Hello Mr. Gaiman, while I bet this question has been asked before, who came up with Crowleyâs walk in the show? Did you or the writers suggest that, or was it all David Tennant?
It was the writers of Season 1. Nothing to do with me or David Tennant. It was all the writers.
Iâd just like to say I wrote this ask and within less than a day it got answered. Do you have nothing occupying your time Mr. Gaiman? (Sorry if that came across as rude, just curious)
I tend to answer questions by opening the ask inbox, seeing what's at the top of the inbox and answering it, and answering the next two or three. Then i close it and do other things. The asks come in in their hundreds and it's only me with very limited time answering them, so it's luck of the draw. (Don't sit there resending your question dozens of times, over and over. I ignore them as they just make it harder for me to see what's coming in.) I don't normally answer older ones unless i started to answer it and got distracted but the ask is still open on my desktop, or unless I started to answer and saved it as a draft and forgot to get back to it.
(aka how to get away with an insane amount of romantic tropes and innuendos) Part one.
I have to split this post into two parts - the second one is already written - because Tumblr clearly doesn't understand the absolute necessity to analyze in excruciating details every single frame of the 1941 flashback or they wouldn't have put a ridiculous 10 images limit.
Now buckle up, because these two did more things in one night than me in my entire life.
Let's set the scene. London. The Blitz. Aziraphale enters a church, pretending to deliver a bag full of precious books to a couple of moronic n*zi spies. He ends up to be doublecrossed by a third n*zi spy.
We already know from the Bastille flashback how much Crowley loves to play the role of the knight in shining clothes to his angel in distress. And sure enough, right on time, Crowley makes his appearance, with a brand new suit and a brand new name, casually hopping on the consecrated ground. You know, the consecrated ground that could literally burn his feet. Right next to a holy water font. Only for Aziraphale. Sometimes we forget how much heâs brave.
Let's ignore the fact that theyâre literally standing in the middle of a churchâs nave and in the middle of the only beam of light in a scene otherwise dark.
But, as every romance book/movie/show teaches us, engaging in a playful banter is always a must.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âStopping you getting into trouble.â
âI should have known. Of course. These people are working for you.â
âNo.[âŠ]I just didn't want to see you embarrassed.â
Listen, Anthony, I can see the appeal of the grumpy x sunshine trope, but we know that rescuing Aziraphale makes you happy. Youâre risking to be discorporated or worse - the holy water is still right there - just for helping him. We know it, Aziraphale knows it (and he loves it).
And now some casual flirting in front of the n*azisâ salad.
âAnthony?â
âYou don't like it?â (Donât you like my new name, Angel? I can take yours, if you wantâŠ)
âNo, no, I didn't say that. I'll get used to it.â
Itâs funny how the n*zis insist on continuing with their threats, because Aziâs ass is not listening.
âWhat does the "J" stand for?â
This is comedy gold, of course. However, from the moment Crowley has hopped into the church, Aziraphaleâs attention didnât stray from him not even for a moment.
With a quick exchange, they come up with a plan. Playing the savior, Crowley performs a demonic intervention to blow up the church. Azi performs a miracle to save himself and Crowley. This whole shenanigan is noteworthy, not only because theyâre working together, but also because we can see how quickly they decide to trust each other. Keep this in mind, because the whole concept of âtrustâ will be a recurring theme in this flashback.
Furthermore - Iâm probably reading too much into this - letâs think about the symbolism. Aziraphale and Crowley, together, destroy both the church - heaven - and the n*zis - evil. Theyâre already on their own side. Also, foreshadowing? Heaven and Hell dismantled once and for all and Crowley and Aziraphale alive, together? We can dream.
Could Aziraphale have miracled his way out of the situation all by himself? Maybe. Probably. But this is so much better for their relationship. Aziraphale trusted Crowley and undoubtedly enjoyed, once again, the role of the damsel in distress. Crowley trusted that Aziraphale would save them both with a real miracle. And itâs not over yet.
Look at Crowleyâs cheeky smirk. Itâs time to shine!
The image is dimly lit, but they are eyefucking staring straight into each other's eyes. How many tropes can you find in this image? Forbidden romance, slow burn, mutual pining, belligerent sexual tension⊠you name it. And in a minute weâll have one huge love epiphany.
But, before that, we have THIS.
