Close to midnight the shop was finally open. You had observed it since the morning, waiting for the sign to flip. It was well known that the “owner” kept the opening hours obscured. Still, you’d hoped for a little more luck. But luck was not on your side. And that was the least of your problems. Well, you were here to change that. Quietly humming along to the beat of “The devil within” by Digital Daggers from your headphones, you entered.
Nodding at the man behind the counter, you stepped directly toward the nearest shelf. His presence had felt somewhat heavy to you. But you weren’t here for him. There had to be something about transformation magic in here. So, you went through book after book then moved on to the next shelf. The entire time you felt him watching you. It was disturbing. You rolled your shoulders and glanced toward the staircase. Maybe you’d have better chances upstairs.
When you headed over, he stepped in your path. With an annoyed look, you paused the music and pushed the headphones down.
“Yes?” you asked sharply, both of your hands making the universal “What do you want?” gesture.
“Good evening, my dear. Are you looking for anything in particular?” He looked honestly concerned.
“Transformation magic,” you replied. He might as well make himself useful.
“And what you are trying to transform?” he asked, while slightly elevating his eyebrows.
“Knives,” you hissed, irritated.
“Knives. Hm, what do you want them to turn into?”
“Why would you need to know that? You sell books. I need a book. So go, find it,” you snapped at him. It made your stomach turn, but your patience had run out.
“My dear please, I promise I am only trying to help you. The kind of enchantment you are aiming for is a rather complicated and delicate task.” His voice didn’t raise a single notch; it got softer instead. “Let us take a seat and see if we can find a less difficult path to your goal.” He pointed towards the plush, heavy chairs in a corner.
“Oh, to Hell with it! Fine.” You stomped over to the chairs and dropped into one of them.
The shopkeeper sat down in the other seat. Before he could say something, a man came down the staircase. You blinked and angled your head. There was something there. Somehow, he reminded you of Henry—your Boa constrictor—impossible.
“Aziraphale, what did you do now?” the newcomer leaned against Aziraphale’s armchair.
“Crowley, I am trying to help here!” he replied offended. “We are going to find a solution for this witch’s problem.”
“And that problem is?”
“Everybody my age and some even younger carrying a knife around. And they are using them too! This has to be stopped!” you threw at them, slapping your hands down on the armrests.
“I see. And you were going to solve this by transforming the knives into...?”
“Snakes,” you supplied. Correcting yourself, “Well they prefer serpent—especially the big ones.” You ended up looking at the man named Crowley.
“Very true,” he stated, “But what happens then—with them?”
That was a good question. One you had no answer to. Cause animals getting hurt on your behalf was unacceptable to you.
“Witch?”, Aziraphale addressed you gently. “Have you thought about using an illusion for this?”
You froze. An illusion? Illusions were simple—relatively speaking. And nobody was going to get hurt—serpents or humans.
“That sounds picture perfect,” you perked up. “So, every time someone grabs a knife, they see a serpent in its place.”
“You want all restaurants to close?” Crowley drawled. “You know, they use knives rather often.”
“Ähm,...” you stammered.
“Certainly, no one here wants that!” Aziraphale cut in. “There is a simple solution. Bind the spell to the intent, with which people are holding a knife.”
“That’s it! Only humans, who want to hurt someone will see serpents.” You were bouncing with excitement, which made your seat squeak.
“And what kind of serpent will they see? A poisonous one or a harmless one? Big or small?” Crowley fired questions at you.
“Corn snakes, they are harmless, small and common enough to cause shock but no panic.” You reasoned—more to yourself than to them.
Smirking at Aziraphale, Crowley commented, “Oh, the irony of serpents disarming humans.”
Aziraphale shot him an indignant look and got up.
“Let me get you the right book then.” He went behind the counter.
You angled your head again and decided it was worth a try.
Addressing Crowley, “On the topic of serpents: Why do you remind of my Boa constrictor—Henry?”
He smiled at you and said: “That’s not for you to know.”
So, you went over to Aziraphale to collect your book and pay. You swallowed. “Thank you, Aziraphale. For your time and your patience—you’re an angel.” You went to hug him.
He took a quick step back, holding up his hands, “That’s quite all right my dear. It was a pleasure. Have a wonderful day.”
“You too.” You waved at him and left the bookshop. You put your headphones back on and chose to “Power” from Songs of Legion from your playlist. The song now matching your mood.
Author’s Note
This was meant to be a standalone. Tumblr, AO3, and one particularly lovely comment had other ideas.
Disarming Serpents is now the intro to a series called Of Serpents, Magic & Wings, because I clearly wasn’t done with these characters — and they weren’t done with me.
Also: no good deed goes unpunished. Especially when angels, demons, and intent-bound magic are involved.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me.
Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
Close to midnight the shop was finally open. You had observed it since the morning, waiting for the sign to flip. It was well known that the “owner” kept the opening hours obscured. Still, you’d hoped for a little more luck. But luck was not on your side. And that was the least of your problems. Well, you were here to change that. Quietly humming along to the beat of “The devil within” by Digital Daggers from your headphones, you entered.
Nodding at the man behind the counter, you stepped directly toward the nearest shelf. His presence had felt somewhat heavy to you. But you weren’t here for him. There had to be something about transformation magic in here. So, you went through book after book then moved on to the next shelf. The entire time you felt him watching you. It was disturbing. You rolled your shoulders and glanced toward the staircase. Maybe you’d have better chances upstairs.
When you headed over, he stepped in your path. With an annoyed look, you paused the music and pushed the headphones down.
“Yes?” you asked sharply, both of your hands making the universal “What do you want?” gesture.
“Good evening, my dear. Are you looking for anything in particular?” He looked honestly concerned.
“Transformation magic,” you replied. He might as well make himself useful.
“And what you are trying to transform?” he asked, while slightly elevating his eyebrows.
“Knives,” you hissed, irritated.
“Knives. Hm, what do you want them to turn into?”
“Why would you need to know that? You sell books. I need a book. So go, find it,” you snapped at him. It made your stomach turn, but your patience had run out.
“My dear please, I promise I am only trying to help you. The kind of enchantment you are aiming for is a rather complicated and delicate task.” His voice didn’t raise a single notch; it got softer instead. “Let us take a seat and see if we can find a less difficult path to your goal.” He pointed towards the plush, heavy chairs in a corner.
“Oh, to Hell with it! Fine.” You stomped over to the chairs and dropped into one of them.
The shopkeeper sat down in the other seat. Before he could say something, a man came down the staircase. You blinked and angled your head. There was something there. Somehow, he reminded you of Henry—your Boa constrictor—impossible.
“Aziraphale, what did you do now?” the newcomer leaned against Aziraphale’s armchair.
“Crowley, I am trying to help here!” he replied offended. “We are going to find a solution for this witch’s problem.”
“And that problem is?”
“Everybody my age and some even younger carrying a knife around. And they are using them too! This has to be stopped!” you threw at them, slapping your hands down on the armrests.
“I see. And you were going to solve this by transforming the knives into...?”
“Snakes,” you supplied. Correcting yourself, “Well they prefer serpent—especially the big ones.” You ended up looking at the man named Crowley.
“Very true,” he stated, “But what happens then—with them?”
That was a good question. One you had no answer to. Cause animals getting hurt on your behalf was unacceptable to you.
“Witch?”, Aziraphale addressed you gently. “Have you thought about using an illusion for this?”
You froze. An illusion? Illusions were simple—relatively speaking. And nobody was going to get hurt—serpents or humans.
“That sounds picture perfect,” you perked up. “So, every time someone grabs a knife, they see a serpent in its place.”
