The Triwizard Tournament

Present Day…

Professor Crowley loved his job, he really did, even if he complained about it from time to time. But recently, he had begun to truly question his better judgement, especially when it came to his position as Hogwarts Herbology professor.

It had all started to go downhill with the weather: gloomy skies and frigid temperatures, which were always an indicator of drafty castle hallways and a sharp pain in his bones.

Then, as if to make everything worse, he had received a visit from the assistant headmaster of Hogwarts: Professor Beelzebub. Usually, Crowley could handle Beez, but on that day, he just hadn’t been in the mood.

After they had exchanged stilted pleasantries, Beez had paused, as if fortifying themselves for what they were about to say. Just from that, Crowley had known that he wouldn’t like where their conversation was going to lead.

“Gabriel and I have decided to hosssst the Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

At the words, Crowley’s body had stilled and his mind had fogged, drowning out the sound of Beez’s continued explanation.

The Triwizard Tournament? Nononononononono—

“Crowley? Are you lissstening?”

“Hm? Yes, of course.”

“Then I suppose we can count on you when we introduce the idea to the students?”

“Wha—fuck no! Of course not! Don’t you remember what it was like when—“ Crowley broke off, his voice faltering. Instead, he waved the cane in his hand around violently.

“—you know! It was dangerous! Students were killed! I was crippled! Why the hell would you start that fucking tournament up again!?”

Beez stepped back, eyebrows raised as Crowley’s cane stabbed the air where they had just been.

“You and I both know how profitable the Tournament was for the ssschool. And the competitors alwayss go on to do great things.” Beez paused, eyeing Crowley up and down. “Or at leassst, they ussssually do.”

“Oh fuck you too Beez. And screw the Ministry’s stupid Tournament endowment. Kids die Beez. The challenges are nothing to scoff at, and we can’t provide them any support.”

Beez sighed, a soft whistling noise that sounded like the sizzling of a cauldron.

“Crowley, I knew you’d be againssst it, but we have all the other professorsss on board, and you know you’d be unable to get the one-third majority to sssway the decision.”

Crowley flushed, shifting his weight to his uninjured leg. Beez has to be bluffing, after all… if there’s one person who hates the Triwizard Tournament as much as I do…

“And don’t even think about running to Fell. Gabriel already talked with him—he’s going to sssstand by this decision.”

Crowley blinked, absolutely floored.

There was no way Aziraphale Fell, winner of his year's Triwizard Cup, had chosen to reinstate the tradition.

Not after everything they had seen. Not after how the tournament had dragged them apart and led to a rivalry so famous that Hogwarts had an underground betting ring running for who would end up on top: the irascible Herbology Professor Anthony J. Crowley, or the amable Librarian and retired Unspeakable Aziraphale Fell.

I knew I hated that bastard for a reason.

“So, as you can sssee, whether you like it or not, we are going to be having the Tournament. Now, if you’d excussse me, I have paperwork to attend to.”

With that Beez had left. Crowley hadn’t been in the headspace to stop them, and had instead remained in his office, vibrating with rage before stalking over to his plants and letting out his anger at the drooping leaves of a lazy mandrake.

Now, days later, Crowley had still not gotten over his rage, but it had cooled down to a manageable level. Or at least, he thought it had. It returned full force that morning at breakfast, when Fell himself strolled in, surrounded by his usual gaggle of awed students.

Crowley’s hand, wrapped around his fork, clenched so tightly that his forearm began to cramp.

How dare the librarian go around, as if nothing was the matter. How dare he act as if it was a normal day, as if he didn’t know what was coming, as if, within the next hour, the students who were eating at the tables below were not going to be told to put their lives on the line for school pride and honor.

As if sensing his glare, Aziraphale met his eyes. The smile on his face melted away, replaced by a flash of guilt and then nothing at all.

Bastard.

Returning to his eggs and bacon, Crowley found his appetite gone. Instead, the food made him feel vaguely queasy.

He was so focused on trying to vaporize his food through his gaze alone that he didn’t see who had settled next to him until it was too late.

“Professor Crowley.”

Crowley’s back stiffened, his leg twanging softly under the table.

“Fell.”

“Are you not hungry? Those crumpets look scrumptious.”

Crowley frowned, feeling off balance by the mildness of their discussion. Usually, Fell’s words were filled with cutting barbs, his soft voice twisted into mocking. This, kindness was foreign, and not at all welcome.

As such, when Fell moved to grab the crumpets, which just so happened to be near Crowley, Crowley slapped his hand away with his cane. A sharp, but painless rap on the knuckles.

“I don’t know what you’re trying at Fell, but I won’t forget that you bowed to Gabriel’s will. Not after everything we went through during our Tournament. Not after what you did. Not after… ” Crowley paused, voice choked. “Ngk. You know.”

Aziraphale’s face turned stony. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh I think I know plenty.”

Fell harrumphed, his white curls bouncing softly.

“Well, excuse me for trying to bury the hatchet before what is undoubtedly going to be a trying time for the students and the both of us.”

Crowley rolled his eyes so hard his head began to hurt.

“Oh don’t play angel with me. Everybody else may fall for your charm, but I certainly won’t.”

“I was not trying to charm you, I was just being kind. Not as if you’ve ever recognize it, being as you are.”

“As I am? And how am I?” Crowley asked, his voice deceptively mild.

Aziraphale flushed red in anger, and seemed about to reply before clarity rushed back and he sighed, curving into himself tiredly. “Oh dear, I seem to have deviated from my purpose here. You are infuriating my good man.”

“I do try.”

