#i mean good omens was my first real entrance to fic reading

[oneguardian15]

aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

[bush-viper-cutie]

“The Smoking Goblet” || YEAR 3 – Ch.14 (HP au)

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Day posted: 8/25/2020

Word count: 3,776

Relationship: EVENTUAL severus X oc (slow burn)

Rating: E for everyone

Warnings: none

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A/N: This is my first fan fic I’m writing mainly as a way to practice. This is a retelling of the hp books with an inserted character. Although most every character will be written about, this is mostly for the pro snape fandom. Please do not fear, although this is a severus x oc story, it is an incredibly slow burn as I do not intend for them to get together at all until after the final book events. Chapters will be posted twice a week.

This derivative work follows the events of the Harry Potter books by Jk Rowling and is intended as a fun way to practice my writing. Thank you for reading :D

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Within the month Defense Against Dark Arts class had become every student’s favorite class, and Professor Lupin everyone’s favorite teacher. Even Heather had to give in and accept him as her favorite after he’d let her sneak her way to the back of every line when they practiced with boggarts. She made up for it during their Red Cap lessons, allowing him to use her for demonstrations around the little nasty creatures that liked hanging out wherever blood was spilled.

Draco, however, couldn’t miss a day to snicker behind Professor Lupin’s back about the state of his robes. Most Slytherins friends with Draco would join in on the bullying, but Professor Lupin and most everyone else would just ignore them. No one cared if Professor Lupin’s robes were old and frayed with patches that were coming undone, or that his clothes had little holes at the seams around his shoulders and cuffs.

From Red Caps they moved onto kappas, more creepy creatures except they lived underwater with webbed hands used for strangling those who wandered in their pond. He had brought in a murky tank with a single lilypad floating on top of the muck. The kappa had given Neville a real scare after he’d tapped the glass and woken it up.Everyone had laughed at Neville, but that was nothing compared to the torment he was facing in potions with Professor Snape.

After word had spread about Neville’s boggart, Professor Snape had been judging people’s potions harder than he ever had before. Heather was feeling like a total failure in potions now, and Neville could barely breath with Professor Snape breathing down his neck, making sure he was following the steps exactly as he had written them out.

Professor Snape assigned extra inches to the essays he had been assigning every class time at the mention of Professor Lupin’s name or boggarts in general, except to Draco and his band of loyal Slytherins who very publicly and shamed Professor Lupin at every opportunity.

It was very hard for Heather not to accept Professor Lupin had become her favorite teacher, and Defense Against the Dark Arts her favorite class.

Along with potions, Divination and Care of Magical Creatures were becoming everyone’s least favorite classes. The only people who liked Divination were the very few students who seemed to have ‘the Sight’ for it and constantly joined Professor Trelawney in extra readings and work during breakfast and lunchtime. A couple of Ravenclaws were now giving people readings and few Hufflepuffs giving others friendly warnings. The two Gryffindor girls Heather now knew as Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil had taken it upon themselves to give Harry advice every now and then to help him with his death omen. Heather found those two particularly annoying, more annoying than the only Slytherin giving out death omens.

Care of Magical Creatures was disliked in a very different way. Everyone who was friendly with Hagrid had to pretend to like learning about the very boring magical creatures known as flobberworms. Ron especially hated the flobberworms, reminding him of the slimy slugs he had upchucked last year after his failed hex.

Before the month of September ended, Draco and Heather received the very wonderful news that they had made it onto their team again. It turned out Marcus was stricter than even Professor Snape when it came to being captain of the Quidditch team. After giving Cassius a chance to try out with the beaters, he’d told him on the spot he didn’t make it and that next time he should ignore any teacher who got in the way of Quidditch.

Unfortunately, this meant Cassius was now extremely mad at Heather and had made a few attempts at cornering her in the common room but she had successfully dodged him and clung onto the unknowing Draco and Pansy for safety.

On the first day of October Marcus had called their first Quidditch team practice, telling them their new schedules and going over new tactics he’d thought of over the summer. Four times a week they met up to practice which just about killed Heather every day. Her muscles were so sore and tired constantly, she was going to bed at Dudley hours.

“No,” she groaned. She had been laying on the grass just outside the locker rooms waiting for Draco to come out.

He was standing over her with his arms crossed telling her to get up. “Let’s go already, Potter.”

She groaned as she sat up and held up her hand for assistance, which of course Draco ignored, choosing instead to nudge her with his foot. She stood and they walked together to the broom shed, talking about the most recent play they had practiced.

“They’ll have a hard time getting around us that way.”

Draco nodded. “The Quidditch cup is easy. We’re already the best in the school. It’s the House Cup that’s hard.” He looked at her with a frown, no doubt thinking about exactly why the House Cup was so hard to earn.

“I don’t control who Dumbledore gives free points to at the end of the year.” The grassy slopes were pushing Heather’s legs to their limit and all she wanted was to collapse on the ground again.

“You can control your stupid brother and his friends. Make sure they don’t do anything heroic that will give them any points.” Draco rubbed is hands together and gave her a sly look, “And I’ll make sure the Gryffindors lose as many points as possible.”

