Happy Holidays, Xylodemon!
Dec. 29th, 2006 11:28 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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go_exchangeThe Ancient And Noble House Of Malfoy
A Good Omens/Harry Potter Crossover
(Be Afraid.)
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
xylodemon
Author:catherinecookmn
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale/OC (historical)
Summary: From great acorns, mighty trees...er...uh oh.
It was a lovely June morning in the Year of His Lord's Enemy, 1142, and the Demon Crowley was in a terrible mood.
As a demon with a well-earned reputation for cleverness and sharp practice, he always hated to be outwitted by anyone; but to be outdone by Aziraphale -- that mincing winged bookworm Aziraphale, he of the spreading paunch and irritating angelic innocence (not to mention utter ignorance of the ways of the universe, or even the world) -- well, that he simply couldn't endure. And wouldn't endure. Never. Never ever ever. Especially when Aziraphale had done so without even knowing what the bloody hell (or heaven) he was doing.
He had to find a way to get his own back, both for his own peace of mind and to keep himself in The Boss' good graces -- or rather, bad disgraces.
But how, he asked himself, as he sat in the scriptorium of the Culdee house at Monymusk, doodling rather intricate phalluses and vulvae on the parchment of the Gospel of St. John he was supposed to be illuminating (one of Crowley's proudest achievements was his wending his way into one of the most allegedly-holy churches in Scotland, an achievement soured only by the fact that the Culdees were already so wantonly corrupt that there was little he could do that they hadn't already thought of), how was he going to do it?
Crowley rubbed his full head of hair with his free hand -- these Culdees were so lax they didn't even do those funny haircuts -- as he pondered his next move. He then looked down at the rambunctiously obscene illustration he had just made, and it came to him.
He would find a way to tempt the angel into straying, if only for a moment, from the path of insufferable righteousness. And probably win a Bad Friday bonus from the Boss, too.
Now to find the appropriate lure...
----------------------------------------
Gormlaith ingen Thorwald, would-be Queen of Scotland but currently serving as the weekend tapstress at The Three Broomsticks, sighed as she watched the custom shamble in from the wet rainy night. It did not look promising.
Another wet Saturday night in a town where there was nothing for the average wizard to do but drink. Another evening where Gormlaith was obliged to toss Stunning Spells at drunken wizards who thought that buying a pint of ale entitled them to a helping of tapstress as well. The Stunning Spells did solve the pinching problem, but it created another one, in the form of unconscious wizards piling up on the taproom floor, and Gormlaith had never got the hang of the newer Levitation Spells. Worse yet, Donald the bouncer was sick upstairs with what he claimed was a head cold but what Gormlaith strongly suspected was the result of a surfeit of hard ciders the night before.
Gormlaith was serving cider instead of sitting on the Stone of Scone because of a shocking prejudice on the part of the Scottish nobility. It seemed that they preferred their leaders to have some royal blood, to be male, and above all to not be magicians of any sort. Gormlaith could claim some of the first -- her mother Aislinn was one of the many female by-blows of Máel Coluim, who had reigned during the last century, and would have been thirty-fifth in line for the throne if she were a male. But not being male was a decided handicap, as was her being notorious from Arbroath to Dunsinane for the best fertility-charms this side of Merlin, so Aislinn had to regretfully forego her dreams of Albaic dominion. Instead, she infected her daughter with them and inadvertently succeeded in making her life miserable thereby.
Gormlaith sighed again and shook her head. She then pinned back her silver-gilt hair, the gift of her Norse father, and got ready to meet the punters.
While her back was turned, a small serpent slithered over from the coal-scuttle by the hearth. The serpent looked up at the arriving patrons and nodded to itself in ophidian approval. Now it only remained to see what beverage the ratbastard of an angel would be drinking...
-------------------------
The punters this evening turned out to be less troublesome than usual; the sight of Gormlaith stunning the first obstreporous drunkard, and with something other than her not-inconsiderable pale good looks, caused the rest to forego whatever thoughts of mayhem they might have been entertaining.