Oh, this is the period drama kind of romance! The casual touching hands, just for a moment, in a way that has no right to be SO. DAMN. SENSUAL. The Jane Austen-esque fantasies Aziraphale must been having for more than a century by now are finally happening! And 64 years before the iconic P&P's cinematic hand flexâą no less.
See? Aziraphaleâs finger brush Crowleyâs hand. I know, the whole thing lasts less than a second. But if I stare at this gif for too long I start to feel touch-starved.
I'm also thinking about the parallelism between Crowley saving Aziraphale's books in a period drama kind of way and the fact that Aziraphale will be willing to give away some books to throw the Jane Austen ball (just to touch Crowleyâs hand). These two⊠I canât.
And now the epiphany.
Crowley has rescued the books, Aziraphale's most valued possession. Aziraphale didn't ask him to do it, he hadn't even remember about the books until after the explosion. But Crowley knew how important they were to him. Crowley's gesture has nothing to do with the agreement or the greater good or the paperwork: itâs personal. Itâs intimate. He has saved something dear to his angelâs heart. Azi loves the books -> Crowley rescues the books -> Aziraphale realizes that⊠oh. Look at his smile of amazement: he is literally paralyzed by what he is experiencing.
This is the definition of the love epiphany trope:
âWhen a character realizes they are in love with another character. This is not when the character confesses this love to that other character or anyone else, but when the character realizes it themselves. Often this can be when a character had feelings already and realized this has blossomed into love, or when a character has been in denial about these feelings until this moment.â
We are witnessing a textbook example. The music emphasizes it. In that single moment, Aziraphale not only acknowledges his feelings, but also everything that just happened. What Crowley just did for him. The level of mutual trust. Aziraphaleâs feelings are not one-sided.
âYou know... that was a very nice thing⊠you did for me. [âŠ] There must be something I can do for you⊠in return.â
Yes, I KNOW what youâre thinking, but letâs pretend to be oblivious as Crowley and letâs focusing on the imagery instead. They are literally driving through an inferno of explosions and who knows what else, but inside the Bentley they are safe. Somehow the scene manages to create a feeling of intimacy, so we, as well as them, can forget about whatever is happening outside. The Bentley is a shelter, just for the two of them. And thereâs more. As the car moves forward, theyâre lit by fire, literally the most common symbol of passion, desire and very un-angelic lust. If this seems unlikely to you, take a look at Aziraphale's eyes and smile in the picture above. Whatever he's thinking, it's not in the bible.
Fast forward to the âȘ The West End âȘ
Mrs. H. gives Crowley a scolding for breaking the bottles with the smuggled liquor, earning in return this disdainful look from a protective Aziraphale.
Who, in the nine circles of heaven, gave you the nerve and the right to talk to my Antony Janthony like that?
Despite having rescued Aziâs books, Crowley had totally forgotten about the liquor he was supposed to deliver. Now itâs Aziraphaleâs time to shine: itâs his turn to play the savior. This angelic mastermind decides to offer his services as an⊠expert⊠of the art of prestidigitation. And, doing so, Aziraphale:
1. Gets a chance to realize his magician fantasies.
2. Gets a chance to do something for Crowley.
3. Gets a chance to spend more time with Crowley.
Clever angel.
It may be trivial, but I love this shot. The warm light, the window frame: it's as if weâre peeking into their domestic life. The aesthetic is exactly the opposite of the heavenâs one - cold and aseptic - and the hellâs one - cold and crowded. Presumably, this is the first time that Aziraphale invites Crowley into the bookshop, his favorite place, destined to become their safe place. The atmosphere is welcoming, intimate and homely.
âCheers for getting me off the hook.â
âOh, there's no need to thank me, that's what... friends are for.â
I know everyone on this site has already pointed this out, but i have to mention the friendsâ line. And how they look after that line. Yes, yes, theyâre an angel and a demon, theyâre not supposed to be friends, so admitting it out loud is a huge step. BUT they donât look surprised or afraid that someone could hear them or anything like that: theyâre looking disappointed, even miserable. Azi seems sad, Crowleyâs looking as heâs about to discorporate inside. I haven't seen such a reaction since Michael Sheen had to call Aziraphale and Crowley âbest buddiesâ. And this is the only moment in an otherwise funny scene in which they seem so unhappy.
