stole a glance at Aziraphale.
Sorting? he mouthed.
You'll see, Aziraphale mouthed back.
The chatter fell to silence as soon as McGonagall appeared with the two strange men in tow. They followed her up to the high table, and she indicated two empty seats at one end. Aziraphale took the one on the end, and Crowley found himself seated between the angel and a surly-looking, black-clad man who regarded Crowley with thinly veiled loathing.
"Sunglasses," the man hissed as soon as Crowley sat down, "are not allowed at this school."
"Aren't they?" replied Crowley. "How unfortunate for everyone else."
The man sneered, but could not reply. The Sorting had begun.
"When I call your names," said McGonagall, addressing a cadre of nervous-looking children standing before her, "you will come up here and take a seat. I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will tell you to what House you belong."
Crowley leaned sideways toward Aziraphale. "House."
"Four of them," said Aziraphale. He had that infernal book open in his lap, out of sight of everyone but Crowley. "Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Not that much different from your basic English school, really, except that they're a bit … specific about what sorts of people belong in every house."
"Oh?"
Aziraphale nodded, and explained each of the Houses in a low voice as McGonagall called 'Atkins, Florence," to the stool. A tiny girl in plaits stumbled forth, and nearly disappeared from view as the Hat was dropped on her head.
Everyone waited. The girl held perfect still as the Hat muttered to itself.
Then, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
One of the tables exploded in cheers, and the little girl hopped down, handed the hat back to McGonagall, and scurried off toward that table. Crowley noted how the other children greeted her warmly, though they'd never met her before. He smirked, as he always did when he saw the potential for something to be exploited for his own amusement (and Brownie points down Below).
By the time "Williams, Xavier," was sorted into Ravenclaw Crowley was bored. He'd taken to glaring at random students, planting a few impure thoughts amongst the older ones and inspiring mischief in the younger. He could feel Aziraphale scowling at him, but he had no doubt that the angel was amusing himself in his own way. He'd seen the redheaded boy pick up the quill dropped by the bushy-haired girl next to him, handing it to her with a positively soppy smile.
"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale, when a blond boy tipped a flagon of orange-coloured juice down the back of another boy's robes. He caught the eye of the sinister-looking fellow sitting on Crowley's other side. "You're being watched, you know."
"I know," said Crowley. "The vampire behind me, right?"
"He's staring at your sunglasses."
Crowley grunted, and furrowed his brow, and his sunglasses became delicate, wire-rim spectacles. Aziraphale blinked in surprise when Crowley looked up and smiled at him.
"But, your eyes-"
"Look normal to them, angel." Crowley gestured toward the rest of the hall. "So long as I've got the glasses on. Doesn't work on you, though." He grinned. "You know what to expect when you look at me. The meat-puppets don't."
Aziraphale made a face. "You know I dislike that euphemism."
"I know," leered Crowley.
The Sorting continued, with "Woburn, Hyacinth," and "Wulf, Daegaer," both of whom were sorted into Gryffindor. That table, Crowley observed, made the most noise whenever anyone was Sorted into it. He could feel the pride radiating off of them in waves, and it was so overwhelming that Crowley nearly giggled aloud. So much potential in one room; he felt like a kid shoplifting in a candy store.
"Young, Adam."
Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright.
"This should be interesting." Aziraphale smiled. "If I were a betting man I would say Slytherin."
Crowley shook his head. "Too obvious," he said. "You watch, the little bugger's going to end up in Gryffindor."
Adam – the last child standing – approached the stool with the same confidence he did everything in life. You didn't grow up the leader of the Them only to be afraid of a hat. He sat purposefully on the stool and, when McGonagall put the hat on his head he reached up and tugged it down a bit, to make sure that it fit. Some of the students laughed.
Crowley leaned forward, as if he could read the lips that the Hat did not have.
And the Son of Satan became a Hufflepuff.
They reached the castle and its enormous oak doors, which Crowley pushed open like a man on a mission. The foyer was empty when they stepped inside, but Aziraphale could hear voices coming from somewhere.
Crowley sniffed the air. "I smell food," he said. "Someone's here, anyway."
"There," said Aziraphale, pointing to a door that was slightly ajar. He quickly dropped his bags and Eldritch's cage and hurried to it, peering through the crack. "Oh."
"What is it?" said Crowley, coming up behind him and trying to see around Aziraphale's fez.
"A feast," said Aziraphale. "Looks like the students beat us here. Look at them all!"
With an impatient grunt Crowley pushed him out of the way and peeked through the door. The room beyond it was absolutely gigantic and brightly lit by thousands of candles floating in midair. Torches aligned the walls, and multicoloured banners bearing pictures of lions and badgers, snakes and ravens. Several very long tables stretched the length of the hall, filled with children chattering merrily amongst themselves.
Crowley's eyes narrowed. He did not mind children individually, but after the incident with the Boy Who Was Not the Antichrist's birthday party, he was not fond of them in groups. His heart - or what amounted to a heart - sank at the thought of spending Go- Lo- who knows how long having to deal with rooms full of the little bastards every day.
He had better be able to get alcohol in this world, or someone was going to pay.
Something scraped against his jacket. Aziraphale was pawing at him and looking positively giddy. "Aren't they precious?" he breathed, eyes shining. Crowley looked at him and opened his mouth to say something extremely rude, when the door burst open and struck him right in the eye.
Crowley toppled over onto the floor in a cursing heap.
