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Hermione was excited.
It was… cute. Disgustingly so, to see her all ridiculous and giggly with Anathema because some foolish mortal boy had asked her to the dance. A dance! They were practically infants! They were barely past learning to walk, they didn't even know how to dance (and he'd been merciful enough to stop Aziraphale's efforts to teach them. His angel only knew one dance, after all, and it was hardly what you'd call a cool one. He had the sneaking suspicion The Them had asked for lessons anyway, though, too amused by the gavotte and too fond of Aziraphale to maintain their dignity in the face of his most pleading expression). The school certainly wasn't teaching them anything on the subject of graceful movement, either. It wasn't about learning a skill, they'd simply cobbled together an event in the name of socialisation (but which, if they were being entirely honest, was more about fundraising than student welfare). Why couldn't they socialise with their peers over a movie, or a dinner, or something -anything- that didn't involve the potential for a rain forest's worth of ugly crepe decorations, awkward first kisses and sentimentalist nonsense on dance floors? Had these idiots never seen a bloody movie?!?
They were too young for the sort of drama already being stirred up. Pepper had been especially vicious in her recounting of the minor bouts of bullshit happening in their class, from the sheer volume of boys who thought lobbing scrunched up paper notes counted as romance, to the girls almost brawling because they'd both wanted the exact same dress. Thankfully, Hermione hadn't fallen that far down the teen angst rabbit hole. It wasn’t even that Hermione liked the boy, per say, given she'd never mentioned him before, nor knew particularly much about him now. More that she had honestly never thought anyone would ever ask her on a date, given how hard she’d struggled to make friends beyond the Them, and the little hellion was rather excited for the chance for some human practice, as she'd called it.
Crowley couldn't help but think his hellion was more emotionally invested than she was admitting to, or possibly aware of. And if his blood could be chilled, it would be downright frosty at the idea of her getting hurt. Hermione was, of course, perfect. Smart, kind, and funny, with a steely determination to do right by others. If ever she chose to give her heart to someone, they would be the luckiest wretch alive (and Satan help them if they ever forgot it). Perhaps it was simply the nature of demons to be suspicious, pessimistic creatures, but the timing seemed too convenient. A boy who'd never even bothered to acknowledge Hermione's existence suddenly scuttling out from the shadows with a declaration of adoration? Surely he would have at least acknowledged her? Even looked her way? He knew for a fact the boy had never done so. Pepper and Harry were practically guard dogs, with a sixth sense for danger to The Them; if someone was looking too long or often at any of their group, it would have been noted and reported to Adam. Or, more likely, they'd have broken the boy's nose immediately.
No, there was something fishy going on, even if his angel refused to believe it.
Aziraphale, utterly useless in such matters, was thrilled for her, and was far too prone to devolving into excitable chatter about fledglings and learning to fly for Crowley’s tastes. In fairness, angels were wretchedly optimistic creatures, prone to err on the side of romance rather than reality, and adding in Aziraphale's fervent belief that Crowley was too overprotective in his parenting meant that Zira was never going to pay Crowley's concerns much in the way of genuine attention. Just because Crowley wasn't quite ready to see his little hellion grown up didn't mean he was incapable of rational thought! It wasn't like he wanted her to be a spinster, to cut herself off from the world. But surely ten was too young for school dances and definitely too young for dating? She had an entire human lifetime for crushes and love, couldn't this have waited a few more years?
The only thing making any of this tolerable was that Crowley wasn't alone in his ill ease. Like Crowley, Harry was less than thrilled about this change in family dynamics, though he was taking an unholy delight in preparing himself for battle, as he called it (more accurately, he was preparing himself to go hang out at an event he didn’t particularly want to go to in order to scowl menacingly at his twin’s date all evening, more than likely with the Them at his side, glaring along at various levels of ferocity ranging from kitten-like, to wrath of the Antichrist, and the even more terrifying wrath of Pepper).
The idea of either of his children reaching the age where heartbreak was a quantifiable risk made Crowley more uncomfortable than he’d care to dwell on. Oh, sure, he knew how to break hearts- they were disgustingly easy to stomp all over, given the opportunity, even if he tried to avoid it as possible whenever Hell hadn’t been paying close attention- but repairing broken hearts was definitely not in his repertoire. But the more he tried to explain this to his Angel, the more Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and told him to stop being so silly. After all, Hermione was hardly the excitable type. She didn’t giggle and preen and read silly magazines that made her hate herself (it felt infinitely worse to have taken credit for their invention now he was trying to protect someone they were designed to emotionally destroy). Besides, what kind of an irredeemable idiot would choose Hermione as the target for such an act when her twin was renowned for his habit of beating bullies into better behaviour? The worst and most irksome part was that Aziraphale had a good point.
