Chapter Text
The gathering of students in the Ravenclaw common room chattered excitedly and Flitwick, standing on a chair so he could be seen and heard above the crowd, called out each name starting with the seventh years. Of all the Houses, Ravenclaws were particularly keen to know about the end of term grades; Ravenclaw students, after all, came from predominantly Ravenclaw parents, and there were repercussions besides extra tutoring for the next term.
Alphabetically by surname, Anathema got her paper right before Azira and immediately retreated to pour through her various marks. Azira followed, already scanning down the page. A quick sum up proved that there were no Poors or Dreadfuls in his current load of Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination, Ancient Runes and Herbology. Defense Against the Dark Arts and Herbology were never a question, with The Arrangement guaranteeing that Outstandings would always hold there.
He was naturally strong in Charms, and a whiz at Divination and Ancient Runes, if he did say so himself. His Potions grades never got any better than Exceeding Expectation but most students were happy to not do worse.
Azira’s weakness was and always had been Transfiguration, which was a family weakness since the dawn of time, according to his parents. The Fells seemed to have a block in the blood when it came to changing the shapes of things, almost to the level of a curse. Family myths said someone far far down the family line had made an allegiance with someone so powerful that when betrayal and falling-out happened (as they so inevitably do in such stories), Fell descendants were saddled with a particular set of geasa . One of the geas was that none of them could transfigure themselves; not a single Fell had ever succeeded in an Animagus spell, nor had been born a Metamorphmagus. This was such a prevalent and accepted restriction, that during Third Year Azira had been exempted from even studying Animagi and his parents had told him in no uncertain terms that he was to never attempt a self-changing spell of any sort. The other geas was that Fells were abysmal at transfiguring anything. Every generation had hilarious (and not-so-funny) stories of this or that attempt that had backfired with entertaining and sometimes horrifying results. Azira’s personal result was that he had received a mere Acceptable in Transfiguration.
He was just exchanging reports with Anathema when a charmed letter came zipping through the room and smacked into the back of Flitwick’s head. All chatter stopped; flying notes in the castle were always from teacher to teacher, and this one was bright orange, which meant an emergency. The professor handed off the pile of reports to the Prefect standing next to him and opened the letter quickly. It must have been bad, as his face slackened in surprise and concern. “Students,” he cried, “I must attend a serious situation. Please continue passing out your papers.” He hopped down to the floor and made for the door under the bewildered stares of his Ravenclaws. Just at the door, he stopped and turned to look amongst them, spotting Azira. “Mr. Fell, come with me, quickly if you please!”
Gulping and glancing quickly at Anathema in shared confusion, Azira obeyed, rushing after the little professor who was walking at an impressive rate of speed. “Sir?” he asked breathlessly.
“Yes, Fell, do keep up. I’m off to the … well, never you mind. You must go to the hospital wing; young Crowley has been set upon, poor lad, and I imagine he’d like to wake to a friendly face.”
Azira’s breath left him and his legs turned to jelly. Stumbling, he gasped: “... set upon - Crowley?!” Surely not.
“Yes, I’m sorry to say, poor boy. Now do go on!” Flitwick pressed the letter in his hand. “And show this if Madame Promfrey has any questions.”
Azira didn’t wait a moment longer but dashed down to the hospital wing while Flitwick took a different route eastwards toward who knew where. His heart hammering, he banged through the doors with eyes wide and breath coming fast.
A cluster of students in Hufflepuff yellow and black obscured a bed midway down the left side of the large room but Madame Pomfrey was immediately bearing down upon Azira with outrage in her eyes. “MISTER Fell!”
“I - I have permission!” Azira cried, waving said piece of orange paper. “Professor Flitwick sent me.”
The lady stared at him with narrowed eyes. “Interfering man,” she murmured with a strangely affectionate half-smile.”Yes, all right. These others may shoo off now.”