“You want all restaurants to close?” Crowley drawled. “You know, they use knives rather often.”
“Ähm,...” you stammered.
“Certainly, no one here wants that!” Aziraphale cut in. “There is a simple solution. Bind the spell to the intent, with which people are holding a knife.”
“That’s it! Only humans, who want to hurt someone will see serpents.” You were bouncing with excitement, which made your seat squeak.
“And what kind of serpent will they see? A poisonous one or a harmless one? Big or small?” Crowley fired questions at you.
“Corn snakes, they are harmless, small and common enough to cause shock but no panic.” You reasoned—more to yourself than to them.
Smirking at Aziraphale, Crowley commented, “Oh, the irony of serpents disarming humans.”
Aziraphale shot him an indignant look and got up.
“Let me get you the right book then.” He went behind the counter.
You angled your head again and decided it was worth a try.
Addressing Crowley, “On the topic of serpents: Why do you remind of my Boa constrictor—Henry?”
He smiled at you and said: “That’s not for you to know.”
So, you went over to Aziraphale to collect your book and pay. You swallowed. “Thank you, Aziraphale. For your time and your patience—you’re an angel.” You went to hug him.
He took a quick step back, holding up his hands, “That’s quite all right my dear. It was a pleasure. Have a wonderful day.”
“You too.” You waved at him and left the bookshop. You put your headphones back on and chose to “Power” from Songs of Legion from your playlist. The song now matching your mood.
Author’s Note
This was meant to be a standalone. Tumblr, AO3, and one particularly lovely comment had other ideas.
Disarming Serpents is now the intro to a series called Of Serpents, Magic & Wings, because I clearly wasn’t done with these characters — and they weren’t done with me.
Also: no good deed goes unpunished. Especially when angels, demons, and intent-bound magic are involved.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me.
Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
A witch arrives in Soho with an idea sharp enough to be dangerous.
Aziraphale offers hospitality. Crowley notices what doesn’t fit.
This series unfolds through two deliberately contrasting points of view:
POV 1 begins with a Warmanjuary one-shot and is told from inside the GN witch’s perspective—young, idealistic, and openly angry with the state of the world.
The witch is written without assigned gender or physical description, defined by agency, belief, and action rather than appearance.
POV 2 starts with Chapter 1 and follows Aziraphale and Crowley in a fly-on-the-wall mode—quietly observing, externally rendered, and restrained to what can be seen and heard in the moment.
📚 Masterlist
Intro (POV 1): Disarming Serpent
Chapter 1 (POV 2): A Septent Between Books
Chapter 2 (POV 1): A Serpent Against Fear
Chapter 3 (POV 2): An Angel's Courtesy
Chapter 4 (POV 1): Fault Lines
Chapter 5 (POV 2): What History Forgot
Chapter 6 (POV 1): Not Forgotten
Chapter 7 (POV 2): Backflow
Chapter 8 (POV 1): Good People and the Devil's Work
Chapter 9 (POV 2): Reclaiming and Restoration
Chapter 10 (POV 1): King's Cross
Deleted Scenes:
Breakfast-Scene: Crowley & Henry
Drive Through Sushi
📅 Posting Schedule
New chapters post every two weeks on Tuesdays.
🔔 Bonus Content
Background intel & worldbuilding notes:
Inside the Witches’ Cottage
Visual material and series graphics
🏷️ Series Tag
All content related to this series will be tagged:
#Of Serpents, Magic and Wings
Comments, reblogs, and quiet observations are always welcome.
“Is our witch still in the land of nod?” Aziraphale whispers worriedly.
“Dead to the world,” Crowley confirms and exits the Bentley into the dark winter night.
“A little assistance, old friend?” his companion flutters his hand helplessly towards the sleeper in the backseat.
The Bentley, ever helpful, cranks "Bohemian Rhapsody" to a volume that could wake the dead—or at minimum, one exhausted witch.
“Nnngh.” The witch stretches blinking owlishly.
“Ah, we’re here.”
“Yes, my Dear.” Both get out of the car.
Looking at the uneven pair Crowley lets them know, “I’ll be back in the morning. Give my best to Henry,” before folding himself back in the Bentley and driving away.
They move over the remnants of snow towards the bookshop.
Under the shine of the Victorian streetlamps Aziraphale unlocks the front door and turns on the lights to the melodious chime of the charm.
Turning to the witch, he points to a windowsill over a heater, where Henry lies coiled on his towel.
“Look who's been waiting.”
The witch rushes past him and stops an armlength in front of Herny swaying slightly. His tongue flickers out—a tiny black question mark—before he slithers willingly into trembling hands.
“Hey Henry. I’m back my friend.” With that he gets carefully draped over the witch’s shoulders like the world's most exclusive scarf.
Aziraphale locks the door with a satisfying click.
“Let me show you your accommodations. The spare bedroom I mean. So, you can get some sleep.”
He offers, picking up the dropped backpack.
“Yes, please.”
And so the odd procession—angel, witch, and serpent—ascends into the bookshop's warm heart.
The next morning’s sunbeams find Aziraphale in his reading chair. He looks up as the witch comes down the stairs with Henry over her shoulders.
“Good morning, my Dear. Have you slept well?”
“Good morning, Aziraphale. Yes, thank you. It’s really peaceful here. And Henry even already found his breakfast.”
“My apologies? What breakfast has Henry found?”
“Oh, just a mouse,” the witch caresses Henry’s snout.
“A mouse?? Are you sure?” He sits up painfully straight.
“Henry is.”
Aziraphale swallows and closes his eyes, mumbling something that sounds like, “Mice you may stay, if you leave my property intact and your waste outside.”
Then he looks at the serpent, “Well, thank you Henry for your...attention to my mouse problem. Please refrain from eating anymore of them though. They are guests here too.” And makes a small wave with his right hand.
The soft chime of the charm carries from the front door, alongside the soft steps of Crowley. The smell of baked goods spreads into the air.
“Morning. I thought we should do your council over breakfast. I’ve got a nice juicy mouse for Henry too.” He holds up the bag and taps one of his coat pockets.
While the serpent’s tongue flicks out on cue, the witch snorts and Aziraphale gives a small cough. “Good morning. Henry took care of his own breakfast. Apparently, my bookshop is hosting mice.”
Crowley laughs out loud, “I could have told you. But I didn’t want to offend you.”
Aziraphale gets up and states, “I’m going to start some tea.”
“Morning, Crowley. It seems now we all managed to offend your partner this morning. Henry is rather interested in your mouse though.”
“He’ll get over it—eventually,” the reply is soft and quiet. “You set the table. I’ll take Henry out the back—so he can get his second breakfast without riling my old friend up any further.” Then he extends his arm to Henry, who takes the invitation and slithers over onto it. The witch’s eyes stay on them until they’re out the backdoor.
No sooner is the table set and the tea ready than Crowley returns. He moves over to the windowsill and puts Henry down on his towel. The witch follows, running a hand over his scales.
“They’re warm...Isn’t it cold out?” A puzzled look accompanies the inquiry.
“I would never let a serpent freeze,” he replies and heads to the table.
Once they’ve taken their seats Aziraphale serves the tea.
“Did you take the note with you?” the witch asks Crowley, reaching out a hand.
He nods, ignoring the gesture, “Of course, it might prove useful.”
The witch’s lips compress into a thin line.
“So, what is going on with you and this so-called King of the Streets of London?” Crowley asks, while the witch takes a croissant from the basket.
“I wish I knew. I’ve lived in the cottage for 15 years without any trouble. Then the fear came.”
“Ugh?” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows.