Aziraphale sighed once more, resting his head on his hand and massaging his temples. “Professor Crowley, I know that we don’t get along, god knows we’ve had our quarrels in the past. But right now, as it currently stands, I believe I have a proposition that you would be obliged to agree to.”

“Oh, and what would that be?”

“Well, I’m sure you know of the Triwizard Tournament that Gabriel and Beelzebub have become enamored with. They simply won’t be swayed.”

“No thanks to you.”

Aziraphale stiffened, but plowed on. “And as we both understand the risks with such a proposal, I was wondering…” Fell trailed off, voice a mere whisper so as to not be overheard. “…why don’t we work together to train those selected. Not just from Hogwarts, but from all the schools. I know it’s against the rules, and I know we’re not supposed to get involved. But we can help them, we can prevent the worst from occurring.”

Crowley flinched, hand massaging his hip unconsciously.

“Crowley? Please. I know we’re not on the best terms… but the children. I can’t see what happened to us happen to them.”

Looking into Aziraphale’s eyes, Crowley noted the desperation and anxiousness that he felt reflected inside. Even though Fell hadn’t stood up to stop the tournament, Crowley could see that he didn’t want it to happen just as much as Crowley himself.

“Fine. But don’t think this means I like you.”

Aziraphale relaxed, his sunny disposition returning.

“Oh Crowley, thank you.”

“Ngk. Shuddap.”

Back Then…

“Aziraphale, you remember all I have told you, yes?”

“Yes headmaster.”

“Good. I expect the best from you, both as the headmaster, and as your father. You’d do best not to disappoint.”

“Of course father.”

The Headmaster of Hogwarts nodded, relaxing back in his seat. Before him, his son, Aziraphale Fell, stood solidly.

“And Aziraphale, I thought I told you to lose the— ” The headmaster waved his hands around his midsection, “—baby fat. It’s unbecoming.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, his face hidden as he flinched softly at the barb. “Apologies father, I’ll try harder.”

“See that you do. Now on your way, you have a tournament to prepare for. After all, I have no doubt that you will be selected—you are top of your class.”

Aziraphale nodded, deciding against bringing up Crowley, and his rather spectacular academic record that put even Aziraphale’s to shame.

“Thank you headmaster. Excuse me.”

With that, Aziraphale made his way out of the office. The minute the big double doors closed behind him, his perfect posture melted away until he was slumped against the wall, face crumpled and shoulders burdened.

Damn all.

“Zira? Are you alright?”

Blinking away the blurriness in his vision, Aziraphale found himself engulfed in a warm embrace.

“Crowley.”

“What did that bastard say to you? Did he comment on your body again? Cause he’s absolutely fuckin' lying. You are the most beautiful man in Britain and he’s just—just! Ugh! I hate him.”

“I’m fine darling.”

Crowley snorted, the soft puff of air warm against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Pull the other one, this one’s got bells on it.”

Aziraphale sighed, and instead of responding, he turned his head so that he could look his boyfriend in the eyes, or in Crowley’s case, the sunglasses.

“Eyes giving you trouble?” Aziraphale asked, slightly concerned.

“Ah, you know me. My eyes are always a bit sensitive. But don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing here! You are not going to turn this around to me! Not when you’re obviously so down.” Crowley paused, head cocked to one side. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we could go for a walk. Or better yet, we could visit the kitchens and raid the house elves for hot chocolate again. I know it always makes you feel better.”

Glancing down at his stomach, Aziraphale closed his eyes, trying to push back the voice in his mind that sounded too much like his father.

Crowley, sensing his insecurity, took the lead.

“Come on! We don’t have to eat anything right now. We can just go say hi to Midsy. You know she loves when we visit, and then you can tell me about Herbology, I wasn’t there today cause I had to clean out Professor Gabriel’s cupboard. Bastard made me stay behind cause I burnt the table—as if it was my fault… but that Gryffindor-loving toad spawn is an absolutely biased fucker.”

Crowley paused, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “Come on! We can’t stay here all day!”

“Yes.” Aziraphale murmured, admiring his partner’s fiery red hair and sharp cheekbones. “Yes, you’re quite right.”

Together, they made their way to the kitchens. By the time they had arrived, Aziraphale was feeling much better, and was able to drink a nice warm cuppa with only a flash of self-recrimination.

“So—” Crowley began, breaking the tentative silence. “What happened back there? I know dealing with your father is always a pain, but that was just something else.”

Aziraphale stiffened, his shoulders drawing up. But before Crowley could backtrack, he explained.

“The Headmaster has decided that Hogwarts is going to participate in the Triwizard Tournament.” Aziraphale began. “And naturally, he expects me to compete in a possibly dangerous competition, just so I can bring pride to the family name.”

Crowley’s expression darkened, and Aziraphale imagined his eyes had clouded behind his polaroid glasses.

“That fucking bastard.” Crowley spat out. “You shouldn’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do, Zira. Stick it to him—don’t participate. You obviously don’t want to! Merlin, nobody could ever want to do something like that.”

Against all odds, Aziraphale felt a small smile curl the edges of his lips. It pleased him to no end when Crowley got so worked up about this sort of stuff. His cheeks would flush the most adorable red and he’d scowl in a way Aziraphale couldn’t help but find endearing.

“Thank you Crowley. But you know I can’t do that. I can’t disobey my father.”

Crowley sighed dramatically, slumping into his cup of tea. “Yeah. You say it often enough.”

Aziraphale glanced away, feeling his chest tighten sharply. “I’m sorry.”

“I know Zira.” Crowley murmured defeatedly. “I know.”