The night wore on, and the rain had slackened, enough for most of the custom to have settled their accounts and made their somewhat unsteady way homeward through the mists. Finally, there was but one customer left, a rather posh-looking blond staring meekly at his gillywater, the book he had brought with him sitting neglected on the table.
"It's getting near closing time, sir," she said gently; Gormlaith was only vicious when viciousness was called for, and she could tell that there was no need to be vicious with this fellow.
The blond gentleman stirred himself out of his reverie. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, miss," he said in a cultured voice that bespoke bags of gold parked somewhere. "It's just that... well, I have nowhere to go at the moment."
There was something in his attitude that made Gormlaith want to protect him. And, unbeknownst to her, there was something in the cider she'd been carefully nursing all night that was making her want to do more than just protect him; that little something had been put there by the same entity who had been making subtle additions to everything the blond gentleman consumed that night.
"We have rooms upstairs for weary travelers such as yourself, sir," she said softly. And as she said this, she made a point of leaning forward a bit more than was necessary to pick up his dinner plate, so that he got a very good view of the tops of what were very good bosoms, round and fair and succulent.
The blond gentleman's breath suddenly caught in his throat, so much so that Gormlaith at first thought he might be having an asthma attack. But his chest then recommenced rising and falling, albeit a little more forcefully than normal, which Gormlaith took to be an encouraging sign.
She put a hand out, so soft and warm and milk-white, and he took it, and allowed her to guide him gently out of his chair and steer him up the stairs to the best room in the house, where he would subsequently show that while he was intoxicated, he was not incapacitated, at least not in those areas which were of special concern to the tapstress at this point.
The little brown snake stuck its head out and flicked its tongue at the two of them, then slithered off to the hearth to find his own bed elsewhere, chuckling as he went.
------------------------------------
Dawn found Aziraphale snoring comfortably in a bed not his own. It also found Gormlaith up and about already, oddly cheerful despite having the beginnings of what promised to be the mother of all hangovers.
She and the blond gentleman must have coupled during the night, she was was sure of it. When she woke up, she had found herself next to him in bed, his arm cast protectively, or possessively, about her shoulders. The pity was that that she must have drunk more than she remembered drinking, because for the life of her she couldn't recall a single moment of it.
She gave a small shrug, then set off to find something edible for breakfast. She had a good fry going by the time the blond gentleman made his way down the stairs. She tried giving him a little bit of quizzing, but it was apparent that he didn't remember a thing, either.
Ah, well, she thought as he bid her goodbye after breakfast, it's probably for the best...
-------------------------------
Crowley couldn't believe it. Actually, he could, which didn't make it any better.
Here he'd gone and tricked the most priggish being imaginable into not only fornicating with a human, but impregnating her as well -- and neither of the two could remember a thing about it, thanks to Crowley's being a little overenthusiastic with the love drugs in their drinks. He'd forgot that amnesia was a common side effect of that particular form of drugging.
And of course, if Aziraphale didn't remember shagging the tapstress, he wouldn't be racked with spasms of guilt over it. And the spasms of angelic guilt were what would have made this whole enterprise worthwhile. As it was, Crowley wouldn't be getting any promotions out of this, much less any personal satisfaction.
In the meantime, Gormlaith would give birth to a rather fetchingly attractive and sturdy boy baby, as fair as both of his parents, and with uncommon skill in magic. She would name him Máel Fionghuine, or Malfie for short. And she would never let him forget that he came from great seed, at least on his mother's side.
Thus the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy came into being.
~end~
Happy Holidays,xylodemon, from your Secret Writer!
A Good Omens/Harry Potter Crossover
(Be Afraid.)
Recipient:
xylodemonAuthor:
catherinecookmnRating: PG-13
Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale/OC (historical)
Summary: From great acorns, mighty trees...er...uh oh.
It was a lovely June morning in the Year of His Lord's Enemy, 1142, and the Demon Crowley was in a terrible mood.