My explanation is that the word friends left a bad taste in their mouths, destabilizing them both. Although they wouldn't talk about their feelings out loud, deep down they know that "friends" isn't right. Come on, Aziraphale just had his big revelation moment! I'm not saying that they're ready to plan a little cottagecore wedding - even though that wouldnât be a bad idea - but friends isnât the word to describe 6000 years of⊠whatever you wish to call it.
Now, I have so much more to say, but the tumblr app warned me that I had exceeded the image limit, just as I was about to include the gif of Crowley unbuttoning his jacket and stroking the tie⊠you know which gif I'm talking about. Apparently tumblr canât handle it đ€·ââïž
Fantastically useful tools, while any Ignarium may start out clean, they rapidly become coated in soot from the presence of the Fire Salamander(s)Â or similar creatures which live within. Designed to hold some degree of constant flame, maintain a high temperature and be resistant to magical fire, Ignariums are most usually used to hold Fire Salamanders, though they can be used to hold fire-sparking Firebird-chicks, fire-spitting Pygmy Dragon hatchlings and the like. Ignariums may be simple transportation models, or more complex habitat designs, but will usually soon be sooty and ash filled within an hour of use.Â
Ignariums were relatively difficult to develop and for a long time were made only intermittently, requiring Goblin Ironwork, which can be hard to obtain. In more recent years wix-made metals have been developed which can withstand the required temperatures, and thus Ignariums have become both more standardised and easier to obtain. Once a rarity used by some Magizoologists and Alchemists, they are now found even in the homes of hobbyists.
(Images Source)
(I hate that I have to include this but PLEASE DO NOT DELETE THE IMAGE SOURCE OR MY CAPTION.)
Iâve never been one for fanfic. But I wrote this a few months ago when I was having a rough night and just now found it again and like most things I write on a rough night coming back to it Iâve realised itâs not too bad. And thought you all might like it. So here it is, I hope you like it.
He stood over the old manâs grave for a moment and reflected. He was older now than Dumbledore had been when he died, and he had been for some time. But when he looked in the mirror he didnât see a man as old as heâd remembered Dumbledore looking. Maybe he was just remembering the world through the eyes of a child but he was no longer so certain.
His friends, his wife, they were all long dead. He was fairly certain that at this point he was the last person living to have memory of the war. He lived alone now. He had even begun to outlive his children. Age had not slowed him, decades flew past and he was still working at the ministry, he never had learned to stop. Recently his name had started to hold a weight, and his presence attract an attention it hadnât since he was a child. The whispers as he passed in the halls were no longer about the boy who lived, but about the old man who couldnât die.
Harry Potter pulled the invisibility cloak back over his head and let it drape around his shoulders. He waved his hand over the White Tomb and the stone slab raised and slid to the slide. Beneath it just as he had left it, lay the Elder Wand resting atop the white shroud that enveloped his old friend. Though Harry was not certain that he could, or should, call him that any longer.
Dumbledoreâs face beneath the shroud seemed no more deteriorated than it had when heâd last laid eyes on it 280 years earlier. Harry couldnât say he was particularly surprised, Dumbledore perhaps, had Mastered Death in much the same way as he. And, like Harry, was the only person in the world still in possession of a Hallow. Perhaps the shroud was lending the body an illusion of preservation it did not actually hold, but Harry did not care to remove it to find out. The old man, who now felt to Harry much, much younger than him, had been disturbed enough. Harry was here for one thing, and one thing only, to do something he had set out 280 years ago to ensure never happened again.
He reached into the tomb and removed the wand. Its feel in his hand familiar, he had learned a lot of wandcraft since he last held the wand, and his own wand now spent most of its time tucked, with a collection of others he had won over the years, in a pouch at his belt. He only removed them in times that called for far more technical magic than that which even Harry could reliably achieve with only his hands. Each wand he had discovered had a slightly different character and was more adept at handling different tasks. His own wand had largely been supplanted years ago by his wandless magic skills. Part of his connection to that wand had died with his connection to Tom Riddle, he kept it around more for sentimentalityâs sake than anything else.
The Elder wand bristled in his hand in a way that unsettled him. While most wands served to harness and direct the magical abilities of the user, the Elder wand felt as though it was a power in and of itself. And power which was all too eager to be thrown in whichever direction its wielder pleased.