As they reached the castle entrance, Heather’s guilt was eating at her. She didn’t feel very good about being a part of Draco’s plan to lose the Gryffindors their points. It seemed extra mean, but she had stopped telling him off ever since they became ‘friends’ after Cassius tried hexing her in the charms corridor.

“And how will you do that?”

He shrugged. “I’ll think of something.” He slid his sling back on his arm as they went the long way to their common room, down the dungeon stairs passed Professor Snape’s office door.

They turned a corner and Heather almost smacked right into Professor Snape again, making her stumble back. He looked down at her and frowned. She could feel the hatred emanating off him. He looked at Draco and stepped aside.

“Draco, your father has asked me how your arm is doing.”

Draco clutched his arm. “It’s healing up, Sir,” he grinned.

Professor Snape raised his eyebrow, “Still in pain?”

Draco nodded. “It’s hard to reach for the Snitch during practices without feeling how much it hurts,” he pet his arm, “but I power through it.”

Professor Snape gave a slight smile. “How admirable. I’ll let your father know of the lasting damage you’re dealing with.” He frowned at Heather one last time and swept away into his office.

“Why was he coming from the common room?”

Draco shrugged, whispering the password and stepping in. Heather followed and saw the large giddy crowd that had formed around the notice board. Draco pushed people aside and Heather followed close behind him until she could see the paper that had just been pinned up.

The first Hogsmeade visit was October thirty-first all day until dinner time. Her shoulders slumped and she pushed her way back out and sat in one of the cushion puffs by the fire, drawing her knees up to her chin and wrapping her arms around them. She stared at the fire for a few minutes, trying to think of any way to get permission to go, but none that didn’t involve speaking to Professor Snape.

The next morning she was still moping next to Ron who was also extremely quiet during all of Herbology. She held the puffapod mouths open while he pulled out the pink sacs and handed them to Harry to squeeze the glass beans into Hermione’s wooden pail.

Hermione was the first to break the silence. “How’s Scabbers doing, Ron?”

“He’s hiding under the bed, shaking, after your stupid cat nearly gutted him.” He threw the sac a little too hard, missing Harry’s hand.

The pink sac burst on the floor and the glass beans started sprouting immediately on the little bit of dirt and dust on the floor.

“Weasley!” Professor Sprout cried out. “Clean that up before they grow lips!”

They headed to Transfigurations in silence and were about to line up when Parvati pushed aside a couple of Hufflepuffs to make room for a crying Lavender to come through. She was wiping her tears on her sweater while Seamus walked beside her, nodding at the muffled words she was saying.

Heather followed them as they joined the growing group of concerned Gryffindors around Lavender, Parvati, and Seamus.

“Lavender? What’s wrong?” Hermione put her hand on her shoulder.

Lavender shook her head and Parvati started explaining what had happened.

“She just got a letter from her parents. Her rabbit, Binky’s, been killed by a fox.”

Hermione looked back at them and bit her lip before turning back. “That’s awful. I’m sorry about that.”

“She was right! I should have known!” Lavender sobbed very loudly.

Harry gave Heather a weary look and poked Hermione on the back.

“Er… Who was right?”

Lavender looked up at Hermione like she was missing the big picture. “Professor Trelawney! Its October sixteenth! She said the thing I would be dreading the most would happen today! I was dreading Binky dying and now it’s happened!”

Harry crossed his arms.

“Was Binky old?” Hermione couldn’t help pushing on despite Ron, Harry, and Heather trying to pull her back.

“No. He was… Only a baby!” she sobbed into Parvati’s shoulder.

“So then why were you dreading him dying?”

“Hermione!” Heather whispered, trying to get her attention.

Parvati glared at her and Seamus was shaking his head.

Hermione turned to everyone. “I just mean that he didn’t really die today. You’ve only just received the news of his passing. And you’re clearly in shock so it’s not like you were really dreading it too much – ”

Parvati gasped and Lavender glared at her behind watery eyes.

Ron pulled Hermione back and stepped in. “Don’t mind Hermione. Other people’s pets don’t matter very much to her.”

Hermione and Ron stared daggers at one another when the class door opened. They filtered in and Hermione took her seat at the front while Ron kept them in the back. The lesson went by like normal and before they knew it the bells were ringing and the lesson had come to an end.

“Excuse me,” Professor McGonagall held them up. “Gryffindors please stay seated.”

Everyone else filtered out and Heather decided to stay put as well.

“Please make sure to turn in your Hogsmeade forms before the thirty-first. No signature, no visiting the village.”

Neville’s hand floated up. “I-I think I’ve lost my – ”

“Your grandmother has already owled it to me.”

“Oh.” Neville went red.

“Ask her now,” Ron whispered to Harry as the Gryffindors were getting up.

“Ask her what?” Heather turned to Harry and frowned. “No! Don’t leave me here alone.”

Harry stood and looked at her gloomily. “It’s the only way to go.”

“Without me?” Heather stayed seated and crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t go without you!”

“He has to go! Its Hogsmeade Village!” Ron looked desperate. “I don’t wanna go alone!”

Hermione was standing behind them now. “You’ll manage just fine, Ron.”

Heather turned to her. “Does that mean you’re staying with me?”