A general Hufflepuff outcry rose but no one dared challenge the stern healer’s face. They shuffled off but strangely enough, sent no glares Azira’s way… just some curious looks and a couple of knowing grins. Azira’s attention was pulled immediately to the bed, to which he rushed, seeing Crowley lying there with a pale face and his long crimson hair spread out on his pillow.
“Oh my dear boy,” he whispered in horrified sorrow and reached for a long-fingered hand lying on the coverlet.
“Stupefied,” Promfrey said, gliding her wand down the length of Crowley’s still form and frowning thoughtfully at the colors floating in its wake. “Rather clumsily, actually. Oh, don’t worry yourself, young man; he’ll come around soon with no permanent damage.”
Azira sat heavily into a vacated chair next to the bed, clutching Crowley’s hand. “How did… how did it happen, do you know?”
“I do not, except that he was found this way and brought to me, very cold. He’s warm now, the dear poppet; you stay here very quietly, and he should rouse. I’m only allowing faculty in now.”
She strode away, murmuring to herself but Azira couldn’t take his eyes from Crowley. All thoughts of the dance, term grades, and the coming hols - all thoughts that had crowded his mind in the last few days - were gone in the wake of this shock. He stared at the hand in his, Crowley’s longish fingernails painted a glossy black with a gold streak down the middle, so incongruous against the plain, bleached sheets. It made him smile, somehow, that little bit of stylish primping Crowley was known for.
“Planning on wearing black, then?” he wondered aloud. “Well, that is not so very surprising.”
“Did you ever doubt, ‘Zira?” a hoarse voice asked him, and the fingers in his tightened fractionally. Azira’s head came up, and he let out a rush of breath as a pair of golden eyes regarded him wearily from that pale, dear face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” the Hufflepuff commented. “Regretting saying yes to the dance already, are you?”
Azira couldn’t help but laugh, although calling it a laugh was as accurate as calling it crying, he was so relieved. As Madame Pomfrey came rushing to her now conscious patient, he put a hand over his mouth as a clearly confused Crowley began answering her questions. Crowley’s gaze kept flitting from Azira to the healer and back, and his look was concerned and confused, so much so that when Azira’s eyes began to water, he stopped talking all at once.
“Hey now, what’s this? I’m not dead, am I?” He glanced at Pomfrey. “Am I? Did they kill me? My head hurts too much for me to be dead.”
“No one has killed you, young man,” the healer replied, huffily amused. “I imagine your friend feared the worst; you were rather out of it for a while.”
"How long have I been out? Did I miss the dance? 'Zira, don't tell me I missed the dance!"
"You didn't miss the dance. It's still tonight."
"Although you will have to restrict your dancing severely," Promrey instructed as she set off to the potions cabinet.
Crowley's look of outrage made Azira laugh. Crowley tightened his grip on his fingers, tugging them to his mouth. "Bugger that for a lark," he whispered fiercely, glaring at the healer's back as he pressed his lips to Azira’s fingertips. “We’re dancing the night away.”
Azira’s face burned.
Headmistress McGonagall made an art of expressing that she was Not Amused. Crowley didn’t quite squirm under her unrelenting gaze; after all, he was not in trouble. It was an effort though.
“Are you telling me, Mr. Crowley, that you do not know who attacked you?”
“That’s right, Headmistress,” he replied as meekly as he knew how. “Some…”-tosser, arsehole- “... person was faffing about in the greenhouses, and I guess I caught them. My back was turned, and that …”-buggering maggot- “...bloody-”
“Language, Mr. Crowley,” the witch reminded him, in a surprisingly mild tone. “I agree with your obvious assessment of the person or persons responsible for the vandalism of our greenhouses, and stupefying you in the process of course. However, we must not let our disgust overshadow our efforts in determining what these villains were after, and who they are. Have you had any run-ins recently in the greenhouses that would lead you to suspect a motivation?”