Harry had become skeptical over the years of personifying wands too much. They had character, sure, but they were primarily tools, and while each may be particularly suited to a certain task, or a certain user, he had long abandoned Olivanderâs philosophy that wands chose Wizards. To Harry, magic, or whatever unknowable force it was that was that hid behind it, was particularly adept at finding its way into the world through whatever wizard and wand that so served its expression best at the time. A good witch or wizard could bend a wand, and magic, to do his will in whatever way served his or her self best.
But as he waved his hand over the grave restoring his former mentor to his peaceful slumber he couldnât help but feel the Elder Wand was positively bristling with excitement in his hand at the prospect of a master as powerful as he had become. He felt however, that it was not in the least bit pleased with the restraint with which Harry had trained his magic. Part of Harryâs move towards wandless magic had been a need for control. Wands made magic flow too easily. Shaped it too much to ever fully control the power or intensity of a spell. If there is anything Harry had learnt in his nearly 300 years of magical combat it was that a well-timed but restrained use of magic was worth a thousand powerful spells, wizards who relied on wands were missing a feel for the power they threw around willy nilly, and that often left them surprised when their wands shaped something in a way they didnât expect.
He kept the Elder wand in his hand, he did not trust it in his pouch, and pulled the cloak back over his head before stepping onto his broom and flying out of the reach of the anti-apparation wards surrounding Hogwarts. He tried not to look back, it had all changed so much.
It had taken him only hours to find the Resurrection Stone. Though lost to most anyone else pressed deep into the dirt somewhere in the depths of the Dark Forest, Harryâs familiarity with it and his possession of one of the other Hallows made the divining spells much simpler.
He hadnât dared touch it. To see all the faces of his past come rushing back to meet him now would be too much to bear. He was far older than he had any right to be and many of them far younger. Of all the faces he dreaded seeing again, he dreaded seeing Ginnyâs the most. Losing Ron had been hard, after 120 years on the job together they fought more or less as one person, each an extension of the other. He still found himself blindsided in duels after taking hits he expected Ron to be there to cover. But he and Ginny moved through life together in a different way. Both fiercely independent but always moving towards the same goal. Each the perfect complement of the other. After Ginny had died Harry had more or less removed himself from social life entirely. With their children having moved along with their own lives and Ginny gone, Harry couldnât see much left to work towards. Without her there his life was done. Theyâd saved each other from things no one else could understand. And understood each other in ways no one else ever had or ever could, and they each filled in the other the holes Tom Riddle had left all those years ago. They both knew what it was to have had dark souls reach into theirs and had both set out in their own ways to put an end to those dark men left in the world wherever they found them. With Ginny gone all Harry had had left to do was what they had always done, he kept fighting.
Hermione had been the last to go, only 30 years ago now at the ripe old age of 278. It seemed for a while that they were both going to live forever, but she realised, a little before Harry, he thought, that that wasnât going to be the case. She died peacefully in her sleep at St Mungos, Harry asleep by her side.
He couldnât bear to see the face of his children staring ghostly back at him. Lily and Albus. James was still fighting the good fight, with his father, but he had slowed in recent years, and Harry could tell he wasnât far behind his Siblings.
He couldnât bear to see his parents, who now seemed little more than children. Sirius and Remus not much older.
He wouldnât touch the stone until he absolutely had to.
He could have apparated back to the ministry at this point but he was quite enjoying the sensation of being on a broom again. It had been years since he flew regularly. It still brought him the same thrill that it had all those years ago. Forty five minutes or so later he started approaching the outskirts of London. He brought his broom down in one of the last fields before the city and apparated into the ministry.
The halls were empty at this time of night, there was no one around to hear the pop of his apparation. Still, he kept the cloak wrapped tightly around himself incase he encountered anyone in the halls and made his way towards the department of mysteries. The room had become familiar over the years. Between voluntary death proceedings and the increasingly rare death sentences Harry had seen at least 20 people pass through the veil in his time at the Ministry. Over the years it had had changed. The frantic, desperate whispers he remembered from his childhood had gone quiet. Behind it now was the kind of busy silence you find on the way to an event. The gentle roar before opening the door to a busy foyer. The sound of a quidditch match before you crest the hill and see the pitch. Not an empty silence of the kind Hermione always described, but a kind of anticipatory silence. The dead no longer had need to reach out to him from beyond, all they had to do was wait.