Hermione looked away and wrung the strap of her bag. “Oh, well… Actually I was going to still go – ”

Heather rolled her eyes and turned to watch Professor McGonagall shake her head at Harry who sulked back to them.

“At least we still have the feast,” Hermione smiled.

They all glared at her and exited the classroom.

Halloween rolled around and Heather joined Harry in the Great Hall for mushy oats as Hermione and Ron assured them they’d bring back loads of sweets for them. They accompanied Hermione and Ron to the front entrance and watched them line up to leave. Mr. Filch was checking off names and Malfoy noticed them as they left.

“Hey, Potter!” he called out. “Not going? Afraid of passing the dementors?”

Several people laughed and all they could do was walk away. They decided to head to the library but got bored quickly, being just the two of them and needing to stay extra quiet because of Madam Pince.

“This is boring.” Harry scribbled tiny circles on the corner of his textbook. “Let’s go visit Hedwig or something.”

They got up and left, bumping into Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris halfway down the entrance hall steps.

“And where do you think you two are going?” He bared his teeth at them.

“The owlry.” Harry replied curtly.

“The owlry,” Mr. Filch spat back. “Can’t fool me! Think I don’t know what you two are up to? Turn around and head back to your common rooms where you belong!” Mrs. Norris hissed as if to emphasize his command.

They turned around and headed up the stairs, getting off at a random floor and walking down the corridor with their heads hung low and arms crossed. They passed by several classrooms and kept walking until their names were called.

“Harry? Heather?”

They turned around and saw Professor Lupin leaning out of his office looking at them.

“Where are Hermione and Ron? You’re all usually together.”

Harry sighed, “Hogsmeade.”

Heather nodded, “We couldn’t get our permission slips signed.”

Professor Lupin nodded and drummed his fingers on the doorframe. “Why don’t you two come in? You can see the grindylow I just had delivered for next week.”

“The what?” Harry looked at Heather.

“Don’t you ever read ahead?” She shook her head at Harry who stuck out his tongue at her after Professor Lupin had disappeared back into his office.

They followed him in and looked at the creature in the tank behind Professor Lupin’s desk. It was sickly green and had long spindly fingers and sharp horns on its head. It made faces at them from behind the glass.

“Heather, why don’t you inform your brother on what this creature is.”

Heather smiled down at Harry who had taken the only seat. “It’s a water demon. They live in bogs and lakes and grip onto things very tight. Unless you want to be dragged down and drowned, you need to break it’s grip, literally. They have very brittle fingers,” she wiggled her fingers and looked back at Professor Lupin.

He smiled, “Precisely, Heather. Five points to.. Slytherin.”

She smiled and stuck her tongue out at Harry as Professor Lupin turned around to make them some tea. She watched him set the kettle next to the tank on some cleared off table space and tapped it with his wand. Steam shot out of it like an explosion, ready to serve.

“I figure you’re both tired of tea leaves, so how’s tea bags? Harry?”

Harry nodded, “How did you know about – ”

“Professor McGonagall told me about it,” he handed them each their teacups. “Not worried about all that, are you, Harry?”

Harry shook his head and looked up at Heather who knew exactly what he was thinking. She shook her head slightly and sipped her tea. The last thing Harry should do is go around saying he saw a death omen back home.

Professor Lupin saw their exchange and asked again. “You sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

“No.” Harry sipped his tea and then set it down on his desk. “Actually…”

Heather looked down at him.

“When we were doing the boggart exercises, I never got to practice… You stopped the lessons just before it was my turn.”

Professor Lupin pressed his lips together and nodded slowly.

“Why?” Harry pressed on.

He gave a small chuckle, “Well in all honesty I thought it’d cause a panic if Voldemort suddenly materialized in the classroom…” He looked at Harry’s surprised face. “Would it not have turned into Voldemort?”

Heather was surprised to hear him say Voldemort’s name so casually. Everyone else seemed to be too afraid to. She looked down at Harry intrigued.

He shook his head. “I thought of Voldemort at first… But then I remembered that… dementor… from the train and…”

She hadn’t realized Harry was actually afraid of the dementors. To her it was just something stupid Draco was saying, but maybe he had picked up on it better than Heather had. If that was the case, Draco was a lot more dangerous of a bully than she had previously thought.

“I’m impressed,” Professor Lupin set his tea down.

“Impressed?” Heather echoed.

“Dementors are nothing compared to Voldemort. So, fearing the dementors only shows you’re afraid of fear itself. That’s very wise, Harry. A true Gryffindor.”

Harry beamed.

Heather wasn’t quite understanding what was so brave about fearing what had clearly spooked him on the train. She was afraid of spiders and they are nothing compared to Voldemort, does that make her brave too? She felt Harry was just getting more special treatment and retreated to behind his chair, annoyed.

“You must have been thinking I didn’t believe you brave enough to face your boggart then?” Professor Lupin gave a weak smile.

Harry shrugged, “Well I just… Yeah…”

There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Come in,” Professor Lupin called out.

The door opened and Professor Snape stood in the doorway, looking at Heather and Harry with a frown. He was holding a large goblet very carefully to his chest, which smoked faintly. His eyes narrowed at them as he turned to look at Professor Lupin.

“Severus. Thank you. You can just leave that here on the desk for me.” Professor Lupin cleared out an area and pointed at the spot expectantly.