Crowley hated it when his angel had good points. It made it impossible to pout and flail about the cottage without mockery.
Hermione and Pepper were the most sensible sort of children he’d ever known, even if they both had a potential for bone-chilling darkness in the defense of others that made Harry’s efforts at crash tackling bullies into submission seem downright adorable in comparison. As much as he hated the idea of letting her go on a date, he hated the idea of seeing the smile drop away and the middle aged sensibility return. She’d grown too old after… that. He couldn’t bring himself to damage the first glint of actual childhood milestone she’d stumbled upon since. He refused to.
So he grit his teeth and watched Hermione and Pepper try on a thousand dresses (Hermione in excitement, Pepper as though personally offended by the indignity and planning brutal vengeance on all dress designers), Anathema at his side, finding kind ways to veto the dresses that made his non-existent blood pressure spike, and somehow managing to help them find dresses that balanced his desire to not see his hellions looking too adult, and Hermione’s desire to not look like, in her words, ‘a geriatric librarian’. He’d bought her the shoes, thanking anyone who’d listen that Anathema was able to talk her out of wobbling about on heels so she could enjoy herself. He’d even taken pity on Pepper’s frustrations when her mother said she didn’t need to participate in antiquated mating rituals and bought her a dress and shoes, too (Pepper, it must be noted for fear of the girl’s temper, did not want to go on a date, or dance with a boy, or any such nonsense. If asked, she had a list of increasingly horrifying things she would prefer to such horrors as dating, ranging from dental work (without anesthetic), to a twenty hour marathon of the most sickeningly sweet children's television known to mankind, the sort with positive messages they liked beating into small children's psyches through brain-numbing song. Pepper would rather dunk her head in cement and suffocate to death (item number twelve on her list) than layer herself in chemicals and frills and dance, she just didn’t want her best friend to be at a social event without back up, just in case. He was growing rather fond of the little menace, truth be told).
He’d suffered in silence to see Hermione’s room became covered in a not-so-light dusting of makeup as Anathema helped his adorable little hellspawn (and honorary, adorably militant little hellspawn) look far too grown up for his tastes. He’d taken the obligatory photos, resisted the urge to terrorise the little mortal who presumed to be good enough for his Hermione, and dropped the twins and Pepper (who was, if her mother asked, staying at Hermione’s to study and had no intention of disobeying maternal commands whatsoever, of course) at the school with only minor fussing from Aziraphale, and a vow from Harry to take some photos of their night for the scrapbook, whatever the hell that meant. At his Angel’s urging, they’d left before he could try and identify the little upstart. Hermione had her friends, had Harry, backing her up. Hell, there was a demonically invisible snake curled around her neck under strict instructions as to when to try and bite the boy's nose off. She didn’t need Crowley there, too.
The realisation did not make it any less difficult to leave.
Pushing down the urge to curse Anathema (like she wasn’t already cursed, with an idiot like Newt at her side), he headed home with the firm intention to fret, and growl, and plan vengeance to rain down upon any idiot who gave Hermione trouble. Aziraphale had smiled that knowing, irritating little smile he was prone to as Crowley had paced, laughing softly as though his pain was actually funny.
Sometimes, he hated his angel. Just a little, in the way that meant not in the utter slightest. After all, demons don't have to be serious and literal all the time, given that you can't bend the truth if you're utterly literal.
*
Crowley had expected to glower and fret for hours, Aziraphale trying and failing to hide his amusement, until the dance was over and he could speed them to the school to make sure Hermione was alright. He hadn’t expected a feeling of all-consuming dread, and Hermione’s devastated voice in his mind, calling him for help. He’d found himself at the school a moment later, and barely had time to feel guilty for not telling Aziraphale something was wrong before the feeling of absolute overwhelm distracted him. His hellspawn needed help. He was halfway up the steps before Aziraphale joined him, almost through the door before he noticed the buzzing.
Realising the Lord of Hell had made an appearance at his daughter’s dance was not a particularly happy moment, so Crowley elected to ignore it entirely and focus on Hermione instead. He could see her, circled by other students, the Them trying valiantly to get through to her like knights of old waging war for their Queen. Wensleydale and Brian were trying to politely move through, diplomats unto the bitter end, but Adam, Pepper and Harry were shoving through the crowd with far more violence than they’d usually try for, which was honestly saying a lot. The adults were well away from the crowd, though from the looks of them, they were utilising a pointed kind of ignorance, the sort that spoke of things being altogether too difficult to navigate, dear, and required deliberately looking away from something horrible when you know you're meant to intervene.
