Sorting

"I can't believe you're making me do this," grumbled Crowley.

"Come on," Aziraphale wheedled. "It's a laugh. Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"No," Crowley said shortly. "Why bother? I'm an ambitious ssssnake, angel." He put an extra hisss into the 'S', and didn't bother to conceal his delight at the angel's disapproving glance.

"I suppose it is a little silly," Aziraphale admitted, looking somewhat sadly at the battered old hat on his countertop. For all the patches and fraying threads, it still gave off a faint aura of magic. "But it's a fascinating spell. Very developed."

This time Crowley stifled his grin. It was no surprise the hat had declared Aziraphale a Ravenclaw almost the second it touched his head. Even when he still had his flaming sword, way back at the Beginning, the angel had been bookish.

Crowley couldn't resist Aziraphale's pleading any more. It wasn't fair - he was supposed to be the Tempting one, dammit. "Fine, I'll try on the hat. But it's going to yell 'Slytherin' faster than an imp in a hamster ball." He reached over and grabbed the hat, pulling it unceremoniously onto his head. If he hadn't insisted to the world that it not happen, his carefully gelled hair would have been pushed all out of place.

But instead of the anticipated yell, a small buzzing voice sounded in Crowley's ear. "Hmm, this is a curious case," it muttered. "Another angel? No, not anymore. Lots of cunning..." There was a peculiar sensation, as if someone was pawing through the demon's skull. Instinctively, he locked down his thoughts.

"Do stop that, please" reproved the voice. "I need to see everything to make the best decision." It sounded so much like Aziraphale that Crowley shot the angel a suspicious glance, to make sure he wasn't being messed with. But Aziraphale was just sitting on his stool, watching Crowley with a mixed expression of eager curiosity and affection across his all-too-easy to read face.* Automatically, Crowley responded with a fond leer.

"Ah, that's much better," said the hat, satisfied. "Ooh, yes, that's quite good, actually. Not tricky at all, once you get down to it." The demon could feel it's brim open on his head, bur chose to keep watching Aziraphale's excited expression.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

*Aziraphale thought he was good at hiding his emotions, and even fancied himself a bit of an actor, but Crowley had figured him out centuries ago. Really, the angel had three modes: well-meaning, the default, to mock, foil, and talk with; drunk, to have fun with; and righteous, to avoid at all costs––he'd only seen Aziraphale get truly angry once, when Crowley got some barbarians to burn down the Library at Alexandria. There had been holy fire and harsh words exchanged (one-sidedly), and they hadn't spoken for three centuries.