"Ah!" A thin, extreme-looking woman looked down at him with an expression of bewilderment. "I apologise, I didn't see you there, er…"
"Professor Fale, madam," said Aziraphale, doffing his fez. "This is my associate, Professor, er, Crowley. Here, let me..."
He hauled Crowley to his feet and made a show of dusting him off while surreptiously rearranging his clothes to better resemble wizard's robes. He hadn't been able to convince Crowley to put them on before they'd left London, and the woman had been eyeing him as if she'd never seen anything like him before. She would not notice, however, that his clothes had been altered; Aziraphale smiled at her, and her expression softened.
"Charmed," said Crowley, rubbing his eye with one hand and extending the other.
"Minerva McGonagall." She grasped his hand, and Crowley smirked when she retracted it quickly. No one held hands with a demon for very long. Except for Aziraphale, but he was sentimental like that.
McGonagall spoke. "I'm terribly sorry, Professor," she said, earnestly. "I was coming to see if you'd arrived and- you should have come right in."
"We didn't want to interrupt," said Aziraphale. "We've only just arrived. Had a bit of car trouble, you see, and-"
"Car trouble?" McGonagall frowned. "You drove?"
"Er," said Aziraphale, but Crowley cut him off before he could attempt an explanation. They didn't have all night.
"It's quaint," he said, lowering his hand and resting it lightly on McGonagall's shoulder. He wouldn't have a black eye if he could help it. "Old Az, here, he's quite attached to those strange Muggle methods of doing things, getting around. You know. I thought I'd humour him."
Aziraphale poked him. Crowley smiled. McGonagall flushed, slightly.
"How nice," she said. "Well, then. Let's get you inside, shall we? The Sorting is about to begin."
She turned to lead them into the hall. Crowley stole a glance at Aziraphale.
Sorting? he mouthed.
You'll see, Aziraphale mouthed back.
The chatter fell to silence as soon as McGonagall appeared with the two strange men in tow. They followed her up to the high table, and she indicated two empty seats at one end. Aziraphale took the one on the end, and Crowley found himself seated between the angel and a surly-looking, black-clad man who regarded Crowley with thinly veiled loathing.
"Sunglasses," the man hissed as soon as Crowley sat down, "are not allowed at this school."
"Aren't they?" replied Crowley. "How unfortunate for everyone else."
The man sneered, but could not reply. The Sorting had begun.
"When I call your names," said McGonagall, addressing a cadre of nervous-looking children standing before her, "you will come up here and take a seat. I will place the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will tell you to what House you belong."
Crowley leaned sideways toward Aziraphale. "House."
"Four of them," said Aziraphale. He had that infernal book open in his lap, out of sight of everyone but Crowley. "Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Not that much different from your basic English school, really, except that they're a bit … specific about what sorts of people belong in every house."
"Oh?"
Aziraphale nodded, and explained each of the Houses in a low voice as McGonagall called 'Atkins, Florence," to the stool. A tiny girl in plaits stumbled forth, and nearly disappeared from view as the Hat was dropped on her head.
Everyone waited. The girl held perfect still as the Hat muttered to itself.
Then, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
One of the tables exploded in cheers, and the little girl hopped down, handed the hat back to McGonagall, and scurried off toward that table. Crowley noted how the other children greeted her warmly, though they'd never met her before. He smirked, as he always did when he saw the potential for something to be exploited for his own amusement (and Brownie points down Below).
By the time "Williams, Xavier," was sorted into Ravenclaw Crowley was bored. He'd taken to glaring at random students, planting a few impure thoughts amongst the older ones and inspiring mischief in the younger. He could feel Aziraphale scowling at him, but he had no doubt that the angel was amusing himself in his own way. He'd seen the redheaded boy pick up the quill dropped by the bushy-haired girl next to him, handing it to her with a positively soppy smile.
"Really, my dear," said Aziraphale, when a blond boy tipped a flagon of orange-coloured juice down the back of another boy's robes. He caught the eye of the sinister-looking fellow sitting on Crowley's other side. "You're being watched, you know."
"I know," said Crowley. "The vampire behind me, right?"
"He's staring at your sunglasses."
Crowley grunted, and furrowed his brow, and his sunglasses became delicate, wire-rim spectacles. Aziraphale blinked in surprise when Crowley looked up and smiled at him.
"But, your eyes-"
"Look normal to them, angel." Crowley gestured toward the rest of the hall. "So long as I've got the glasses on. Doesn't work on you, though." He grinned. "You know what to expect when you look at me. The meat-puppets don't."
Aziraphale made a face. "You know I dislike that euphemism."
"I know," leered Crowley.
The Sorting continued, with "Woburn, Hyacinth," and "Wulf, Daegaer," both of whom were sorted into Gryffindor. That table, Crowley observed, made the most noise whenever anyone was Sorted into it. He could feel the pride radiating off of them in waves, and it was so overwhelming that Crowley nearly giggled aloud. So much potential in one room; he felt like a kid shoplifting in a candy store.
"Young, Adam."
Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright.
"This should be interesting." Aziraphale smiled. "If I were a betting man I would say Slytherin."
Crowley shook his head. "Too obvious," he said. "You watch, the little bugger's going to end up in Gryffindor."
Adam – the last child standing – approached the stool with the same confidence he did everything in life. You didn't grow up the leader of the Them only to be afraid of a hat. He sat purposefully on the stool and, when McGonagall put the hat on his head he reached up and tugged it down a bit, to make sure that it fit. Some of the students laughed.
Crowley leaned forward, as if he could read the lips that the Hat did not have.
And the Son of Satan became a Hufflepuff.