Heather watched Professor Snape creep inside slowly, careful not to spill the liquid smoking inside the goblet. He stood back, facing them, and let his eyes wander over to her and Harry, glancing back at Professor Lupin.

Professor Lupin looked down at the goblet and back up at Professor Snape. “I was just showing them the grindylow.” He pointed at the tank behind him.

Professor Snape stood watching him. “Fascinating.” He kept watching him as Professor Lupin folded his hands in front of him. “You should drink it before the smoke’s gone out.”

Professor Lupin looked at them and back at Professor Snape. “Thank you, Severus. I will.”

“The rest of it is in the cauldron is in my office. I’ve made extra… should you need it.” Professor Snape continued standing there, eyeing him.

Heather’s curiosity was getting the better of her and she wanted to ask what the potion was, but she wasn’t sure how personal it was. She decided not to ask.

“Thank you – I’ll likely be taking more tomorrow – Again, thank you… Severus.”

Professor Snape’s brows pulled down in a frown again and his eyes glanced over at Heather and Harry again. “Not at all.”

Possibly the awkwardness had finally been too much because not soon after he backed out of the room, very watchful and unsmiling. Heather watched him reach for the doorknob without taking his eyes off Professor Lupin, until he started pulling the door closed when his eyes met hers before closing the door.

She had never seen Professor Snape like that, and there was something in his eyes that had urged her to ask about the potion, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to be rude in front of her new favorite teacher.

She looked down at the goblet and back up at Professor Lupin.

He smiled. “Professor Snape’s very kindly concocted my potion for me.” He laughed, “I’ve never been much of a brewer…” He picked up the goblet and sniffed it, shuddering. “If only sugar didn’t make it absolutely useless.”

Harry was on the edge of his seat as Professor Lupin drank the liquid, almost gagging. “But… Why?”

Professor Lupin set down the unfinished goblet. “Oh, I’ve just been feeling a bit… off color. And this is the only thing that helps with that. I’m very lucky Professor Snape works here, seeing as not many master potioneers would be up for making such a complex potion.

Heather was growing more intrigued. Was Professor Snape really that good? She suddenly regretted not trying as hard in his class lately, even if he was being particularly vindictive as of late.

“Snape’s very interested in the Dark Arts!” Harry blurted out.

Heather stared down at him confused but he avoided her eyes and stared directly at the goblet that was still smoking on the desk.

Professor Lupin looked at Harry with an interest. “Really.”

Harry nodded, “Some people think… well – that he’d do anything to get the Defense Against Dark Arts position.”

Professor Lupin nodded, and drank the rest of the contents, banging the goblet down and trying not to make a face. “That was unpleasant.” He stood up and headed to the door, opening it. “I should get back to work. I’ll see you both at the feast later.”

“Alright.”

Heather pulled Harry up and dragged him out with her. Professor Lupin closed his door and she pulled him away.

“Why would you say that? You don’t know if he likes the dark arts? And so what if he wants the position? Maybe he really wants to teach everyone how to defend themselves!” She wasn’t sure why she was so heatedly defending Professor Snape who had spent the last two months yelling at every student, but she did feel something for any Slytherin constantly being painted as some horrible person.

Harry crossed his arms. “Snape’s evil. He could have poisoned that goblet then! Everyone hates him for a reason.”

Heather scoffed. “He’s my favorite teacher. And just because Voldemort was a Slytherin doesn’t make everyone else evil like him! …And Professor Lupin didn’t even care to believe you.”

“That’s because he doesn’t know him.”

She wanted to hit him and stormed away instead, heading down the stairs and to her common room.

She sat down on a cushion and crossed her arms and legs. She decided she wouldn’t let a few months of hard potions lessons change her mind, even if it was just to spite Harry. She had a few hours before dinner and decided to catch up on her potion studies at one of the desks.

“Only a few hours until Hermione and Ron come back with treats,” she told herself. “Just focus on the feast.” That calmed her down and she was able to get to studying just fine, pushing Harry out of her mind.

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[bradycore]

Title:  In Which, Well, Look, It Sort of Happened on Its Own

Summary:

Aziraphale thinks Crowley is an angel(?). This is, admittedly, Crowley's fault. It's fine. He's fine. They're fine.

Word count: 1583

Notes: ooh, fun, my first good omens fic. Well, here we are. I don't know what I'm doing. I used some creative liberty with their first conversation and stuff, like not just canon divergence, but actually ignoring how hard it would be for this to have happened? Anyway

***

He stared in the mirror, at himself, the right bastard.

It'd been a while since he really saw himself.

This wasn't it.

Sunglasses, aching wings from being tucked away so long, constant fear that he would slip.

Crowley's gaze was torn away at the sound of the person who he was doing all this for coming in downstairs. "Az?" he called out, shoulders relaxing, pushing his shades up his nose.

The front door clanged shut and what sounded like several bags being set down almost covered the response of "Just one moment, my dear!" sent the way of the stairs, which Crowley now hurried down.

