Chapter Text
CROWLEY
Contrary to popular belief, Harry and Hermione didn’t spend every waking moment together. Nor did the Them. It was common for little groups to form, though especially common for Pepper and Hermione to wander off for ‘secret witches business’, as the boys had dubbed it. It worked well for the group, sparing the boys from painfully intellectual conversations on topics they held no interest in, and the girls from feeling guilty for preferring conversation to whatever game Adam or Harry had come up with that day. Though Crowley would much rather his daughter be home, especially during winter, when his ability to rush to the rescue was dampened by a serpentine lethargy when cold, it was hardly unusual for Harry and Hermione to arrive home after school separately, and was hardly cause for concern. Besides, Between Pepper and Hermione, anyone fool enough to try to cause them trouble was liable to meet karma's cruel side up close and very, painfully, personal.
Harry had arrived home a whole hour before Hermione, and while Crowley wasn’t fond of his daughter roaming the countryside so freely without magical protection, the thought of being that overprotective sort of father (the sort demanding their perfectly capable daughters hid inside, away from the more parental kinds of fears) kept him silent. His little hellspawn was a witch, and damned powerful in her own right, and between the efforts of a demon, an angel, and a fully trained and grown witch, Hermione was more than aware of how to use her powers to full and terrifying effect when required. He refused to make a fuss.
At least until Hermione hurried inside, carefully avoiding eye contact with her family, and vanishing into her room until dinnertime. This was concerning enough, given that Hermione had never missed an opportunity to talk to them about whatever new thing she'd learned that day, which typically devolved into intellectual debates with Aziraphale until Crowley hissed at them that they could either come eat at the table or have their plates lobbed at their heads. But when he knocked on her door (realising with a jolt of surprise that she had locked it for the first time ever. Oh, sure, he could remedy it in a heartbeat, if not a tad quicker, but he had promised to respect her privacy, and blessed if he wasn't going to try and live up to that promise.
'Hermione, dinner.' Her room was impossibly silent, so silent he wondered if she'd tried a new silencing spell and forgotten the time. It happened rather more regularly than he'd ever expected, given her love of making spells of her own.
'I'm not hungry.' Her voice was quiet, shaky and broken in a way he'd never heard from her, even on the first day they'd met.
'Will you tell me what's wrong, pet?'
'I just have a headache. I'm sorry, Dad, I just need to sleep, okay?'
'Okay, but only if you unlock the door. You know how Zira frets about safety exits.' She didn't even snigger, though the Angel had them running escape drills at odd hours last week after reading some statistics on the average time of day for house fires. Zira had been so busy flittering about with panic and protectiveness he'd forgotten to open the front door before trying to race through it, knocking himself out for twenty whole, ridiculous seconds before leaping out of Crowley's arms to lecture them all for huddling around him when they should have been escaping the imaginary fires instead. They'd been laughing about it for a week, at least, whenever his angel couldn't hear them. Only when he heard the soft click of the lock did he turn and walk back to Zira and Harry.
Though Zira seemed to believe her story, Harry kept shooting worried looks towards Hermione's room, playing with his food more than eating it until Zira reminded him that food was for mouths, not art projects. Not that Crowley could blame the kid, he wasn't eating, either. It didn’t take demonic senses to pick up on the not so subtle reek of panic fear panic desperation guilt RESOLVE clinging to her skin. The idle chatter died away quickly, though Aziraphale tried his hardest to keep morale high. But Crowley excused himself as soon as Zira had the last morsel of food in his mouth, needing to know that his hellion was alright and knowing without a doubt that she wasn't. There was no response to his quiet knock, so he opened the door, eyeing the blue flame dancing in a glass jar that seemed to be acting as a rather odd nightlight.