“I know...I know, it sounds silly. But it was as if fear was our new neighbour. Everybody ducking down, mistrusting others, worried over what little they had to lose.”
“When did that start?” Crowley adjusts his sunglasses.
“About two...maybe two and a half years ago.” There is a soft hiss from Henry. The witch leans down and picks him up carefully. As he coils himself up against the warmth of the witch’s belly, trembling hands stroke his smooth scales.
“The thing with the knives started only three months prior. Suddenly everyone had one and then the fights started—over everything and nothing. So, I had to do something.”
“And you came here to stop the knife fighting,” Aziraphale nods.
“And it worked! Only...he came by two days later. With his...offer...” the witch spits out. The memory of their last encounter hung unspoken in the air.
“Does he have a name besides his silly title?” Crowley prods.
“Of course—Jack Donovan. That’s his legal name. No idea how he ended up in the backroads of London.”
“So, he’s really just an ordinary Jack. And how big is Jack’s kingdom?” Crowley’s voice drips with irony.
“A handful of streets between the railway arches and a canal cut-through in the old industrial district. No one dares to go up against him there.”
“Well, I’ve seen bigger kingdoms fall.”
The witch gives him the side-eye.
“Crowley,” Aziraphale interjects. “Surely there’s no need for violence.”
“So, you think we should just ask him politely to play nice?”
“I think diplomacy is always worth a try.”
“Fine—for now.”
“We can try. He’s not powerful—just good at posturing. I wonder if he’s related to those blowfish. You know, the ones that can blow themselves up to many times their actual size.” The witch preps the croissant with bacon and cheese. The words came out braver than they felt.
Aziraphale's snort was gentle, sympathetic. Crowley's laugh held an edge of protective anger.
“So, where can we find this inflated Jack?” the demon wonders. Sipping from his tea.
The witch finishes the bite.
”Close to Joe’s garage, that’s his hideout. He makes it a point to greet newcomers in person.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard then. We invite ourselves to an audience. I wonder what the Bentley is going to play for the occasion.” He smirks.
“It is a little rude to show up unannounced. But given the note he left—appropriate.” Aziraphale nods reassuringly. “But let’s finish our meal first. No reason to rush.”
As Crowley finishes his tea, Aziraphale puts his neatly folded napkin down. The witch looks at Henry, “You should stay here where it’s warm.”
The serpent hisses and shakes his head, pressing closer to the witch's hand.
“You’re so stubborn... But you stay on me! No, excursions. It’s too cold for that.”
The foursome climbs into the running Bentley—Crowley and Aziraphale in the front seats and the witch with Henry in the back. The half hour drive through the streets is quiet except for the Queen songs coming out of the radio. It starts with “Don't Stop Me Now” followed by “Killer Queen”. As they leave the busy streets for back alleys “Princes of the Universe” echoes in the car.
Crowley stops the Bentley in a narrow passage, barely big enough for the cars driving by not to touch the parked ones. Across from them are a number of back entrances to shops and warehouses. Where the main streets were free of snow, here it still lies in dirty patches of mush. A harsh wind whips through the tight and seemingly empty alley, distributing the smell of urine. The camera under the floodlight is well hidden. The shadow figure with the glowing cigarette ember ducking behind the garage—not so much.
When the demon unfolds from the Bentley, the first lines of “We Will Rock You” blast out of the speakers:
Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise
Playing in the street
Gonna be a big man someday
Crowley chuckles and taps the car’s hood, “Thanks for the announcement.”
After he scans the area, he nods to Aziraphale. The angel opens the backdoor and extends a hand to help out the witch. Carrying Henry carefully, the witch slides out. With a little help, Henry wraps around the witch’s waist and sticks his head out of the coat’s collar.
Together they approach Joe's garage. Curtains move in the windows they pass. The air around it seems cleaner. As if London's infamous pollution can't quite touch this space. The bay doors slide up 6 feet in front of them.
A man steps out, wearing a bowler hat and a long black coat that tried very hard to look important. A red beard framed a smile that wasn’t friendly.
“What an honour to greet the infamous Crowley, the heavenly Aziraphale and my most precious witch on my doorstep.” He bows his head mockingly.
Crowley whispers something about an aura and borrowed power to Aziraphale, who raises his eyebrows. Then he shifts his position to stand slightly in front of the witch.
The garage's graffiti begins to animate and shift as Jack touches the wall. They’re displaying hidden messages for his followers. While they stay hazy scribbles for everyone else. A radio on a shelf in the garage comes to life. Cycling through stations until finding a song that seems to make the garage's tools vibrate in resonance.
“Are you done displaying the power you borrowed from every corner of this city’s rich history, Jack?”
Crowley yawns theatrically.
Jack tilts his head, “Why are you here, gentlemen?”
“To find a civil solution to your and our witch’s...neighbourhood dispute,” Aziraphale states calmly.
“A neighbourhood dispute? That is what you think this is? That...” He runs his eyes over the witch.
“...exorbitant little practitioner has messed with MY people in MY territory.”
“I think you are overstating the matter at hand. Making people see serpents, when they draw knives on one another, is just a minor magic trick. One...”
“A minor magic trick?” Jack cuts Aziraphale off. His shadow flickers. Crowley’s brows furrow.
“Do you take me for a stupid man? I know exactly how difficult precise illusions like this are. The power and knowledge they take.”
“And yet it is still just an illusion. It does not hurt...”
“Do you know who I am? I am the King of the Streets of London! The King of these very streets!” He raises his arms. Aziraphale presses his lips together and shakes his head softly.
The witch notices that Jack's shadow moves independently, stretching toward the garage's tools as if assessing weapons. While Henry rises his body beside the witch’s head.
Jack’s hands reach his ears. All the parked vehicles start to honk in perfect harmony, creating an eerie urban symphony. Flames start to flicker to life alongside his coat. The heat is melting the snow at his feet. Henry hisses and the witch takes a step back.
Crowley snaps his fingers. The horns cut off mid sound the quiet lingers until a pigeon chirps.
The demon addresses Jack, “I’ve had enough of you, King JACK Donovan. Let’s go. There’s no talking to this blowup figurehead of a man anymore.”
He stares at Jack. Aziraphale escorts the witch back to the Bentley. As the witch and Henry are safely inside, he opens the passenger door.
“Your people better stay where they are, or they will get to know real fear,” Crowley hisses. Then he turns. He and the angel fold themselves into the car simultaneously.
Another One Bites the Dust... Another One Bites the Dust...blares through the small alley as the Bentley pulls away.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
Something tugs at your wards. You look outside, where the light is already fading on this winter afternoon. There is a dark shadow skirting across the snow. Grabbing your coat and slipping on your warm boots you head outside. There, on the pile of rail beams furthest from your cottage lies a paper under a stone. The snow has been swiped away and a note has been placed there:
Alt text: A handwritten note on beige paper reads: “You put your nose in MY business. STOP or your little pet will be the first to DIE.”
That is...How could someone threaten Henry? You wracked your brain. The damp note was not signed. It consisted of black marker in bold letters on the back piece of an envelope. The kind of note just about anyone could leave. But who felt like you put your nose in their business?
You bite your lip thinking hard and shake your head. It wouldn’t be him. How would he even know, it had been you? But if it was? You had to keep Henry safe! And maybe leaving the immediate area for a few days would be a good idea too.
Shivering, you walk back over the railway tracks to your cottage. It’s biting cold and the icy layer on top of the snow crushes under your boots. You have barely closed the door, when your eyes search Henry. He’s lying in his spot—the large cushion under a heat lamp placed on the windowsill. His head is turned towards you, while he’s sensing the air. You toe off your boots, but leave the coat on.