As he pulled open the door to the Death Chamber, Harry had never felt an empty room seem so full. The amphitheatre surrounding the dais seemed positively bristling. Though the air hung as cold and still as it always had the silence was deeper. Reverential. Anticipatory. Harry made his way up onto the dais. He pulled the cloak back from his head and turned to survey they room, not able to escape the feeling that he had an audience.
âDad.â
The voice snaps Harry into the present. It is familiar, though he hasnât been addressed as such in years. James has called him Harry for some years now, their years both now so advanced that they felt more like friends and colleagues than father and son. James is sitting in a dark corner at the top of the auditorium. Harry doesnât know how he didnât notice him earlier.
âWhat are you doing here?â Harry asks as James made his way down to the dais to his father.
âIâve been coming here every year on the anniversary of mumâs death.â James says. He reaches the dais and pulls his father into a hug. âBut the past few years I think Iâve just been waiting. I think they all have.â He says as though aware of the same presence in the room as Harry.
Harry pulls his son in closer as he feels tears well in his eyes.
âI guess Iâm just here to say goodbye.â Says James. âGoodbye and- and I guess Iâll see you soon.â
âDonât rush.â says Harry, his wizened voice breaking.
He pulls away. James notices the Elder Wand still clutched in his hand.
âSo youâre taking it then?â
âIâm taking all of them.â Harry says, reaching for the pouch at his belt where he stashed the Resurrection Stone. âI⊠I donât want to draw this out.â
âNo. Go.â James says, locking eyes with his father one last time, before Harry unclasps the cloak, letting it fall, silvery, over one of his arms. He turns back to the veil. the black curtain hanging there has never seemed more unremarkable. He slips his hand into the pouch and it wraps around the resurrection stone. He sees the ghostly figures begin to appear out of the corner of his eyes but he canât bring himself to look at them yet. He feels his sonâs hand on his back.
âI love you, dad. Say hi to mum for me.â
âI love you too.â
He steps through.
James leaves the chamber, closing the door gently behind him, the room suddenly much quieter, much more empty. And he returns to the world. The Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Canât Die, the Master of Death, is gone now. Now itâs his job, before he too steps through the veil, to make sure that everyone else keeps the fight going with his mother and father gone. Then, they can rest.
what if you were a muggle who went to primary school with harry potter
like, maybe you knew him a little? maybe you didnât get close to him, you werenât his friend, but you were nicer to him than most, and sometimes you think about the skinny orphan kid with the messy hair that you havenât seen since you were 11, and wonder what happened to him
and then you marry a wizard, and you learn exactly what happened
Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?
Dolores Umbridge, three weeks after sending fucking dementors after Harry Potter because she was upset he was talking shit on the Ministry (via chasertiff)
To the people saying âthey donât need to be religious to celebrate christmas just like real-world atheistsâ - fair point, but wizards are shown to be so far out of touch with muggle culture and society that they have to have guns explained to them, donât know how to mail a letter, and barely know what a telephone is. Why would this be the thing from muggle culture they do have? I mean, for non-muggleborns, they donât even have the reason of being raised in a largely culturally Christian environment.
I'm really curious about your vision of Draco. In your sketches he is tender, in love with his wife or in awe of his son, and it's such a different character from what I perceive in the books. Of course the war and Astoria changed him, but I am wondering what you think of him, of his past actions. Do you think he is a victim of Voldemort or did he chose his own path? And what do you think of his evolution in The Cursed Child?
All you need is love. Between book 6 and 7 thatâs all I could think about Draco. He wanted the dark path when it was still an illusion in his naive influenced head, but soon as he was recruted by Voldemort, the shitâs got real. But it was too late to change until Voldemort was destroyed (with a great help from his own mother, but Draco never knew that until he was much older).Draco had love (in some sort of way) through his mother, and I believe her best traits was in Draco all along, he was too occupied trying to impress his father with some doubtful actions.And with someone like Astoria in his life, he felt it was safe to show his good heart. She didnât change him, she just brought the best of him. And Scorpius??? The toddler didnât have to make any effort to Draco feel entirely loved by him. Except being adorable and smart and his son.Thatâs what I think when drawing Draco after the war. Heâs just happy like Harry was too.