He was hurt, though entirely unsurprised when she feigned sleep almost perfectly enough to leave him doubting his urge to call her out. Unsure of what else to do, he muttered a ‘you’ll have to talk to me at some point, hellspawn. I love you,’ and left her to it. Harry had tried, too, with the same results, leaving her room looking far too like a kicked and drenched dog than the typically confident boy they knew and loved. The boy spent what had to be the most boring hour of his life staring towards Hermione's room, feet tapping softly against the carpet, so distracted he didn't even notice when Pepper called to make sure Hermione got home safely. The gesture, while sweet, was about as common as Pepper dressing in frilly pink dresses or earnestly declaring a yearning to become a cheerleader. There was a tone to her voice, fear and worry and protectiveness warring for dominance, that made Crowley damn sure she knew exactly what was going on. He'd asked her, of course, but she hadn't even been subtle in evading. He'd at least expected her to believably make the sounds rather than saying 'oh crackle, crackle the phone's playing crackle crackle up, have a great crackle night good-crackle-bye!' and hanging up on him.
Any other time, he'd laugh and tell her she'd been around Brian and Wensleydale too much. Right now, he couldn't think of anything less hilarious if he tried.
It didn't take long for the pitiful staring to wear thin, and then Harry was sending himself to bed at the most ridiculously early time imaginable for a child who clearly wasn't even tired. Once Harry had gone to bed, wandering into Hermione’s room to say goodnight and not bothering to come out again (yet another sign that something was very, very wrong), Crowley did the sensible, adult thing and paced the living room, silently fretting as Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth every so often as though trying and failing to think of something to say to make things better. His daughter, his bright, beautiful little hellspawn was scared, and wouldn’t even talk to him! She’d never hidden anything from him before. He didn’t they were that kind of family.
Were they that kind of family?
Nobody slept well that night.
*
Anthony J Crowley was an expert in worrying, with multiple degrees in fretting, anxiety, and overwhelming himself through, in Aziraphale’s words, an impressive talent for making mountains out of molehills. Crowley, more than used to seeing other demons maimed and killed for the most ridiculous of reasons, considered it more a strong instinct for self preservation, and something that had served him incredibly well through the centuries. This, however, did not feel like a molehill, and Aziraphale’s barely concealed worry as he flit around the kitchen making tea was a pretty good sign that Crowley was not, in fact, reading too much into the situation.
Something was very, very wrong.
Though it was a Saturday, and more often than not Crowley would be sleeping until noon given the opportunity, for the first time in memory, he'd been up and dressed well before Hermione had shuffled out of bed, Harry at her side, not quite touching but close enough to keep her safe. Her eyes were the kind of red that looked painful as Heaven, and as though she'd spent a lot of time crying. Judging by the wet patch on Harry's shoulder, it was a safe bet she hadn't started the day well.
Apparently, playing with your food was becoming a family habit, and where usually Zira would be chiding them all for not eating, today he seemed just as content to push food about plate, not even bothering with his customary morning cup of tea. The silence, broken only by the ocassional screech of metal on plate, felt rather less like their usual comfortable silences and more like the noise based equivilent of tearing off your clothes and rolling in a pool full of broken glass and used needles.
It was a battle of wills at this point, waiting to see who'd break first. Would Hermione admit defeat and talk, or would Crowley or Zira lose their patience and try to make it happen? Crowley bit his lip to keep himself quiet, unsure of what to say or how to approach the problem. Causing problems? He was your man. Resolving them without making them worse wasn't something he was well known for.
Sighing loudly, Aziraphale gave up on pretending to eat, clapped his hands, and gave his best impression of a comforting smile at the baffled faces around him. 'We're all going for a walk. Since nobody is hungry, everyone go get dressed. It's a perfect day for a stroll in the woods.'
'I don't feel well.' There was a tremble to Hermione's hands, so violent she had to put down her cutlery and press her hands on the table to try and hide it.
'Fresh air will do you good, Hermione.' She shook her head.
'I'd like to stay home, please.'
'Nonsense! A quick walk and you'll feel better. We'll all feel better. So no excuses, no refusals, everyone go get dressed.'
'No.'
'Come on, Dad, she's not feeling well. Can't we just let her rest for today? We could stay in and read instead... I know there's that book you've been looking forward t-' A click of angelic fingers, and they were all dressed and ready to go (Crowley, of course, changed his outfit immediately, fighting not to take offense that the love of his life would ever choose to dress him like that.
'Let's go.' Harry bristled at being ignored, but Hermione?
Hermione simply stood and waited by the door, shoulders dropped, head down so her face was hidden by her hair. She looked for all the world like a girl headed to the gallows, not one about to go for a walk with her family.