The wards need to change. So far, they reach from the tracks over the cottage back into the tree line. Giving anyone a clear stay away message. But they prevent no one from spying, as long as they stay out of the 16 yards radius. Within the radius you would feel them, like you had earlier. So, you need some camouflage.
That book on illusion magic would help you with that. You enter your workroom and take what you need. Rosemary, Laurel, Mugwort and Clove should do the trick. Slipping your boots back on, you step into the cold again.
You take a long look at your home. Then you close your eyes and build the picture you want everybody else to see instead. When you’ve locked the image, you start your first round along the ward. Sprinkling Mugwort and Laurel on the ground—mind on the picture—murmuring the enchantment. Next is Clove to tie the new layer to the old one. On the final round you scatter Rosemary and enforce the intent in the spell. Nothing to see here—just an abandoned house. A hefty dose of unease and fear for those with hurtful thoughts. And a key for the clear hearted ones. Just in case someone comes looking for you out of concern.
Returning inside, you put your winter gear away. Should you leave? They had dared to come so close. And if it is him? You need a plan first. Playing sitting duck is surely the wrong move. As much as you love your family home, the safety it can offer is limited. Compared to other places at least. Places like...the bookshop. Leaving Henry with strangers...But the man that reminded you of him? He would certainly take good care of Henry. And he either lived there or was related to the owner. Those two had acted like an old married couple. You nod.
First you hide the book from the shop on the bottom shelf of the larger bookcase. You steck a number of cheap used paperback romance novels in the row in front of it. It was a powerful magical item. Carrying it around would be like taking a phone with a GPS-chip with you.
You run your eyes over the spell hiding the staircase to the second level. After the knives-spell that had been the second illusion spell you had done. The stairs were small and built into a part of the utility room. But the door behind a curtain had been easy to spot before.
After throwing together clothes for five days, you grab your toiletries. A medium sized backpack fits everything and is inconspicuous. That leaves you with only Henry’s travel arrangements to sort.
Getting Henry’s travel basket, you dig out your fluffiest towel. But first you need a heat charm to keep your friend warm. Thankfully, you had done this before. Finding a nice, flat, round river stone on short notice under the snow would be almost impossible.
You put the biggest stone you have into the pot. Then you add Rosemary, Cinnamon, Bay and Sandalwood. Carrying the pot back to the kitchen, you set it on the stove and get the fire going. Just to be safe, you make a quick trip back to the workroom to recheck the two spells. One to anchor the heat in the stone and the second one to release it gently.
Returning to the stove you check the temperature of the water. Hot but not boiling—perfect. You put the fire out and layer the spells onto the stone. After drying the stone, you wrap it in the towel and put it at the bottom of the basket.
Henry tenses slightly as you pick him up and start putting him in the wicker basket.
“I know you’re not a fan of it. But we need to make a trip. I’ll keep it as short as possible. I promise,” you reassure him. He relaxes and you get him settled, before putting the lid on. Slipping back into your winter gear, you take a last look around and leave your home.
It takes you five minutes to reach the bus stop. The bus would get you straight to King's Cross Station. Well, the bus would stop about 30 times in between and take an hour. Taking the train would have been faster, but they left the doors open way too long. At the back of the bus the temperature was relatively stable, ensuring Henry wouldn’t get hit by waves of cold air.
It wasn’t your favourite mode of transportation. So, you breathe a sigh of relief, as you exit the overheated, damp bus packed with people. Tugging up your lapels you duck your head and make your way to the luggage storage. After dropping off your backpack, you get going in the direction of the bookshop. Your breath forms small clouds in the cold air. And you pick a fast pace.
After 30 minutes of walking, you’re relieved to see the warm glow of the bookshop’s lights. You’re in luck—it’s open. In this cold, waiting would’ve been uncomfortable. Last time the place had felt old and heavy with power. It still did. But you could detect no perimeter wards, which on a busy street made sense. So, you take a deep breath and move over to the door. Putting Henry’s basket down gently—you move quickly behind a storefront. Then, you disappear down the sidewalk without looking back.
For the way back to King's Cross Station you take the underground. Picking your backpack up, you make your way to the Bed & breakfast. Its location in a side street and three decades without major renovations meant few guests. Besides who visited London in the grey of winter outside holiday season? That’s why you picked this one. The rooms were nice and clean enough, providing standard furniture. More importantly though your room was quiet. You could even hear the clicking of the old radiator over the sounds from outside.
You don’t bother unpacking—just grab what you need to get ready for bed. Wishing to have brought slippers you hurry over the cold, thin carpet. Your last thoughts before falling asleep were of Henry—you already missed him.
Not even haft an hour later you jolt awake. Someone’s in your home. But how? You reach for your focus. Od, the wards let them in. That means they came clear hearted to check on you. That’s fast. None of your customers or neighbours had a reason to miss you yet. Which means it probably is Aziraphale and Crowley. You didn’t expect them to care so much to go check on you. They only met you once. But they apparently cared. Would they care enough to help? You should at least ask. Nothing to lose by doing that.
For your trip back home you take the train from King's Cross Station. You only switch to the much slower bus for the last four stops. It means forty minutes after your wards came down; you walk into your cottage. The lights are on, but the heater has not been turned on. Still, it’s warmer than outside. You spot the backs of Aziraphale and Crowley in your workroom. No one else you’ve ever met has an energy like theirs. Then you hear shouting and stop your approach.
“Bloody hell, the cretin! How dare he!” Crowley is shouting as you close the door.
“Crowley? May I see that old friend?” Aziraphale is sounding concerned.
“No need for you to read this filth, Aziraphale. It’s a threatening letter. Some cowardly imbecile threatens Henry’s life.”
“Henry? The Boa Henry? Why?” he reaches over and lays a hand on his partner’s arm.
“Because this bastard believes she put her nose in his business and wants her to stop.”
“What business?”
“Based on this?” Crowley waves the note around. “Fear. Other people’s fear that is. This smells of someone reining with it.”
“You can tell that just from the note?” you blurt out.
Both men turn to you.
Crowley pinches his nose.
Aziraphale smiles, “Ah, there you are, my Dear. Happy to see you alive and well. We were worried. My apologies for breaching your home.”
“Ugh, that’s fine...and thank you. How is Henry?” you look to his place on the windowsill, despite knowing he’s not there.
“Henry is fine, if irritated at the way you dumped him at us,” Crowley growls. “But who is this from?”
He waves the note again.
“I don’t know for sure. But if you’re right about the fear, it’s the self-proclaimed ‘King of the streets of London’.”
“What?” Crowley sounds as disbelieving as Aziraphale’s face looks.
“Yeah, I know it’s ridiculous. Dude himself is the only one who actually calls himself that.”
Aziraphale snorts, “Interesting kind of king.”
“You tell me. I mostly ignored him. When he approached me about ‘aligning’ your interests, I told him where to stick his interest.”
“He didn’t take that like a gentleman. Did he?” Crowley hits the nail on the head.
“No. But I got him to leave anyway. And shortly after everyone around started carrying knives. And some were using them.”
“And that’s what brought you to the bookshop three weeks ago,” Aziraphale nods.
“I wanted a simple, clean solution. Now, it looks like I started a war with him,” you’re suddenly bone tired.
“Well, kings historically don’t share well with witches threatening their powerbase,” Crowley shrugs his shoulders.
You look at him sideways, having never heard it phrased quite this way.
“You’re swaying on your feet, my Dear. Why don’t you come back to the bookshop with us? You can stay there—for a while,” Aziraphale offers.