He'd deal with them soon enough. And the children mocking his hellspawn.
Later, Crowley would admit to not even noticing that the world fell to soul-crushing silence around them, so it never occurred to him to wonder which of them was responsible for it. After all, listening to a smug mortal gleefully declaring it had been a dare, a joke, that his hellion was not and never would be wanted? That tended to steal a demon’s attention.
Hermione wasn’t crying. In fact, she looked more amused than anything else. But beneath it, he could feel the utter devastation to hear her every fear thrown into stark relief by an idiot child who was about to have a very bad night. He could feel the painful static of angelic fury, could hear the growing buzzing beneath his own loud hissing of rage. He would destroy the mortal. It would be his mission in Satanblessed life to allow him not a single vaguely positive moment ever again, but first, Hermione.
She was in his arms in the span of a heartbeat, body almost convulsing with the strength of her sobs. Only The Them, the fool, the Lord of Hell and the Angel of the Eastern Gate knew. The rest of the room was frozen in place. He wasn't surprised, not really, that it was Pepper who struck first, the girl actually pushing Beelzebub out of her way to launch herself at the boy, crash tackling him hard enough that it had to hurt almost as much as the punch she landed right on his stupid little face. It was hard not to cheer, though Beelzebub was nice enough to do it for him. He'd glanced to Beelzebub worriedly, expecting them to be rather vengeful at Pepper's blatant act of disrespect, but there was a fondness to their gaze as they watched Pepper rain a mortal's version of fire and brimstone down before Harry reluctantly dragged her away... and promptly took her place. Adam's eyes were glowing a rather alarming shade of crimson when Aziraphale gripped Harry by the back of his shirt and forced him away, the angel readying a lecture judging by the pinched look to his face.
It was almost a mercy for the boy that he missed the angelic sermon headed his way. Almost.
'You attacked one under my protection.' The buzzing drone of Beelzebub's voice was chilling in the silence, startling enough that Adam's eyes stopped glowing immediately in surprise. Or, just as likely given the boy's smile, the realisation that someone else was about to do the dirty work in a far more gruesome way than he'd have been able to manage. 'We have killed for less, mortal.' There wasn't even time to blink before the Lord of Hell had the boy by the collar, hefting him up effortlessly as he stared in mute terror. 'What have you to say for yourself?'
He shook, unable to speak, though judging by the smell, still perfectly able to wet himself. Beelzebub smiled the cruelest of their smiles, the sort to make even the Dukes of Hell flinch away and cower for mercy, the flies that typically encircled their head like a particularly irritating, living headdress darting forward to harass the boy like oddly enraged hail. Crowley, more than able to appreciate the showmanship, grinned, cursing away his glasses so the boy, if he looked, would see serpentine eyes glaring him down. Rather sensibly, possibly the first moment of sensibility in the boy's entire life given who he'd tried to bully, he kept his gaze locked firmly on the more immediate threat.
Beelebub glanced towards Crowley, taking in the shaking form of Hermione with a sympathetic frown utterly out of place on the being's typically smug face. 'Hermione.' Hermione turned in his arms immediately, moving to look towards the Lord of Hell with a sheepish smile.
'Hi, Beelzy.' And when the blessed heaven did that happen? Aziraphale could officially never call him a helicopter parent again, given he'd apparently missed his daughter befriending the Right Hand of Satan. Beelzebub's expression turned what, on a lesser being, could be considered worried, and Crowley found himself faltering at the notion of the Lord of Hell caring for the emotional welfare of his kid.
'Did this pestilence harm you?' The boy was roughly shaken, as though an additional clue was needed to ensure they knew which particular pestilence Beelzebub was talking about in a room full of the bastards. Hermione shrugged, huffing a startled laugh and wiping away her tears. She was still learning firmly against him, though, and he'd count it as a win. Mostly, though, he hoped his clinging to her looked more like he was offering comfort rather than trying to stop her wandering over for a chat with the demon who'd tried to kill him that one time.
It was an odd night, all things considered.
'Only my pride.' She smiled, shaky and barely there, but he felt himself relaxing at the sight (and pointedly ignored the way a little tension left Beelzebub's shoulders, too, because co-parenting with an angel was frustrating enough, there was no way in Heaven he was adding a Lord of Hell to the phone tree). 'Honestly, it's good to bust that occasionally, keeps me from getting sloppy.'