Aziraphale had never really used the room above his little store, but Crowley had added certain decorations, furniture, and infinitely wary houseplants to homey up the place. Really, he just wanted somewhere to sleep where he could still be near his angel during the days and nights Aziraphale focused on book repairing and sorting and eventually reading, not pausing any of it for hardly anything. Judging by the amount of new (well, ancient, really, but ones the angel had just picked up) books now sitting on the shop counter, one of these periods was about to take precedent.

"There was this marvelous little store in Bergamo, something of an antique shop but they had quite the collection, and I couldn't help but pick up a few--" Aziraphale rambled, gesturing to the bags. "Oh, but forgive me, my angel, I assume everything was all right while I was away?"

Crowley smiled. "Right as rain, only had to scare off a couple customers."

At this point, you may be slightly curious. Why was Aziraphale calling Crowley "angel," you might ask? Well, one simple answer is that it's a loving name between two beings who are very much in love. And Crowley will tell you that he calls Az "angel" right back.

Another simple answer, though one that's not quite as easy to think about, is that Aziraphale sort of-- doesn't-- know-- aboutthewholedemonthing.

Look.

Crowley can explain.

Well.

Er.

You see, the thing is, about six millennia ago, Crowley wanted to approach an angel. He was bored. He'd made his trouble, now where was the real fun? (To be honest, what would probably count to people such as Crowley as "the real fun" would not be invented for many, many, many years, namely driving ninety miles an hour in a Bentley listening to Beethoven's We Will Rock You.)

Anyway, bored. He wanted someone to talk to. So in order to not scare the angel off, he left his snake form, carefully folded back his wings, let his hair fall over his face a bit, and casually approached.

And they didn't really look at each other, but made small talk about flaming swords, and when the angel said something along the lines of "That was the best course, wasn't it? I have a hard time sometimes. I'm sure you always manage to do the right thing," he rather went along with it("I'm not sure it's actually possible for us angels to do evil"). This was fun.

And then he just kind of...kept forgetting to bring up the whole not-actually-being-an-angel thing, and then he realized, after a few thousand years, that it was a sort of subconsciously purposeful forgetting, really, because he didn't want to lose Aziraphale.

He really, really didn't.

And telling him the truth would surely lead to that.

So he kept the sunglasses on, the wings hidden, the tendency to turn into a snake when startled away from any potentially startling events. He kept his mouth shut about any topic really appertaining to what he did or was, and somehow, (ironically) by some miracle, he was never found out.

The...well, downstairs didn't know what he was playing. Upstairs hadn't been bothered to say anything at all, and maybe they didn't know either. Aziraphale certainly didn't, and Crowley had to keep it that way. He didn't want to be alone.

Which was awfully selfish, but then again, he was a demon. Sort of funny, really, how all the hiding and the lying (not directly lying, really, it never actually came up too much in conversation, but still) about what he was could be considered a byproduct of, well, what he was.

Crowley didn't laugh about it, is all.

Aziraphale nudged him on the way to the back room with the newly acquired books. "You look quite lost in thought. What's on your mind?"

"Nothing," Crowley said. "Nothing at all."

***

There were times when he almost slipped up, of course. When he got emotional, he tended to hiss his s's. People would see him on the sidewalk and cross to the other side of the street without really knowing why. Sunglasses hadn't even been invented until the 12th century (coincidentally around the time he first cut his hair). And Hastur had an unfortunate tendency to pop in every half century or so, just to make sure evil was chugging along like it was supposed to, which led to many hurried lockings of doors and distractingly thick tomes just begging to be read appearing wherever Aziraphale was at the moment.

The day Aziraphale found out was the very same day he had come home from the Italy trip, the same day Crowley had been staring at the mirror and contemplating the meaning of lies, the same day an African violet with disappointingly browning leaves had been...relocated from Crowley's flat(this wasn't actually related to the topic at hand, but the other plants certainly thought it was worth note. Though don't tell them, but it really just ended up in the bookshop windowsill).

They were taking a walk that evening, you see, and as they passed a church with some lovely irises blooming to the right of it, Aziraphale noticed a sign welcoming donations for the homeless being sheltered there at night, and looked around for a second before a cardboard box of warm clothing and canned goods casually appeared in his arms. Crowley, whose elbow had been linked with his, found himself dragged along as the angel turned left towards the doors.

"Oh, love, I can't go in there," he said hurriedly, before realizing with dread he might just have to actually have a reason for that.

Aziraphale probably would have settled for an "I'll just stay out here," but this wasn't that. "Can't? Why ever not?"

"I..." Crowley started to say, not particularly having the end of that sentence in mind yet, but Aziraphale seemed to take in whatever expression was on his face at the moment, and placed the box carefully by the entrance before leading them along the path home.

"Now," he said, once they had settled in on the falling-apart couch in the back of the shop and some tea had been conjured (Crowley then added some whiskey to his, don't tell), "tell me what's going on." Aziraphale was searching his face a bit worriedly, looking for the answers that Crowley had hidden for millenia.

"What do you mean?" Crowley slurped his drink frantically.

"It's not just what happened on the walk. My dear, you've been hiding something for a very long time now."

Crowley didn't know what to say. So he said nothing.

"Forgive me if I am intruding, but may I take a guess? I think this has gone on for a bit too long, don't you?"

A nod.

