Reverse AU Crowley/Harry Omens Short
This will only make sense if youâve read both my main fic and my scraps on AO3. Posting it anyway.
Raphael is still here.
He is still here and he keeps smiling at Aziraphale all the time.
Aziraphale keeps smiling back.
Crowley hates it.
He is not jealous, he tells himself, as he watches Raphael sit on a couch in the back of the bookshop. Raphael is currently pouring over an arcane text that Aziraphale thinks might solve the âangel from an alternate universeâ problem.
Crowley has known Aziraphale for six thousand years. He has argued and dined with and gotten drunk with the angel innumerable times. Theyâre best friends. Aziraphale walked into hell for him and sassed Michael into the bargain. He knows Aziraphale loves him. They are raising (another) child together, for Someoneâs sake. Â Some alternate universe angel is not going to change that.
Even if he is basically a better version of Crowley.
Stupid angelic tosser. With his stupid round pupils and his stupid white wings and his stupid long braided hair that Aziraphale spent a whole minute complimenting after lunch.
( It is just possible that Crowley is trying to grow his hair out as quickly and discreetly as possible.)
Currently Crowley is alone with the Archangel Bloody Raphael, because the aforementioned child that Crowley and his angel are raising together had a sleepover with the former antichrist and Aziraphale has gone to Tadfield to pick him up and also consult the local witch on their Alternate Universe Angel problem. Normally picking up Harry from a friendâs house is something Crowley does in the Bentley, but today the knowledge that that would have left Aziraphale alone with Raphael for over an hour had made him strongly suggest that Aziraphale should go, and use the opportunity to consult the witch.
Crowley really hopes Book Girl has something. He doesnât know how much more of the archangelâs presence he can take without jumping across the room and trying to claw his stupid perfect eyes out.
He notices the other red-head has put down his book and is looking at him with narrowed eyes.
âWhat are you looking at?â he demands.
Raphael shrugs innocently. âI was just surprised you didnât go to Tadfield instead of Aziraphale.â He waves a hand at the piles of esoteric text cluttered around the room. âIt would have been more efficient for you to bring Anathema here while we continued to research, wouldnât it?â
âLeaving Aziraphale alone with you?â Crowley snaps, with rather more honesty than he prefers. âNot likely!â
Raphael arches a fine auburn eyebrow. âAre you always this possessive?â he asks and damn him, there is actual genuine concern in his tone. Who is he to be concerned about Aziraphale? He has his own version, yes? That he should be wanting to get back to? A tiny part of Crowley still doubts that. He canât imagine a demon Aziraphale, canât imagine Aziraphale Falling.
It hurts to think about.
âPossessive?â Crowley sputters, wrenching his mind away from the possibility of a horrified spiral into guilt. âI am not!â
And the thing is, he isnât. Not usually. But of course, it occurs to him, itâs been rather easy to not be possessive when he can be safe in the knowledge that no one else on the planet has a hope of competing for Aziraphaleâs affection. Not humans, not other demons, definitely not other angels.
Except now, there is another angel. An angel who never fell, still bathing in Her favour. With Crowleyâs face. And, key point, without the more demonic attributes caused by the Fall.
He is polite and gentle and exudes a puppy-like bouncy enthusiasm and he keeps smiling at Aziraphale and Crowley hates everything about him.
âReally?â
âReally,â Crowley snaps back, baring his fangs. âI am concerned for his safety. For all I know, this could still be some trick by Above and Below to attack us. You could be in on it.â
âYou really are very suspicious, arenât you?â Raphael says, grinning like Crowley has just said something amusing.
âDemon,â Crowley snaps. âGoes with the job description. Suspicious, sly, evil demon.â He notes with satisfaction that his blunt reference to his status makes Raphael go pale and twitch slightly. Good.
âYouâre not that demonic,â Raphael says softly after a moment, giving him a considering look. âI think Azirafell is worse. Better, I mean. At demoning.â
This is too much.
Crowley snarls and surges to his feet. âI,â he hisses, âam the Serpent in the Garden. The Fall of Man? Humanity exiled from Eden never to return? That was me. For six-thousand years I was Hellâs favourite demon. Donât go thinking I am soft!â
Of course, itâs at this moment that Harry runs into the room, having just got back from Tadfield. âDad! Dad! Is it true?â
Crowley draws his fangs back in so fast thereâs an almost audible click. âIs what true?â
Harry is about to reply when he spots Raphael. Raphael stares at him, wide-eyed. Harry stares back, fascinated.