“The only run-ins have been with my cousins, the usual family arguments, and I’m not sure if this was that personal. It seemed like they were looking for something, probably flowers for the dance. I was doing something similar, to be honest. It would have to be someone who isn’t familiar with the greenhouses, because they broke into a few that never have anything of worth… at least if you’re not a potion master.”
This was directed to one of the other adults in the office - Professor Snape, who quirked a cool half-smile where he stood next to a concerned Professor Sprout.
“Luckily for them, they did not destroy those particular plants so essential to brewing, Mr. Crowley,” the Slytherin commented, in a tone that one felt like a shiver of malice down the spine. Crowley’s family had a lot to say about Snape’s involvement in the downfall of Voldemort, much of which directly contradicted what the new history books said, but there seemed to be a general agreement that Severus Snape was not a wizard to be messed with. No one who had wronged him would want to meet him in a dark alleyway, anyway.
“Be that as it may,” McGonagall said in a business-like tone, “I’ve spelled the greenhouses to give an alarm to anyone entering without the proper key, and you are to stay to the main corridors for the time being, in case this was a personal attack, Mr. Crowley.”
Crowley was tempted to grumble, but he nodded to avoid any furthering of discussion and perhaps additional restrictions the headmistress and the professors might dream up.
“...and do try not to antagonize your Slytherin cousins before you leave for the holidays,” Professor Sprout added with a knowing look. “There’s only so much excitement one can manage the day before boarding you all on the Hogwarts Express.”
“I’ll try if they do,” Crowley muttered, but when Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat with a stern look, he added: “Yes, Professor.”
Azira paced in the corridor outside the passage to the headmistress’s office, biting his nails and fluttering. Finally, the mechanism of the golden griffin that guarded the staircase spun into view and Crowley stepped out. “Anthony!” Azira cried, completely forgetting himself.
Crowley’s face, which had been pale and solemn, brightened. He grinned widely, all teeth. It was then that Azira realized what he’d done and his hand flew to his mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, oh dear. That was rather too familiar, I’m so sorry!”
“I’m not,” Crowley responded fervently, grabbing up Azira’s hand. “I mean us to be rather familiar…” He pressed his lips to Azira’s knuckles, raising his eyes to examine the Ravenclaw’s shocked and blushing face. “...if that will be all right with you.”
“Wicked boy,” Azira breathed, blue eyes shining. “Save that for the ball tonight.”
The clock tower struck two and Crowley started. “Is it so late?”
“Late?” Azira glanced out the open arches of the corridor, and the sunlight spilling across the stone floors. “It’s barely after lunch, and the ball isn’t until 5 o’clock.”
“That’s only three hours to get ready, ‘Zira!” Crowley cried, releasing his hands and making a dash. “I’ll meet you at the stairs!” he called back. “Five o’clock!”
“Er, quite!” Azira managed. He followed at a more sedate pace and lost Crowley to the general foot traffic of the main hallways. Sighing, he headed toward the Ravenclaw tower and met Anathema along the way, with a few last parcels in her hands.
“Azira, how is he?” she asked breathlessly, walking with him the rest of the way.
“Tickety boo and all that. Well enough to panic about having only three hours to prepare for tonight,” he replied drily.
‘He has a point! I have to start on my hair as soon as we get back. These last things just came in by owl.”
Azira goggled at her. “How long does it take to brush your hair?”
“Just because you have perfect dandelion curls,” his friend reprimanded him, “doesn’t mean the rest of us can run a comb through, and throw something on. Beauty takes time. Time and potions and work. Oh, and did I tell you what Taxiarchis is wearing? Super modern, all indigo and silver, like some fashion magazine. Say what you will, the girl knows how to dress for any occasion.”
Azira chewed his thumbnail nervously.
“Oh, do stop that! You don’t want ragged fingernails tonight!”
“Who on earth would even notice my nails?”
“ Crowley, you nitwit. That boy probably spends more cash on manicures than all of the girls dormitory combined.”
Azira stared at his uneven nails in horror. It was beginning to occur to him that three hours might actually not be enough time after all.