As a demon with a well-earned reputation for cleverness and sharp practice, he always hated to be outwitted by anyone; but to be outdone by Aziraphale -- that mincing winged bookworm Aziraphale, he of the spreading paunch and irritating angelic innocence (not to mention utter ignorance of the ways of the universe, or even the world) -- well, that he simply couldn't endure. And wouldn't endure. Never. Never ever ever. Especially when Aziraphale had done so without even knowing what the bloody hell (or heaven) he was doing.
He had to find a way to get his own back, both for his own peace of mind and to keep himself in The Boss' good graces -- or rather, bad disgraces.
But how, he asked himself, as he sat in the scriptorium of the Culdee house at Monymusk, doodling rather intricate phalluses and vulvae on the parchment of the Gospel of St. John he was supposed to be illuminating (one of Crowley's proudest achievements was his wending his way into one of the most allegedly-holy churches in Scotland, an achievement soured only by the fact that the Culdees were already so wantonly corrupt that there was little he could do that they hadn't already thought of), how was he going to do it?
Crowley rubbed his full head of hair with his free hand -- these Culdees were so lax they didn't even do those funny haircuts -- as he pondered his next move. He then looked down at the rambunctiously obscene illustration he had just made, and it came to him.
He would find a way to tempt the angel into straying, if only for a moment, from the path of insufferable righteousness. And probably win a Bad Friday bonus from the Boss, too.
Now to find the appropriate lure...
----------------------------------------
Gormlaith ingen Thorwald, would-be Queen of Scotland but currently serving as the weekend tapstress at The Three Broomsticks, sighed as she watched the custom shamble in from the wet rainy night. It did not look promising.
Another wet Saturday night in a town where there was nothing for the average wizard to do but drink. Another evening where Gormlaith was obliged to toss Stunning Spells at drunken wizards who thought that buying a pint of ale entitled them to a helping of tapstress as well. The Stunning Spells did solve the pinching problem, but it created another one, in the form of unconscious wizards piling up on the taproom floor, and Gormlaith had never got the hang of the newer Levitation Spells. Worse yet, Donald the bouncer was sick upstairs with what he claimed was a head cold but what Gormlaith strongly suspected was the result of a surfeit of hard ciders the night before.
Gormlaith was serving cider instead of sitting on the Stone of Scone because of a shocking prejudice on the part of the Scottish nobility. It seemed that they preferred their leaders to have some royal blood, to be male, and above all to not be magicians of any sort. Gormlaith could claim some of the first -- her mother Aislinn was one of the many female by-blows of Máel Coluim, who had reigned during the last century, and would have been thirty-fifth in line for the throne if she were a male. But not being male was a decided handicap, as was her being notorious from Arbroath to Dunsinane for the best fertility-charms this side of Merlin, so Aislinn had to regretfully forego her dreams of Albaic dominion. Instead, she infected her daughter with them and inadvertently succeeded in making her life miserable thereby.
Gormlaith sighed again and shook her head. She then pinned back her silver-gilt hair, the gift of her Norse father, and got ready to meet the punters.
While her back was turned, a small serpent slithered over from the coal-scuttle by the hearth. The serpent looked up at the arriving patrons and nodded to itself in ophidian approval. Now it only remained to see what beverage the ratbastard of an angel would be drinking...
-------------------------
The punters this evening turned out to be less troublesome than usual; the sight of Gormlaith stunning the first obstreporous drunkard, and with something other than her not-inconsiderable pale good looks, caused the rest to forego whatever thoughts of mayhem they might have been entertaining.
The night wore on, and the rain had slackened, enough for most of the custom to have settled their accounts and made their somewhat unsteady way homeward through the mists. Finally, there was but one customer left, a rather posh-looking blond staring meekly at his gillywater, the book he had brought with him sitting neglected on the table.
"It's getting near closing time, sir," she said gently; Gormlaith was only vicious when viciousness was called for, and she could tell that there was no need to be vicious with this fellow.
The blond gentleman stirred himself out of his reverie. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, miss," he said in a cultured voice that bespoke bags of gold parked somewhere. "It's just that... well, I have nowhere to go at the moment."