“I...,” you shake your head “I can’t just couch surf in your shop.”
Now, he looks offended, “I have a perfectly good bedroom in the shop, Dear. No need to surf on any of the couches.”
That makes you chuckle despite everything.
“It would be safer for you and Henry there. And in the morning, we figure out what to do with this street king,” Crowley presses.
“Are we?” Aziraphale asks.
“Well, old friend I am. Can’t have bullies threatening serpents in this city.”
It’s all too much. You have to swallow back tears. Since your grandfather’s death, you’ve been on your own. They seemed trustworthy. And they certainly felt powerful enough not to need charades to get their way. You feel yourself nod.
Heaving a sigh, “Okay, thank you. Lead the way.”
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
Something tugs at your wards. You look outside, where the light is already fading on this winter afternoon. There is a dark shadow skirting across the snow. Grabbing your coat and slipping on your warm boots you head outside. There, on the pile of rail beams furthest from your cottage lies a paper under a stone. The snow has been swiped away and a note has been placed there:
Alt text: A handwritten note on beige paper reads: “You put your nose in MY business. STOP or your little pet will be the first to DIE.”
That is...How could someone threaten Henry? You wracked your brain. The damp note was not signed. It consisted of black marker in bold letters on the back piece of an envelope. The kind of note just about anyone could leave. But who felt like you put your nose in their business?
You bite your lip thinking hard and shake your head. It wouldn’t be him. How would he even know, it had been you? But if it was? You had to keep Henry safe! And maybe leaving the immediate area for a few days would be a good idea too.
Shivering, you walk back over the railway tracks to your cottage. It’s biting cold and the icy layer on top of the snow crushes under your boots. You have barely closed the door, when your eyes search Henry. He’s lying in his spot—the large cushion under a heat lamp placed on the windowsill. His head is turned towards you, while he’s sensing the air. You toe off your boots, but leave the coat on.
The wards need to change. So far, they reach from the tracks over the cottage back into the tree line. Giving anyone a clear stay away message. But they prevent no one from spying, as long as they stay out of the 16 yards radius. Within the radius you would feel them, like you had earlier. So, you need some camouflage.
That book on illusion magic would help you with that. You enter your workroom and take what you need. Rosemary, Laurel, Mugwort and Clove should do the trick. Slipping your boots back on, you step into the cold again.
You take a long look at your home. Then you close your eyes and build the picture you want everybody else to see instead. When you’ve locked the image, you start your first round along the ward. Sprinkling Mugwort and Laurel on the ground—mind on the picture—murmuring the enchantment. Next is Clove to tie the new layer to the old one. On the final round you scatter Rosemary and enforce the intent in the spell. Nothing to see here—just an abandoned house. A hefty dose of unease and fear for those with hurtful thoughts. And a key for the clear hearted ones. Just in case someone comes looking for you out of concern.
Returning inside, you put your winter gear away. Should you leave? They had dared to come so close. And if it is him? You need a plan first. Playing sitting duck is surely the wrong move. As much as you love your family home, the safety it can offer is limited. Compared to other places at least. Places like...the bookshop. Leaving Henry with strangers...But the man that reminded you of him? He would certainly take good care of Henry. And he either lived there or was related to the owner. Those two had acted like an old married couple. You nod.
First you hide the book from the shop on the bottom shelf of the larger bookcase. You steck a number of cheap used paperback romance novels in the row in front of it. It was a powerful magical item. Carrying it around would be like taking a phone with a GPS-chip with you.
You run your eyes over the spell hiding the staircase to the second level. After the knives-spell that had been the second illusion spell you had done. The stairs were small and built into a part of the utility room. But the door behind a curtain had been easy to spot before.
After throwing together clothes for five days, you grab your toiletries. A medium sized backpack fits everything and is inconspicuous. That leaves you with only Henry’s travel arrangements to sort.
Getting Henry’s travel basket, you dig out your fluffiest towel. But first you need a heat charm to keep your friend warm. Thankfully, you had done this before. Finding a nice, flat, round river stone on short notice under the snow would be almost impossible.
You put the biggest stone you have into the pot. Then you add Rosemary, Cinnamon, Bay and Sandalwood. Carrying the pot back to the kitchen, you set it on the stove and get the fire going. Just to be safe, you make a quick trip back to the workroom to recheck the two spells. One to anchor the heat in the stone and the second one to release it gently.
Returning to the stove you check the temperature of the water. Hot but not boiling—perfect. You put the fire out and layer the spells onto the stone. After drying the stone, you wrap it in the towel and put it at the bottom of the basket.
Henry tenses slightly as you pick him up and start putting him in the wicker basket.
“I know you’re not a fan of it. But we need to make a trip. I’ll keep it as short as possible. I promise,” you reassure him. He relaxes and you get him settled, before putting the lid on. Slipping back into your winter gear, you take a last look around and leave your home.
It takes you five minutes to reach the bus stop. The bus would get you straight to King's Cross Station. Well, the bus would stop about 30 times in between and take an hour. Taking the train would have been faster, but they left the doors open way too long. At the back of the bus the temperature was relatively stable, ensuring Henry wouldn’t get hit by waves of cold air.
It wasn’t your favourite mode of transportation. So, you breathe a sigh of relief, as you exit the overheated, damp bus packed with people. Tugging up your lapels you duck your head and make your way to the luggage storage. After dropping off your backpack, you get going in the direction of the bookshop. Your breath forms small clouds in the cold air. And you pick a fast pace.
After 30 minutes of walking, you’re relieved to see the warm glow of the bookshop’s lights. You’re in luck—it’s open. In this cold, waiting would’ve been uncomfortable. Last time the place had felt old and heavy with power. It still did. But you could detect no perimeter wards, which on a busy street made sense. So, you take a deep breath and move over to the door. Putting Henry’s basket down gently—you move quickly behind a storefront. Then, you disappear down the sidewalk without looking back.
For the way back to King's Cross Station you take the underground. Picking your backpack up, you make your way to the Bed & breakfast. Its location in a side street and three decades without major renovations meant few guests. Besides who visited London in the grey of winter outside holiday season? That’s why you picked this one. The rooms were nice and clean enough, providing standard furniture. More importantly though your room was quiet. You could even hear the clicking of the old radiator over the sounds from outside.
You don’t bother unpacking—just grab what you need to get ready for bed. Wishing to have brought slippers you hurry over the cold, thin carpet. Your last thoughts before falling asleep were of Henry—you already missed him.
Not even haft an hour later you jolt awake. Someone’s in your home. But how? You reach for your focus. Od, the wards let them in. That means they came clear hearted to check on you. That’s fast. None of your customers or neighbours had a reason to miss you yet. Which means it probably is Aziraphale and Crowley. You didn’t expect them to care so much to go check on you. They only met you once. But they apparently cared. Would they care enough to help? You should at least ask. Nothing to lose by doing that.
For your trip back home you take the train from King's Cross Station. You only switch to the much slower bus for the last four stops. It means forty minutes after your wards came down; you walk into your cottage. The lights are on, but the heater has not been turned on. Still, it’s warmer than outside. You spot the backs of Aziraphale and Crowley in your workroom. No one else you’ve ever met has an energy like theirs. Then you hear shouting and stop your approach.
“Bloody hell, the cretin! How dare he!” Crowley is shouting as you close the door.
“Crowley? May I see that old friend?” Aziraphale is sounding concerned.
“No need for you to read this filth, Aziraphale. It’s a threatening letter. Some cowardly imbecile threatens Henry’s life.”
“Henry? The Boa Henry? Why?” he reaches over and lays a hand on his partner’s arm.