âWow,â the nearly-thirteen-year-old breathes. âYou really do look just like Dad! Weird!â Then Harry frowns. âWhy donât you have the cool eyes, though?â
Crowley flips from cursing Harryâs sense of timing to grinning widely. He and his angel have the Best Son. Objectively. It is fact.
Raphael makes a strangled noise. âDad?â he manages to wheeze, still staring at Harry.
They had not mentioned Harry up until now as a precaution. Just in case Raphael was part of a plot against them. Watching Raphael almost choke in shock, Crowley is extra glad theyâd not mentioned the young wizard.
He still has to squash the urge to snap âyes, this is our sonâ in his most smug tone of voice. Crowley loves Harry and is not under any circumstances going to use him to score against the annoying stupid archangel who will be punted back to his own universe as soon as possible.
So instead he just waves, wiggling his fingers insouciantly at the Archangel. âThatâs me.â
(Itâs also Aziraphale, as well as James Potter, sadly deceased. People who start talking to Harry when he mentions his father soon learn to be alert for context clues.)
Raphael coughs, clearing his throat. âYouâve . . . adopted a child?â he says weakly.
âThatâs right,â beams Aziraphale, who has just walked into the room behind Harry.
âStole,â Crowley corrects. âWe stole him. Evil, remember.â
âMore like rescued,â says Harry, the little traitor. Raphael gives him a watery smile.
It turns out that (to Crowleyâs great relief) Aziraphale has brought back a way to get Raphael home. Unfortunately, the ritual to do it takes hours to set up.
Raphael spends most of that time trying not to stare at Harry. He doesnât really succeed.
Eventually, since they are now guaranteed to be archangel-free very soon, Crowley grudgingly explains how Harry came to be living with them.
Raphael is appalled.
âWhat do you mean, this headmaster knew and just left him with those people for ten years?â he hisses, his golden eyes narrow with outrage.
âHeâd convinced himself that the blood ward was the only resort,â Aziraphale explains.
âBullshit,â snaps Raphael and for a second Crowley almost likes him.
âQuite,â Aziraphale says. âWe were less than happy with the state of affairs ourselves.â
âNo kidding,â the archangel mutters. Â Right,â he says decisively. âIs that circle ready to get me home? I need to take a quick trip to Surrey. Just to check on something.â
It is possible, Crowley thinks, as Raphael steps into the circle and disappears in a flash, that the archangel will find that there is no alternate Harry. Or perhaps thereâs no alternate Voldemort. Or Dumbledore. Who knows?
***
Harry Potter, aged almost thirteen, ran from Number 4 Privet Drive, his suitcase and his owlâs travelling cage thumping beside him. His could feel his heart jumping in his chest. He had never been so angry in his life. Why had he listened to Aunt Marge? Why hadnât he done the smart thing and excused himself to the loo when sheâd started to talk?
What was he going to do now?
A noise and sudden light, caught his attention. It was a car, approaching fast. When it reached Harry, it skidded to a stop. He backed away, fumbling for his wand.
Then the passengerâs window rolled down, and a manâs head emerged. âHello,â the man said in a cheerful voice. âHarry, isnât it?â
Harry gasped and backed away further.
âLook,â said the man, âI donât normally get involved in these things, but my friend hereâ â he waved vaguely towards the driver, a man with long waves of red hair- âseems to think you need help.â The man squinted at Harry. âAnd from the looks of it, heâs right.â
An enraged roar, familiar to Harry, echoed out of the night.
Uncle Vernon, furious and getting closer.
âAlright,â said the driver, speaking for the first time, âthatâs enough of that.â
Harry heard the sound of clicking fingers and suddenly found himself in the carâs back seat with Hedwigâs cage next to him. His seatbelt had already fastened itself. The big black dog, which heâd almost tripped over earlier, was sitting on the car floor and looking extremely puzzled.
âReally dear,â said the man in the passenger seat to the driver as the car sped off, Vernon Dursleyâs furious shouts receding into the distance âDid you have to bring the dog too?â
âYep. Heâs a good dog.â
Harry swallowed and finally managed to speak. âPeople will come looking for me,â he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
The man in the passenger seat smiled at him. âWell I do hope so, my boy.â He nodded towards his friend. âRaf here is quite keen to give Albus Dumbledore a piece of his mind.â