There was something in his attitude that made Gormlaith want to protect him. And, unbeknownst to her, there was something in the cider she'd been carefully nursing all night that was making her want to do more than just protect him; that little something had been put there by the same entity who had been making subtle additions to everything the blond gentleman consumed that night.
"We have rooms upstairs for weary travelers such as yourself, sir," she said softly. And as she said this, she made a point of leaning forward a bit more than was necessary to pick up his dinner plate, so that he got a very good view of the tops of what were very good bosoms, round and fair and succulent.
The blond gentleman's breath suddenly caught in his throat, so much so that Gormlaith at first thought he might be having an asthma attack. But his chest then recommenced rising and falling, albeit a little more forcefully than normal, which Gormlaith took to be an encouraging sign.
She put a hand out, so soft and warm and milk-white, and he took it, and allowed her to guide him gently out of his chair and steer him up the stairs to the best room in the house, where he would subsequently show that while he was intoxicated, he was not incapacitated, at least not in those areas which were of special concern to the tapstress at this point.
The little brown snake stuck its head out and flicked its tongue at the two of them, then slithered off to the hearth to find his own bed elsewhere, chuckling as he went.
------------------------------------
Dawn found Aziraphale snoring comfortably in a bed not his own. It also found Gormlaith up and about already, oddly cheerful despite having the beginnings of what promised to be the mother of all hangovers.
She and the blond gentleman must have coupled during the night, she was was sure of it. When she woke up, she had found herself next to him in bed, his arm cast protectively, or possessively, about her shoulders. The pity was that that she must have drunk more than she remembered drinking, because for the life of her she couldn't recall a single moment of it.
She gave a small shrug, then set off to find something edible for breakfast. She had a good fry going by the time the blond gentleman made his way down the stairs. She tried giving him a little bit of quizzing, but it was apparent that he didn't remember a thing, either.
Ah, well, she thought as he bid her goodbye after breakfast, it's probably for the best...
-------------------------------
Crowley couldn't believe it. Actually, he could, which didn't make it any better.
Here he'd gone and tricked the most priggish being imaginable into not only fornicating with a human, but impregnating her as well -- and neither of the two could remember a thing about it, thanks to Crowley's being a little overenthusiastic with the love drugs in their drinks. He'd forgot that amnesia was a common side effect of that particular form of drugging.
And of course, if Aziraphale didn't remember shagging the tapstress, he wouldn't be racked with spasms of guilt over it. And the spasms of angelic guilt were what would have made this whole enterprise worthwhile. As it was, Crowley wouldn't be getting any promotions out of this, much less any personal satisfaction.
In the meantime, Gormlaith would give birth to a rather fetchingly attractive and sturdy boy baby, as fair as both of his parents, and with uncommon skill in magic. She would name him Máel Fionghuine, or Malfie for short. And she would never let him forget that he came from great seed, at least on his mother's side.
Thus the Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy came into being.
~end~
Happy Holidays,
xylodemon, from your Secret Writer!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 07:11 am (UTC)So this is where the Malfoys came from? What an interesting take - we have Aziraphale to blame...
thanks for such a wonderfully written tale,
W
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 07:27 am (UTC)So very well done, Secret Author!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 08:04 am (UTC)This is just so fabulous! Crowley is perfect. What a hilariously wonderful way to get one up on Aziraphale (and not to mention, I have such a closet-kink for Crowley parading around as a church-type). And I just love it when Aziraphale is blissfully clueless. And Gormlaith! She's brilliant.
And the Malfoys. YES. It all makes sense now.
Thank you so very, very much!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 04:34 pm (UTC)I was actually surprised at how easy it was for me to make this nutty idea conform to the historical record, as well as to the GO and HP canons. (There was an awful lot of Scot-Norse interbreeding, even among the Scots nobility of the time, so a name such as "Gormlaith ingen Thorwald" (Thorwald being her daddy) would not be out of line for the period.)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-30 05:11 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 02:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 06:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-31 02:30 pm (UTC)Oh, but there's Malfoy's spark of goodness, I suppose. . . .
P.S.: Crowley and his vulvae . . . *snigger*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-12-07 09:07 am (UTC)