Beelzebub's laugh, even when genuine rather than mocking, was the kind to send shivers down not only your spine, but every part of you, until even the hair on your toes began to shake. Crowley's perfectly styled hair began to tremble, though one quick upward glare was enough to settle it swiftly back into place. 'You are lucky, boy. There will come a day Hermione does not show mercy to ones such as you, but though her compassion spares your life, it does not spare you punishment for a slight against Hell itself.'
Aziraphale startled, as if about to step in. Crowley removed his hold on Hermione just enough to grab the angel's arm and shake his head frantically. This was not a fight they were going to win. The truce was shaky enough without wading in to fights like these, especially when the little prick had it coming. Aziraphale shot him a betrayed kind of a look, but shut the heaven up and stopped trying to interfere. Crowley decided to call it a win, given the current lack of them.
'What of these mortals? The miniature ones laughed, others ignored the attack.' Hermione's shaky smile turned downright wicked, her eyes glinting serpent-like in the light. 'Oh, we'll make them pay. Dearly. I think it's time for some demonic intervention.' Beelzebub nodded approvingly, grinning as Hermione managed to slither from his grasp and run to hug the literal Lord of Hell and give her demonic father what would be a coronary in a lesser creature, whispering something into the demon's ear that turned their fond smile utterly wolfish. An almost soundless click of demonic fingers, and a sensation like a hundred thousand ghosts taking up the gavotte on Crowley's spine (it took two glares to return his hair to perfection), and Crowley knew with certainty that he very much did not want to know what his hellion had just orchestrated, thank you very much.
'Enjoy the chaos, little witch.' The Lord of Hell looked around the room almost absently before meeting Hermione's gaze with the sort of authority that should have left the child shaking. Hermione didn't so much as flinch. 'Do not let cattle define you. You are a god among ants, a huntress, a creature far beyond such meager understandings as these things possess. If they think to conquer you, you will show the error of their ways. Do you understand?'
'I do. Thank you, Beelzy.' Another hug (another coronary, and even the horrified expression on his angel's face provided no comfort), and then Hermione was back in his arms, and Beelzebub and the little bastard vanished.
Hermione met her father's gaze with equally serpentine eyes. 'Can we all go home now? I don't think I like dances very much.' Beside him, Aziraphale was almost frozen in place, eyes almost as wide as his gaping mouth as his gaze shifted between Hermione and the place Beelzebub and the boy had vanished from, seeming to try and fail to figure out something to say.
Really, there wasn't anything to say.
Taking one last look at the crowd about to deal with an irate Serpent of Eden, and making sure the Them were ready to go (Pepper was sensible enough to go collect all of their coats, and seemed far less concerned by the Lord of Hell than her peers, even offering Beelzebub a grin and a farewell wave. He really, really didn't want to think about Hermione, Pepper and Beelzebub joining forces. It was simply too horrifying a concept for him to linger on), he clicked his fingers and transported the lot of them, and his car, back to the cottage. An angelic miracle helped them all settle in with hot chocolates, and by the end of their impromptu night in, the disaster had transformed itself into a hell of a lark in the minds of the children. By the time the boys (excluding Harry, of course) were returned to the school, ready to be collected by their parents, even Hermione was laughing, though Harry still held more than a little rage in his expression whenever she wasn't looking.
Then again, so did Pepper. And Adam.
And Aziraphale.
And Crowley knew he probably did, too.
Crowley had the sneaking suspicion that, whenever the boy was returned from Hell, his punishment would be far from over.
*
If he were being honest, Crowley was rather proud that he managed to seem calm and in no way freaking the ever loving fuck out until the twins and Pepper were safely asleep in Hermione's room, curled around each other protectively like snakes, Harry and Pepper surrounding Hermione as though shielding her even in sleep. Aziraphale had taken a photo, of course. And if Crowley had snuck out his phone, snapping a picture and setting it as his wallpaper, no one but his angel would ever know.
He'd done well, though, bless it. He hadn't demanded answers from Hermione, or Pepper, hadn't stormed the school to rip apart every single mortal bastard who thought it was okay for his hellion to be bullied and publicly humiliated. He didn't even ask what Hermione and Beelzebub had done. It didn't matter, not really. It wasn't going to stop him ruining the lives of every single adult who ignored Hermione's misery, or teaching important life lessons to the brats involved. Instead, he'd just settled in with a bottle of wine for a game of 'drink whenever you need to postpone the inevitable breakdown, avoid thinking about things, or to keep from opening your mouth and shattering the tenuous calm'. Not a complicated drinking game, clearly, though one in dire need of better naming, but a time (and alcohol) consuming one, requiring another bottle rather quickly. And then another, and another, and another, cursing them filled and glamouring his efforts so the hellspawn wouldn't get improper ideas about solving problems through rampant alcoholism.
