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Aziraphale is initially very against this whole thing because “he’s a human child
Crowley we can’t just take him!!”
“We didn’t take him Angel he walked in our front door.”
‘That’s not the point!’ *exasperated angel noises*
Aziraphale goes upstairs to look at the child that Crowley has installed in the bedroom just to make sure he’s okay.
He opens the door and quietly walks over to the boy sleeping soundly in the bed. Crowley, who is a step or two behind him, suddenly twitching in agitation.
Aziraphale Looks at the boy the way only an Angel (or demon) can Look at someone,
because the boy is a runaway after all. There might be a small healing miracle or two necessary before they take him home.
And then he. Just. Freezes. The room goes cold, a terrible chill radiating from the Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Aziraphale’s expression as he looks at the boy in the bed is one of pure outrage.
“Yes,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale can hear matching white-hot fury in the demons voice. “I was about to mention . . . that.”
“Who dared?” Aziraphale spits, the words coming from his mouth sharp as ice. “What disgusting monster put that . . . that thing in a child’s head. A demon?”
Crowley shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Demons haven’t got the imagination for that. Except for me-“
“You would never!” Aziraphale exclaims cutting him off. “Even at your worst, at your most demonic, you would never sink to something like this!”
Crowley smiles crookedly, though the Angel can still see the fury in his eyes. “Thanks Angel. I know that, but it’s good to hear you say so too.”
“Anyway, as I was about to say, this has the hallmarks of humanity at *their* worst all over it.”
“You spoke to the boy,” Aziraphale says slowly, getting the urge to destroy something with his flaming sword under control. (Where *is* his sword he wonders, he’d really like to have it right now.) “Does he know?”
“Didn’t really get a chance to ask before he fell asleep,” Crowley answers. “But I doubt it. Pretty sure Harry thinks it’s just a weird scar.”
“His parents are dead, Angel,” the demon continues. “Probably due to whoever did that to him. He lives with some relatives, who even though he was obviously trying to be tactful, they still sound like utter shite.”
Aziraphale looks at him. There’s an almost pleading look in Crowley’s eyes now. The boy speaks the language of the serpent. That’s a rare gift, the angel knows, even among the practitioners of magic. And Crowley has always been undemonically soft where children are concerned. All the way back to the Ark.
The angel sighs. “I suppose,” he says slowly, “that it would be irresponsible to just send the boy off with that thing in his head. We ought to miracle it out at least.”
“Exactly,” Crowley nods emphatically. “Even with it miracled out he’s going to need a few days to recover,” he says reasonably, and Aziraphale can feel himself giving in.
“You know how magic users are. We’ll just keep an eye on him. For a few days that’s all.”
“Just for a few days,” the angel echoes, idly wondering what kind of décor he should put in the spare room. Soothing colours, he decides.
Perhaps he’ll wait until Harry wakes up. They can go for lunch somewhere nice and discuss what he’d like. Maybe a nice tartan bedspread!