"You're not an angel, are you," Azzy said softly, and it was the gentleness in his voice that made Crowley want to cry.

"Quite the opposite, I'm afraid," and he winced at the crack in his voice, at the mumble of his own words, at the part of him that kept him too scared to look up and see what was on his angel's face.

"Well," Aziraphale said finally. "I'm glad you told me, of a sort."

His voice came back a tad, just enough to respond, "You sound like you knew. Why didn't you ever say anything? Why didn't you...leave?"

"For you to have kept such a secret? You must have had your reasons," Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley couldn't take this, he didn't understand, he didn't-- "But surely you wondered why?" He felt almost frantic, why wasn't Zira leaving, why wasn't Zira gone.

"I knew there was an answer, and that was enough," said Azzy.

"But--" started Crowley-- "Well, it's just that I've always asked why about things," he said, a bit slowly. "I think...that's maybe why I Fell."

And Aziraphale's wings were white and his soul pure because for him, there being an answer was enough. He didn't need to know it.

But in this particular case, Crowley had the answer, and needed to share it. Needed the words to take their place in the world. "I was worried that I might lose you." And there they were, and Aziraphale didn't say a thing, but gestured him closer, and with gentle fingers lifted the sunglasses off of his face.

Crowley sat, something catching in his throat. "They're gorgeous," Aziraphale finally breathed. "Oh, I hope you won't hide your eyes any more."

He closed them for a second, though, feeling overwhelmed, before blinking them open again and staring back at Aziraphale's bright blue ones. "Yours are better," he said with a kind of twisted laugh in his voice, and Az just smiled, and leaned forward, and hugged him.

And he hugged back, and hoped he would never have to let go.

[ravenvsfox]

Have you ever written/ would be interested in writing a fic where blue, Ronan, Adam, Gansey, Noah, and Henry join the foxes?

(a real live crossover, I’ve never done this in my life lmao!! btw I didn’t know how to write a ghostie into a PSU sports team so I’m afraid noah’s not in this one)

“That’s a bad omen if I’ve ever seen one,” Dan says mildly, shielding her eyes from the sun. Neil follows her squinting gaze to the border of the baking sidewalk.

There’s a raven watching them from the dust, glossy wings folded out a little like it’s preparing for flight. It’s pinprick eyes are black beads tossed into pitch fabric, near invisible.

The foxes watch it preen and hop towards them. Neil gets a sinking feeling that it isn’t wild, that its strut and challenging eyes must belong to some rotten nest.

They’re grouped at the entrance of the court: Dan installed at the edge of the parking lot with a hand on her hip, Allison splayed all over the wall wearing sleek white shorts to match the paint job, Andrew and Neil tipped back into the sun-sharp grate of their car. The others are dotted along the unruly grass and perched over cars, sweating through the wait for fresh teammates with fresh problems.

The raven cocks its head and paces closer. Nicky coos at it. Matt tells it to fuck off good-naturedly.

“How about you go ahead and fuck off first?”

Neil looks evenly over to the source of the voice, feeling trepidation slither down his neck like ice under the collar.

A boy walks towards them with an unfriendly mouth and a mangled cut-off t-shirt, tattoos and scars jostling for a place on his body. He looks like what Neil expected when he first heard of the foxes. He looks like the popped blade of a box-cutter that someone forgot to sheath. He has a vicious BMW at his heels like an afterthought.

“Dibs,” Nicky says, breathless.

“Oh, sorry, I was talking to the bird,” Matt explains.

“And I was talking to you,” the stranger replies, holding eye contact until it feels like a raw vein pinched between fingers. The foxes shuffle and kick up dust and exchange looks.

“You’ve gotta be one of our new recruits. No one but a fox is going to start shit over a raven,” Dan says, half smiling.

“He’s defending her honour,” someone says, and their attention all swivels again.

The newcomer walks up with his hands clutched in his pockets, smiling with a third of his mouth, eyes serious and deep-set in his tan face.

“Adam,” he introduces, expression jumping. “That’s Ronan. He likes to make bad first impressions. It’s his favourite sport after exy.”

Adam winds and locks into the space at Ronan’s side, and they bump fists in a way that’s more brushing knuckles than anything else.

“Parrish,” Ronan says thinly. “They already insulted Chainsaw. We have to drop out.”

Neil can feel Andrew watching their interaction with hooded eyes.

“She probably deserved it,” Adam says. “You usually do.”

“Aren’t you bringing the rest of your hick pals?” Allison asks, scanning the perimeter of the parking lot, scarcely registering the thready challenge in her own voice.

Ronan takes a step forward and Adam yanks on the leather bracelets snaked around his wrist. The raven flurries in the dirt, unsettled by his agitation, and then swoops up to anchor herself on Ronan’s shoulder.

“Ronan,” Adam pronounces slowly, like he’s not in any hurry to stop him. “Don’t waste your limited attention span. We knew this was going to be how they are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nicky asks. “I’m very personable.”

“Of course,” Adam says kindly. “We’re just used to less— bluntness.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ronan mutters, and Adam twitches a smirk.

“People like to trick you into accepting an insult, where we’re from.”

“I can gift-wrap my shit-talking if you’d prefer?” Allison says, and Adam narrows eyes at her for a second.