Aziraphale wasn't so easy to fool, though his poker face had improved considerably with parenthood.
The problem, of course, with playing a drinking game was that by the time the children were asleep, their room soundproofed, he was good and drunk, and more than ready to pace the room, flailing, cursing and emoting about his day. He rarely hissed his curses these days, but on nights like these, he fell back into the habit with a vengeance. How could he not? He'd earned the right to fume, surely.
'Crowley, please, you need to calm down...'
Apparently, he hadn't.
'Calm down? The Lord of Hell, Right Hand of Satan, is apparently my daughter's demonic life coach, and I'm meant to calm down?' He had the sudden mad urge to launch his half full wine glass at Aziraphale's books and see how calm he'd stay. It must have shown on his face, somehow, because the next moment, Aziraphale was snatching his glass away, standing between Crowley and the bookshelves worriedly.
'Well, yes, that was rather unexpected, but it isn't the end of the world, is it? Shouldn't we, I don't know, be grateful that there's another layer of protection at play? Minerva was worried that the school could be warded against us, but it's rather doubtful Dumbledore could keep Beelzebub themself from Hermione if they were determined to see her...'
'Did you see Pepper? She waved, angel. She wasn't surprised by the sudden appearance of a fly hat wearing Lord Of Hell. She knows them! Our daughter has not only befriended the Right Hand of Satan, but introduced them to her bestie? Do you... can you even begin to comprehend how dangerous that is? Even ignoring that two friends of the literal Antichrist are friends with the Lord of Hell, do you really, truly see no problem with those three being friends? You really want Beelzebub hanging out with your kid, do you?'
'Crowley, I know.' Aziraphale reached out as if to touch him, but Crowley flinched away, too frustrated to bother with something as foolish as comfort. Pacing was tiresome in human form, so he flopped onto the couch, glaring at his angel for being so blase about their child socialising with Satan's 2IC and taking unholy delight in kicking his feet up onto the coffee table dangerously close to one of Aziraphale's first editions. A minor demonic miracle saw drippy, oozy mud appear all over the soles. Aziraphale huffed out one of his more long-suffering sighs and snatched up his books from the table. 'It's a bit late to stop it now, my dear. You can fuss, but you can't go back in time and stop this from happening, no matter how much you might wish you could.' Reverently placing his books on his reading chair, the angel settled in place at Crowley's side, resting a hand on his shoulder in comfort that Crowley fought not to push away. 'We can either drive ourselves mad about it, or accept that there's no stopping them socialising. If we forbid it, Hermione will simply rebel. That she has hidden this friendship from us bothers me, Crowley. I would rather both Harry and Hermione feel able to be honest with us, no matter the subject. We can't help them if they don't talk to us, and far too often, Hermione has withheld information that we needed to know.'
And that? That was the problem, really. Crowley threw himself back against the couch petulantly, refusing to concede and knowing his angel would take the gesture as concession none the less.
It took an hour for him to mutter a resentful, 'fine, what would you suggest then, angel?'
It took about a dozen more conversations for him to fall in line behind Aziraphale's wisdom, and he did so with no good grace whatsoever.
*
It took three weeks for the boy to return to school. That Beelzebub had ensured no one noticed his absence was the sort of concerning Crowley was getting rather good at not thinking about. Crowley, of course, hadn't been idle, either. He'd spent the weeks learning every dirty secret of the adults at the dance, crafting a rather intricate web to capture and humiliate them all in. Relationships soured, embezzlement suddenly came to light, and don't even get him started on the cheating partners suddenly loudly proclaiming their duplicity in public spaces. They'd all also managed to contract resistant strains of a range of sexually transmitted diseases, the sorts requiring invasive testing and alerting everyone they'd had sex with about the need for their own rather mortifying trip to the GP.
For a small town, there was a rather large increase in doctor's visits. Crowley was delighted.
In the end, though he left most of the children alone, but only after walking Hermione into school and seeing their familiar faces more exhausted and terrified than usual. He'd made an exception for The Boy, dedicated the next seventy-seven years to a rousing game of destroying his life over and over in a million different ways, but that, dear reader, is a story for another day.