Chapter Text
Aziraphale stared down at the worn piece of parchment in his hands. Herbology partner, Aziraphale Douglass: Anthony J. Crowley.
He wasn’t particularly sure how to feel about this. Group projects, as Aziraphale had learned time and time again, were always a living Hell, but at least most of the time he was able to sort of subtly suggest to his partner that they bugger off and let him do it properly. He had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley wouldn’t be like that at all. No, Crowley would want to get involved.
Perhaps this was all a bit harsh of Aziraphale. He barely knew Crowley, after all. But he knew of him, and that was worse. Aziraphale had a fairly terrible memory when it came to names, but even he instantly knew who Crowley was. Aziraphale thought it was probably the sunglasses.
Heavens, the sunglasses. Aziraphale had no idea why Crowley felt the need to wear them constantly. He strongly suspected that no-one else did either. And yet none of the teachers ever demanded that he remove them, not even Snape. This bothered Aziraphale slightly, for reasons that he couldn’t quite explain.
Aziraphale looked at the note again, as though it might have mysteriously changed its mind about who his assigned partner was, but it was to no avail. Anthony J. Crowley, the cursive still read, plain as day. It was odd, seeing Crowley’s first name written down. He’d sort of forgotten he had one— Crowley was just so universally Crowley, to students and teachers alike. It had been his mother’s maiden name, Aziraphale was dimly aware. It was sweet, he supposed, that Crowley was trying to keep her memory alive, except... well. There was the matter of that small, damning black J. The J that stood for Jaeger, one of the oldest and vilest pureblood families. That little J meant that Crowley could wear his sunglasses all the time like he thought he was some sort of bloody rock star, and no-one would ever so much as question it. He might use his mother’s name and act all humble, but the privelige and power still seemed to ooze off him, and Aziraphale resented it.
It wasn’t, Aziraphale told himself crossly, as though he was a particular follower of gossip. Half the things people said about Crowley probably weren’t true, anyway, and even if they were, what did it matter? Aziraphale didn’t have to marry him. They just had to do Herbology together.
But this was fifth year, O.W.L.s year, and Aziraphale couldn’t afford any distractions. Especially snarky sunglasses-wearing ones.
All right, what else did he know about Crowley? Surely he couldn’t be that bad, or he’d be in Slytherin rather than Hufflepuff.
Oh yes. He lived with his uncle, because his mother was dead and his father was in Azkaban. His father was in Azkaban for murdering three muggles.
Brilliant. Aziraphale could hardly contain his excitement.
Aziraphale sighed, and placed the piece of parchment in his trunk before snapping it shut with a definitive boom. One lesson. He’d do one lesson with Crowley, and if it really was as bad as he thought it was going to be, he’d ask to change. Simple as.
Now, he had to be going before he’d miss the train.