“Tempting,” he says.

“Can’t make any promises for Josten, though,” she continues. They look over at him. Neil blinks back, not bothering to disprove her.

“Hey beautiful,” Nicky calls to Ronan from his spot on the grass. He’s cross-legged, leaning back on his hands, obviously bored. “What position are you?” He lilts position into a proposition. Ronan blinks and Adam stiffens and Nicky smiles, enjoying the tension. “You have the arms for offence.”

“Yeah,” Adam says woodenly. Neil can see Adam’s hands curl, stiff when they straighten out again. He recognizes the sticking muscle and bone of a person who’s had to practice packing their anger into a box and sliding it back on a shelf. “He’s a striker. I’m a goalie.”

Neil snorts, and Andrew moves his head to the side, a slow, hesitating shake.

Kevin nods. “Your stats are good. You work best with your friend Richard, the both of you.”

Ronan snorts. “Oh, please call him that.”

“I’d like to see you on unfamiliar turf,” Kevin continues, undeterred. “It looks like you’re in a rut, based on your tapes. You’re too static, you rely too much on each other.”

“We always win,” Ronan argues. “We rely on each other because we’re a team. Don’t know if you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Raven boy’s a bitch,” Matt laughs. “I like him.”

“Not mutual,” Ronan says icily. The raven tucks it’s beak into his buzzed hair and makes a mournful noise. He puts an absent hand to her side.

“You’re coming in late to a developed team. You can’t expect your group dynamic to fly here,” Kevin says. Neil nods without thinking.

“Too fucking late, I’m already expecting it,” Ronan says, eyes flickering between Neil and Kevin like he’s considering who to punch first. “And we didn’t exactly come here for the Pig-orange uniforms, fuckass. We know how the team works. We liked the way you fight when there’s a 99% chance you’ll lose.”

“Pig orange,” Aaron repeats incredulously, at the same time that Renee asks:

“Is that a crucifix?” She jostles the conversation off its tracks without really trying. Her eyes are kind and critical, hooked on the inked cross hugging Ronan’s ribcage, peeking out of the deep slit in the side of his shirt.

Ronan eyes her, gaze fixed on her necklace and the rebellious rainbow fan of her hair. “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t know he was a Catholic by the mouth on him, but Jesus has more of his attention than I do,” Adam says wryly. It’s an odd, hasty sort of interjection. He runs hands over his own arms like he’s cold, and Neil considers that he hadn’t planned to reveal so much.

“We’ll have to go to service together,” Renee says sweetly, and Ronan nods unexpectedly.

They’re all skirting around this new dynamic that’s too big to touch, fumbling through a warped, antagonistic set of pleasantries, and the strangled zip of a caught engine rips closer. A car in blazing fox orange kicks and screams around the corner and into the parking lot.

“The cavalry,” Ronan observes flatly.

“Nice to see that Gansey still thinks he’s important enough to be fashionably late,” Adam replies, and Ronan makes a face.

“Don’t say ‘Gansey’ and ‘fashion’ in the same sentence.”

The car rolls up, parks smoothly and then takes its time straightening up. The doors scream and slam open and closed. The contents of the car turns out to be a trio of drastically different kinds of people — a boy in a viciously orange polo shirt to match his car, a girl in what looks like three skirts of three different lengths, and a boy with hair taller than Matt’s, collar crisp and pale against his tan neck.

“Hello,” the first one calls warmly. “Very sorry to be late, we were a titch held up in Henrietta.”

“Is he for real?” Matt asks genuinely, and Adam laughs, delighted.

“They’re not buying the southern charm, Gans,” he says.

“I can’t imagine why not,” the girl says, shoving Gansey in the side until he stumbles mid-stride. “It’s so natural.”

Gansey looks flustered by the time the three of them reach the group, but he takes the time to clap Ronan and Adam on the shoulders. The girl hip checks Ronan as soon as she’s close enough, and he wrangles her into a chokehold. Renee laughs, impressed or endeared by his form.

“We’re very much looking forward to playing with you,” Gansey says earnestly.

“Are we sure he qualifies as a fox?” Nicky asks. “He’s very—uh. Perfect.”

Gansey looks greatly disturbed by this, and the girl rolls her eyes.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Renee says, smiling a little, and Gansey sends her a cracked, grateful smile in return. It’s drastically different from the spectacle of an expression he’d been sporting until now.

“Anyway,” Dan says loudly. “Good to meet you, welcome, etc. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other this year. Remind me who’s who?”

“Oh, pardon me, I wasn’t—” Gansey starts, and the girl reaches up to slap a hand over his mouth.

“That’s Gansey trying to put his foot in his mouth. I’m Blue, this is Henry.”

“I’ve heard good things,” Henry says. “I’ve heard a lot of bad things too, all of them legendary.”

“’Blue’?” Allison interrupts. “That’s not a very funny joke.”

“Interesting. That’s what I keep saying about your team,” Blue says narrowly, and Dan laughs, startled.

“You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?”

“Oh, a couple, at least,” Blue replies. Gansey smiles at her like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

“You’re a striker,” Neil guesses, speaking for the first time, and Blue cocks her head at him.

“Dealer,” she corrects.

“Backliner,” Henry says, waving. “Best defence in Virginia.”