“Because this bastard believes she put her nose in his business and wants her to stop.”
“What business?”
“Based on this?” Crowley waves the note around. “Fear. Other people’s fear that is. This smells of someone reining with it.”
“You can tell that just from the note?” you blurt out.
Both men turn to you.
Crowley pinches his nose.
Aziraphale smiles, “Ah, there you are, my Dear. Happy to see you alive and well. We were worried. My apologies for breaching your home.”
“Ugh, that’s fine...and thank you. How is Henry?” you look to his place on the windowsill, despite knowing he’s not there.
“Henry is fine, if irritated at the way you dumped him at us,” Crowley growls. “But who is this from?”
He waves the note again.
“I don’t know for sure. But if you’re right about the fear, it’s the self-proclaimed ‘King of the streets of London’.”
“What?” Crowley sounds as disbelieving as Aziraphale’s face looks.
“Yeah, I know it’s ridiculous. Dude himself is the only one who actually calls himself that.”
Aziraphale snorts, “Interesting kind of king.”
“You tell me. I mostly ignored him. When he approached me about ‘aligning’ your interests, I told him where to stick his interest.”
“He didn’t take that like a gentleman. Did he?” Crowley hits the nail on the head.
“No. But I got him to leave anyway. And shortly after everyone around started carrying knives. And some were using them.”
“And that’s what brought you to the bookshop three weeks ago,” Aziraphale nods.
“I wanted a simple, clean solution. Now, it looks like I started a war with him,” you’re suddenly bone tired.
“Well, kings historically don’t share well with witches threatening their powerbase,” Crowley shrugs his shoulders.
You look at him sideways, having never heard it phrased quite this way.
“You’re swaying on your feet, my Dear. Why don’t you come back to the bookshop with us? You can stay there—for a while,” Aziraphale offers.
“I...,” you shake your head “I can’t just couch surf in your shop.”
Now, he looks offended, “I have a perfectly good bedroom in the shop, Dear. No need to surf on any of the couches.”
That makes you chuckle despite everything.
“It would be safer for you and Henry there. And in the morning, we figure out what to do with this street king,” Crowley presses.
“Are we?” Aziraphale asks.
“Well, old friend I am. Can’t have bullies threatening serpents in this city.”
It’s all too much. You have to swallow back tears. Since your grandfather’s death, you’ve been on your own. They seemed trustworthy. And they certainly felt powerful enough not to need charades to get their way. You feel yourself nod.
Heaving a sigh, “Okay, thank you. Lead the way.”
↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous · → Next
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
With the soft tones of the charm, the bookshop door closes behind the young witch. Aziraphale turns back to his counter documenting the sale in his ledger in neat, tight handwriting.
“Did you just admit to being an angel, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, sauntering towards the shop front.
“No, I most certainly did no such thing!” is the forceful reply.
“But Dear, she did say ‘you’re an angel’ and you replied ‘That’s quite all right my dear.’” He argues his point.
“I was... merely replying to her thanking me. Not the other part in that statement. It was just an expression anyways,” Aziraphale adjusts his waistcoat.
“You sure?” his companion kept needling him. “She asked me why I remind her of her Boa constrictor—Henry,” Crowley lifts his eyebrows.
“She is too young to have any idea what we are. We mostly exist as myths in these modern times anyhow,” he waves the whole issue off, starting to sort through a stack of books next to him.
Crowley just smiles and adjusts his sunglasses, leaning against a shelf.
Three weeks later the warm lights from the bookshop illuminate the snow, as a shadow hushes to its door. The air is cold and moist, with the promise of more snow hanging in the clouds overhead. A medium-sized woven basketis set down on the doormat and the doorbell is rung. The figure runs over the street and takes cover behind a storefront pressed to the wall.
“It’s open!” someone calls from inside the shop. A couple of moments later Aziraphale steps out and stops short at the sight of the hamper. He bends down, lifts the lid and gently puts it back on again. He scans the mostly empty boulevard. There is a single set of small footprints in the snow leading to and from his shop. But they vanish in the car tracks on the road. So, he bends down and picks up the willow basket to take it inside with him. The hidden figure nods and vanishes down the sidewalk.
In the warm shop Aziraphale puts the woven basket down in a free space on the cluttered counter. Lifting the lid again he sighs, “Hello there. How are you?”
The Boa constrictor inside hisses irritably and moves its head from side to side.
“Well, then. Time to call an old friend.” He picks up the old, black rotary phone and dials. It rings twice, then, “Aziraphale, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Crowley, someone left a snake at my shop!”
Chuckling comes through the line. “Oh, why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know! But it’s clearly irritated and worried. However, we both know I can’t talk to it,” he casts a glance at the open hamper beside him.
“So, you’re asking me to come over and interview your unexpected guest?”
“Yes, please? And besides I really don’t know what to do with a snake,” Aziraphale confesses.
“On that we have to agree to disagree. But I’m on my way. Can’t leave you alone with a strange serpent.”
“Thank you!” his shoulders drop slightly as he hangs up the phone. “We’ll find out what’s going on here shortly,” he states. The Boa scents the air and puts its head down on its curled body.
A cold wind enters the shop and stirs the pages of the heavy tome currently in Aziraphale’s lap. He looks up at the chime of the charm by the door.
“Ah, thank you for coming so quickly old friend,” he smiles up at Crowley.
“Of course, my dear. I wouldn’t leave you stuck with a strange serpent,” he closes the door behind him and flips the sign to “Closed”. His coat carries some snowflakes, which quickly melt in the shop’s warmth.
The Boa peeks its head over the top of the wicker basket.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you,” Crowley locks eyes on the basket and steps towards it. Meanwhile Aziraphale places his book under the counter.
“Okay, let’s see who you are and what you know,” Crowley picks the snake up precisely behind its head and drapes most of its body over his arm. The tail end he’s supporting with his other hand. Face to face with it he angles his head and hisses. The almost 8 feet long snake moves its head as well hissing back.
When Aziraphale takes the thick, green bath towel out of the basket, a palm-sized stone tumbles out of it. He puts the towel down and examines the stone instead.
“Heat charm..., not a particular hot one. But very steady—carefully crafted. Someone didn’t want you to get cold,” he looks at the demon and the Boa.
“His name’s Henry. He belongs to a witch. No idea why she put him in that,” Crowley points to the basket. “Or why his witch would leave him here,” he shakes his head.
“How did she travel? Was it far?” Aziraphale asks.
“I’ll check,” he turns back to the serpent. This time the back-and-forth communications are quieter and shorter. “Pft,” Crowley sighs. “Well, that wasn’t much help. Serpents don’t carry watches unfortunately.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The witch travelled on foot, by bus and then again on foot for quite some time. Henry nodded off after she got out of the bus,” he looks at Aziraphale. “You woke him up, actually. Rather rudely—when you opened his basket to the chilly night air.”
“My apologies, Henry. I didn’t know you were in there.” He bites his lip, “But how do we find his owner?”
“Well, we both only know one witch, who has a Boa constrictor named Henry,” Crowley points out.
“Oh..., yes. The young one with the knife problem. That was what? A couple weeks ago?” he fidgets with the neatly folded pocket square in his jacket.
“Three weeks, Aziraphale. Maybe her problem was bigger than she thought?”
“I sincerely hope not! But still how do we find her.”
“Old friend...”
“What?”
“You sold her a book. A book from this shop. A magical book.”
“Oh, you mean I should...I could certainly...trace the book. Yes, that would be possible. If...rather unethical.”
“As is dumping serpents in your shop.”
“Fine. But what do we do with Henry while we go looking for his witch?” he points to the snake draped over his companion’s arm.
“We leave him here in his basket for now. It’s warm and protected. He can nap some more.”
“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale grabs his coat, Crowley puts Henry back in his basket and they leave the shop.
The black Bentley’s headlights come to life as the two friends head towards it. They get in their usual seats, Aziraphale on the passenger side and Crowley on the driver’s side. Queen’s “We Will Rock You” fills the silence in the car:
Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise
Playing in the street
Gonna be a big man someday
“Okay, that’s new. It always plays Queen’s songs but it never starts from the beginning,” Crowley remarks.
“Odd. But I have the spell ready. So, if you would...?”
“Chauffeur you around again? My pleasure,” Crowley smirks.
Most people prefer to stay safe and warm at home tonight. The streets are empty except for working folks. Not all roads the Bentleytakes on Aziraphale’s directions are cleared yet. But the snow melts almost as soon as the headlights touch it.
After half an hour Aziraphale says, “Stop. Here, this...uh building.” He points to the right-hand side. And the structure standing there is—well—a building. It probably was a very nice, little two-story house at one long ago point in time. The kind the served as a home to a level crossing keeper. Still sitting alongside the tracks it’s now a sorry sight. Ivy is covering the facade, that barely has any paint left on it. Most windows are boarded up. Piles of old railroad ties rot in front of it.
“You’re sure the book is here?” Crowley’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline.
“Yes. Actually.” And with this Aziraphale gets out of the car and approaches the cottage.
“Pft,” his friend shakes his head and follows. The Bentley’s headlights go out.
As they follow the narrow path to the cottage’s door, the untouched snow parts for the angel before melting in front of the demon’s steps. About thirty feet from the building Crowley abruptly straightens and angles his head, then continues on. Aziraphale shudders briefly.
Close up, the small house’s appearance has not improved. It’s still a picture of disrepair and neglect. The angel gently places a hand on the door handle.
“Uh, someone definitely does not want us here.”
The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitch “Yeah, that spell is a pretty clear ‘stay away’ sign. I don’t think I could do a better one. At least not without everybody thinking the place was cursed.”
Aziraphale still has his hand on the handle “Mhm, so do we...”
The air shifts. For a few seconds the house glows slightly and the ambient temperature rises. Then the cottage’s look settles. All signs of abandonment are gone, only the Ivy is unchanged.
“I’ll take that as permission to enter,” the demon states—just as the door opens.
Stepping over the threshold Crowley is met with a compact living space complete with a kitchenette. Everything is clean but older and clearly used. The small tiled floor in yellow and green is straight from the Sixties, as is the cooker in all likelihood.
“Crowley! We can’t just search her space!”
“It seems the house has decided, we can.”
“Pft,” Aziraphale sighs and follows him in, closing the door behind him.
The air inside is still fairly warm, smelling of herbs and other plants.
“Hello? Somebody home?” he calls out. No one answers. Turning to the closet by the door, he opens it up. One hook inside is empty as is a space on bottom between two pairs of shoes.
“She took her winter coat and shoes.”
The demon nods, taking in the living space. Including the large cushion under a heat lamp placed on the windowsill with a small ramp leading onto the round bench next to it.
“All plants are freshly watered and the plates were left out to dry. Where is the book, that lead us here?”
Aziraphale angles his head then heads to the larger one of the two bookshelves. Looking it over he gets to his knees and clears out a number of cheap used paperback romance novels, before pulling the magic book from the second row behind them.
“She’s careful with valuables even in her own well protected home,” he sounds worried.
“I’ll take a look in the bedroom and you check the bathroom.”
“Well, I will certainly not search a lady’s bedroom. So, thank you.”
He steps over to the door next to the entrance. Inside is the small bathroom with the same tiles as the kitchen. Besides the old-fashioned bathtub with a shower curtain, a toilet and a sink there is barely space left for a linen closet. There is a potted green lily fitted on top of it. The closet is open.
“She took her toiletries as well,” the angel calls out.
“And a number of clothes,” Crowley adds from the bedroom. Where he stands between the unmade bed and the dresser. His fingers caressing the fern on top of it absentminded, while looking at the curtain of trailing green plants around the window.
Both meet in the last room left—the workroom. A workbench is slotted under the window, surrounded by so many shelves you can’t see a single piece of wall. The same holds true on both sides of the door. A number of boxes, jars, books, tools, bowls and containers fill every shelf. By the small window a number of plants sit on the same height as the window. The place between shelves on both walls is taken up by two large potted plants. On the workbench lie some tools a bowl filled with round stones, some herbs and a book.
“The heat charm was the last thing she worked on,” Aziraphale states.
“She left in a hurry. But took the time to take care of everything that mattered to her.”
“But why? We didn’t find any sign of a threat.”
Crowley taps his fingers against his thigh and spots a sliver of paper under the book on the bench. He picks it up and reads:
Alt text: A handwritten note on beige paper reads: “You put your nose in MY business. STOP or your little pet will be the first to DIE.”
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
With the soft tones of the charm, the bookshop door closes behind the young witch. Aziraphale turns back to his counter documenting the sale in his ledger in neat, tight handwriting.
“Did you just admit to being an angel, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks, sauntering towards the shop front.
“No, I most certainly did no such thing!” is the forceful reply.
“But Dear, she did say ‘you’re an angel’ and you replied ‘That’s quite all right my dear.’” He argues his point.
“I was... merely replying to her thanking me. Not the other part in that statement. It was just an expression anyways,” Aziraphale adjusts his waistcoat.
“You sure?” his companion kept needling him. “She asked me why I remind her of her Boa constrictor—Henry,” Crowley lifts his eyebrows.
“She is too young to have any idea what we are. We mostly exist as myths in these modern times anyhow,” he waves the whole issue off, starting to sort through a stack of books next to him.
Crowley just smiles and adjusts his sunglasses, leaning against a shelf.
Three weeks later the warm lights from the bookshop illuminate the snow, as a shadow hushes to its door. The air is cold and moist, with the promise of more snow hanging in the clouds overhead. A medium-sized woven basketis set down on the doormat and the doorbell is rung. The figure runs over the street and takes cover behind a storefront pressed to the wall.
“It’s open!” someone calls from inside the shop. A couple of moments later Aziraphale steps out and stops short at the sight of the hamper. He bends down, lifts the lid and gently puts it back on again. He scans the mostly empty boulevard. There is a single set of small footprints in the snow leading to and from his shop. But they vanish in the car tracks on the road. So, he bends down and picks up the willow basket to take it inside with him. The hidden figure nods and vanishes down the sidewalk.
In the warm shop Aziraphale puts the woven basket down in a free space on the cluttered counter. Lifting the lid again he sighs, “Hello there. How are you?”
The Boa constrictor inside hisses irritably and moves its head from side to side.
“Well, then. Time to call an old friend.” He picks up the old, black rotary phone and dials. It rings twice, then, “Aziraphale, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Crowley, someone left a snake at my shop!”
Chuckling comes through the line. “Oh, why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know! But it’s clearly irritated and worried. However, we both know I can’t talk to it,” he casts a glance at the open hamper beside him.
“So, you’re asking me to come over and interview your unexpected guest?”
“Yes, please? And besides I really don’t know what to do with a snake,” Aziraphale confesses.
“On that we have to agree to disagree. But I’m on my way. Can’t leave you alone with a strange serpent.”
“Thank you!” his shoulders drop slightly as he hangs up the phone. “We’ll find out what’s going on here shortly,” he states. The Boa scents the air and puts its head down on its curled body.