“Striker,” Gansey says, gesturing to himself. Ronan reaches over to knock fists with him, and Gansey grins as he accepts. Neil remembers reading something about a striker duo with history and balance, and they’re wearing that legacy all over them.

“Should’ve known,” Neil says mildly. “You don’t have the height,” he tells Blue. She bristles.

“And you do?”

“I use this height to my advantage. Do you?”

“I use everything I have to my advantage,” she grits. Neil suppresses a smile.

“We’ll see.” He privately thinks that some or all of these new recruits are going to burn out as soon as they realize that they were paddling in still waters, and now they’re facing a tidal wave.

Dan jumps back in to introduce their side of the team, and Neil lets the mindless back and forth rush around him without any information really finding purchase in his brain. Andrew is dead silent at his side, but Neil can sense his interest from the way he keeps shifting position, near imperceptible. Ronan’s taken to chewing on his wristbands, and Andrew’s eyes are caught up on the silver fingers of scar tissue at each of his wrists.

“Twins?” Henry asks, pointing two fingers at Aaron and Andrew.

“Guess which one’s evil,” Matt jokes.

“Trick question,” Dan tells them conspiratorially. “It’s both.”

“There’s power in twins,” Blue says sagely, like she’s repeating an old family adage. Andrew pushes off of the car and walks towards the door to the court, apparently out of patience. Neil watches him go distractedly.

“Can we see the court?” Adam asks, and Neil glances back to find his eyes fixed on the stretch of the building, twitchy and eager. He has the unsettled look of someone who’s been living outside of his comfort zone for long enough that he shakes when he faces it again.

“Oh fuck, please let’s go inside,” Nicky says, wobbling upright and brushing grass off on his shorts. “I’m burning to death.”

“Lucky we’ve got a replacement backliner,” Aaron says. Henry cocks finger guns at them, absurdly. Nicky considers him, lips pursed, and then looks back at Aaron.

“But do you have a replacement cousin?”

“Cousin?” Gansey asks, curious. “Excuse me but you don’t look— I mean you—“

“Stop,” Blue says, holding the bridge of her nose.

“Come on,” Dan laughs, sidestepping conflict. “We’ll give you the tour.”

_____

Neil finds Andrew in an aisle seat halfway up the rows facing the plexiglass cage of the court. He understand immediately that he wanted to be removed but present, to have as much physical upper ground as possible.

He shifts and relaxes when Neil sits next to him, and Neil considers that he also picked this spot so that the two of them could speak.

“What do you think?” Neil asks.

Andrew says nothing. The new foxes file into the box below, and Neil watches Ronan go immediately for the racquets stored against the wall. Henry is already shoulder to shoulder with Nicky; they’re like two springs set off at the same time.

“We need to keep an eye on Ronan, I think,” Neil continues, seeing the madness progress and evolve, seeing the court bloom fuller than it’s ever been.

“Not him,” Andrew says. Neil follows his steady gaze all the way down to Adam, who’s turning a slow circle at centre court. He can’t tell if he’s awestruck or judgemental, and he’s unnerved to find that it might be both.

“He’s hiding something,” Neil agrees. Ronan brought his raven inside with him, ridiculously, and it circles and lands on Adam’s forearm. The five of them are strange in a new way; they’re a shape Neil’s never seen before.

“Richard,” Andrew starts, mouth curling, “can’t decide who he wants to be.”

Neil doesn’t point out that he was the same way when he came to the foxes. “I don’t like that they’re already a team. I don’t know if I can unmake them so that things fit better.”

“You cannot unmake people like them. They think their weaknesses are strengths.”

“I can,” Neil argues. “What do you think I was doing all last year?”

“Ruining my life,” Andrew guesses.

“Taking you apart. Reprogramming.”

“You did not succeed.”

“We did,” Neil says. “We won.” He looks out into the activity below and finds Gansey and Matt peering up at them. Gansey waves and smiles like he’s in a parade. Renee and Blue are stooped together over something, but Neil’s sure he’s imagining the glint of a switchblade.

“I wonder if they realize how hard this is going to be. This isn’t Richmond.”

“Henrietta,” Andrew corrects.

“Even worse,” Neil grimaces.

“We’re inviting Adam to Columbia,” Andrew says suddenly. It’s disarming to be let in on his plans, like his carefully cultivated filter is missing. Or maybe Neil is his filter, now.

Neil looks sideways at him. “I have a feeling that Ronan won’t let him go alone.”

“I have a feeling he doesn’t need to be let,” Andrew replies.

They peer back down at the team. Ronan grabs Adam’s hand and kicks Blue in the shin when he passes, apparently trying to rustle up some sort of three-on-three. Neil stands on instinct, watching the exchange of racquets between hands, the freshly printed jerseys, pristine orange on white. Lynch. Parrish. Sargent. Cheng. Gansey. Excitement leaks up into the stands.

“I’m gonna join,” Neil says, distracted, feverish. He’s so antsy to feel this new team’s skill set held against him like a threat, so different from tapes and talk and promises.

“Win,” Andrew says, and Neil grins at the challenge.

“They’re just more ravens,” Neil says. “I’m not worried.”

Part Two  Part Three