A cold wind enters the shop and stirs the pages of the heavy tome currently in Aziraphale’s lap. He looks up at the chime of the charm by the door.
“Ah, thank you for coming so quickly old friend,” he smiles up at Crowley.
“Of course, my dear. I wouldn’t leave you stuck with a strange serpent,” he closes the door behind him and flips the sign to “Closed”. His coat carries some snowflakes, which quickly melt in the shop’s warmth.
The Boa peeks its head over the top of the wicker basket.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you,” Crowley locks eyes on the basket and steps towards it. Meanwhile Aziraphale places his book under the counter.
“Okay, let’s see who you are and what you know,” Crowley picks the snake up precisely behind its head and drapes most of its body over his arm. The tail end he’s supporting with his other hand. Face to face with it he angles his head and hisses. The almost 8 feet long snake moves its head as well hissing back.
When Aziraphale takes the thick, green bath towel out of the basket, a palm-sized stone tumbles out of it. He puts the towel down and examines the stone instead.
“Heat charm..., not a particular hot one. But very steady—carefully crafted. Someone didn’t want you to get cold,” he looks at the demon and the Boa.
“His name’s Henry. He belongs to a witch. No idea why she put him in that,” Crowley points to the basket. “Or why his witch would leave him here,” he shakes his head.
“How did she travel? Was it far?” Aziraphale asks.
“I’ll check,” he turns back to the serpent. This time the back-and-forth communications are quieter and shorter. “Pft,” Crowley sighs. “Well, that wasn’t much help. Serpents don’t carry watches unfortunately.” He shrugs his shoulders. “The witch travelled on foot, by bus and then again on foot for quite some time. Henry nodded off after she got out of the bus,” he looks at Aziraphale. “You woke him up, actually. Rather rudely—when you opened his basket to the chilly night air.”
“My apologies, Henry. I didn’t know you were in there.” He bites his lip, “But how do we find his owner?”
“Well, we both only know one witch, who has a Boa constrictor named Henry,” Crowley points out.
“Oh..., yes. The young one with the knife problem. That was what? A couple weeks ago?” he fidgets with the neatly folded pocket square in his jacket.
“Three weeks, Aziraphale. Maybe her problem was bigger than she thought?”
“I sincerely hope not! But still how do we find her.”
“Old friend...”
“What?”
“You sold her a book. A book from this shop. A magical book.”
“Oh, you mean I should...I could certainly...trace the book. Yes, that would be possible. If...rather unethical.”
“As is dumping serpents in your shop.”
“Fine. But what do we do with Henry while we go looking for his witch?” he points to the snake draped over his companion’s arm.
“We leave him here in his basket for now. It’s warm and protected. He can nap some more.”
“Alright, alright.” Aziraphale grabs his coat, Crowley puts Henry back in his basket and they leave the shop.
The black Bentley’s headlights come to life as the two friends head towards it. They get in their usual seats, Aziraphale on the passenger side and Crowley on the driver’s side. Queen’s “We Will Rock You” fills the silence in the car:
Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise
Playing in the street
Gonna be a big man someday
“Okay, that’s new. It always plays Queen’s songs but it never starts from the beginning,” Crowley remarks.
“Odd. But I have the spell ready. So, if you would...?”
“Chauffeur you around again? My pleasure,” Crowley smirks.
Most people prefer to stay safe and warm at home tonight. The streets are empty except for working folks. Not all roads the Bentleytakes on Aziraphale’s directions are cleared yet. But the snow melts almost as soon as the headlights touch it.
After half an hour Aziraphale says, “Stop. Here, this...uh building.” He points to the right-hand side. And the structure standing there is—well—a building. It probably was a very nice, little two-story house at one long ago point in time. The kind the served as a home to a level crossing keeper. Still sitting alongside the tracks it’s now a sorry sight. Ivy is covering the facade, that barely has any paint left on it. Most windows are boarded up. Piles of old railroad ties rot in front of it.
“You’re sure the book is here?” Crowley’s eyebrows nearly reach his hairline.
“Yes. Actually.” And with this Aziraphale gets out of the car and approaches the cottage.
“Pft,” his friend shakes his head and follows. The Bentley’s headlights go out.
As they follow the narrow path to the cottage’s door, the untouched snow parts for the angel before melting in front of the demon’s steps. About thirty feet from the building Crowley abruptly straightens and angles his head, then continues on. Aziraphale shudders briefly.
Close up, the small house’s appearance has not improved. It’s still a picture of disrepair and neglect. The angel gently places a hand on the door handle.
“Uh, someone definitely does not want us here.”
The corners of Crowley’s mouth twitch “Yeah, that spell is a pretty clear ‘stay away’ sign. I don’t think I could do a better one. At least not without everybody thinking the place was cursed.”
Aziraphale still has his hand on the handle “Mhm, so do we...”
The air shifts. For a few seconds the house glows slightly and the ambient temperature rises. Then the cottage’s look settles. All signs of abandonment are gone, only the Ivy is unchanged.
“I’ll take that as permission to enter,” the demon states—just as the door opens.
Stepping over the threshold Crowley is met with a compact living space complete with a kitchenette. Everything is clean but older and clearly used. The small tiled floor in yellow and green is straight from the Sixties, as is the cooker in all likelihood.
“Crowley! We can’t just search her space!”
“It seems the house has decided, we can.”
“Pft,” Aziraphale sighs and follows him in, closing the door behind him.
The air inside is still fairly warm, smelling of herbs and other plants.
“Hello? Somebody home?” he calls out. No one answers. Turning to the closet by the door, he opens it up. One hook inside is empty as is a space on bottom between two pairs of shoes.
“She took her winter coat and shoes.”
The demon nods, taking in the living space. Including the large cushion under a heat lamp placed on the windowsill with a small ramp leading onto the round bench next to it.
“All plants are freshly watered and the plates were left out to dry. Where is the book, that lead us here?”
Aziraphale angles his head then heads to the larger one of the two bookshelves. Looking it over he gets to his knees and clears out a number of cheap used paperback romance novels, before pulling the magic book from the second row behind them.
“She’s careful with valuables even in her own well protected home,” he sounds worried.
“I’ll take a look in the bedroom and you check the bathroom.”
“Well, I will certainly not search a lady’s bedroom. So, thank you.”
He steps over to the door next to the entrance. Inside is the small bathroom with the same tiles as the kitchen. Besides the old-fashioned bathtub with a shower curtain, a toilet and a sink there is barely space left for a linen closet. There is a potted green lily fitted on top of it. The closet is open.
“She took her toiletries as well,” the angel calls out.
“And a number of clothes,” Crowley adds from the bedroom. Where he stands between the unmade bed and the dresser. His fingers caressing the fern on top of it absentminded, while looking at the curtain of trailing green plants around the window.
Both meet in the last room left—the workroom. A workbench is slotted under the window, surrounded by so many shelves you can’t see a single piece of wall. The same holds true on both sides of the door. A number of boxes, jars, books, tools, bowls and containers fill every shelf. By the small window a number of plants sit on the same height as the window. The place between shelves on both walls is taken up by two large potted plants. On the workbench lie some tools a bowl filled with round stones, some herbs and a book.
“The heat charm was the last thing she worked on,” Aziraphale states.
“She left in a hurry. But took the time to take care of everything that mattered to her.”
“But why? We didn’t find any sign of a threat.”
Crowley taps his fingers against his thigh and spots a sliver of paper under the book on the bench. He picks it up and reads:
Alt text: A handwritten note on beige paper reads: “You put your nose in MY business. STOP or your little pet will be the first to DIE.”
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
