I created a 3D model and floor plan of Aziraphale’s bookshop in Good Omens!
I really wanted one for reference and it seemed like many others did too, so I put together my best approximation of where everything is. Beneath the color version, you’ll see I’ve included two simplified, labeled versions of the plan. The verbal labels are so you know what the object is. The numerical labels are there to make it easy to find more information about the object. I’ve put a numbered index below the cut that features the relevant reference images I used for each object and some more information about why I put it where I did/why it’s relevant/etc. I want to be very clear that I did not add anything to this from my own imagination; every single item and feature represents something I actually saw in the shop.
If you have any questions or want more information about this, PLEASE do not hesitate to ask! I put so much time into figuring it out and I would be more than happy to be a resource for anyone who needs it. Also, if you notice any errors, let me know and I’ll update the post. I hope this is helpful!
Update:Here’s a link to an interactive view of the shop! It takes a moment to load. You can click the “3D” tab in the top right to view it in first person and walk around inside. Double click a spot on the floor to move there and pan around by clicking and dragging. The oval symbol next to the person walking gives you a birds-eye view.
“That’s the third time today,” Draco said anxiously, crouching down next to Harry’s shaking form on the floor of their shared bathroom. He laid a hesitant hand between Harry’s shoulder blades; cold sweat on overheated skin. Harry flinched, but Draco rubbed gentle circles, desperate to soothe both Harry and himself.
“It’s fine,” Harry grunted.
“It is absolutely not fine, you git,” Draco argued, peering into the toilet bowl. A mangled white daffodil floated on the surface of the water, dappled with red. Harry had another clutched in his fist, his forehead resting on the bowl as he endured another coughing fit. “If you won’t go to St. Mungo’s, then we have to tell Hermione—”
“No—” Harry’s head snapped up, too fast; Draco grabbed his shoulders as he swayed, “—Draco, not Hermione, I swear—”
“Not me, what?” Hermione’s voice sounded from the hallway just before she rounded the corner into the loo, carrying three mugs of tea. Her eyes widened fearfully at the sight of them on the floor. “Harry, are you ill?” She quickly set down the mugs on the counter and pulled her wand from her hair.
“No, go away, both of—!” Harry was cut off by another coughing fit, his body convulsing violently. Draco cursed under his breath, gathering Harry’s long, sweaty curls at his nape, worry turning his veins to ice as yet another blossom forced itself from Harry’s throat.
When it was over, Draco looked up to see Hermione covering her mouth with her hand, her brown eyes still wide and shining with fear. Her gaze locked with Draco’s, and in an instant, Draco knew that she knew exactly what was wrong, and it wasn’t good.
“Hermione…?”
Hermione lowered her hand, opened her mouth—
“Don’t,” Harry growled, then coughed again. He looked up at her imploringly; Draco hadn’t ever seen him beg like this. It turned his stomach. “Please, ‘Mione. Don’t.”
She stood frozen for a long moment, staring at him, in a silent, frenzied exchange of looks. She picked up her mug and gave a short, frustrated huff.
“Draco, you have sixty seconds to tell him exactly what you told me three months ago on pub night—” she turned to make her way out of the room, as if Draco’s world wasn’t now crumbling around him, his heart dropping through to the tile floor, “—or I will tell him myself, and then I will curse your cowardly bollocks off, mark my fucking words—!” Her voice trailed off into livid muttering, stomping down the stairs. “I’m counting!”
The bathroom was deathly silent, but for Draco’s too quick breaths, his heart beating far too loud in the cramped space. Harry made a small noise, and Draco realized he still had a hand in Harry’s soft, damp hair. He heard Harry gulp.
“Draco,” Harry rasped. “Tell me what?”
It’s the third time I’ve seen this, please @lou-isfake end my misery and tell me what Draco told Hermione during pub night three months ago
ok (three months earlier)
“He’s got the room, Draco.”
“No.” Draco punctuated this by downing the last of his martini, waving the bartender for another. “Not a chance.”
“You’re being stupid,” Hermione said, with a heavy sigh. “What better option is there, honestly? You need a place, he lives in a creepy mansion that answers to your blood, anyway—”
“I’d rather sleep on your floor.”
“My floor is in his house, you idiot. We’re flatmates. Just move in. The only difference would be you’d get your own room and Harry will hopefully stop assuming that you and I are fucking.”
“He thinks we’re—? Thank you,” Draco said to the bartender, giving his politest smile as they delivered the next round. He took a sip before returning his attention to Hermione. “Why would he think that?”
Hermione looked at him like he was the stupidest person she’d ever interacted with, which was a feat. To escape her withering glare, he turned his gaze out to survey the pub. Harry was with Pansy and two strangers at the dart board, laughing and yelling and high fiving. His curly hair was tied in a messy bun at the top of his head, and his t-shirt was a bit too tight for his shoulders, and two small gold hoops glinted from his ear and then Draco’s vision was obscured by his own empty martini glass. He set it back down a bit too hard, just in time to see one of the strangers sidle up behind Harry, whisper something in his ear.
“No,” Draco said, again, looking away quickly as something ugly happened in his gut. Probably the vermouth. Hermione groaned in exasperation.
“Don’t tell me you still secretly hate him, or something. It’s been years, Draco, and you and I get along just fine, and I thought you and him were getting on, too.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no? You’re perfectly friendly with each other, you talk all the time, you make him laugh—”
“No.” Draco’s eyes slid sideways again, and caught green ones. Harry smiled tentatively at him. Draco smoothed out his own expression as best he could, stuck on the other person’s hand on Harry’s waist.
“You’re being so stupid, I cannot believe you—”
“I can’t,” Draco said, and his voice cracked a little, surprising them both. Hermione paused, thankfully, examining him with furrowed brows, but the alcohol had other plans to fill the silence. “I can’t… be that close. To him.”
Hermione blinked at him, waiting. He grimaced, accidentally catching Harry’s eye again. He felt sick to his stomach. The vermouth. Harry’s face fell. He coughed a bit. The stranger patted his back, offered him beer. Idiot.
“I think it would kill me,” Draco said, though he hadn’t exactly meant to, “being that close.” He tore his eyes away from Harry’s back, and Hermione didn’t look pitying, so the words kept spilling out of him, uninhibited. “I don’t want to know how he takes his tea or what mug he prefers. I don’t want to know his daily routines and his favorite pyjamas. I don’t want to hear him sing in the shower.” Draco tilted his head, and regretted it. “Does he do that?”
“He does.”
“Well bully for you, I want no part of it.”
“It’s a miracle I haven’t strangled the both of you,” she said, with another long suffering sigh. “So bloody dramatic.” She waved her wand, conjuring two glasses of water, and pushed one to Draco. “You’ll move in next Friday. Harry doesn’t want rent, but he does want your help getting the house to listen to him. He was very excited by the idea of you moving in, once I assured him we weren’t fucking.”
“Hermione—!”
“Don’t even try. Just a couple months, Draco, and if you can’t stand it, you can save up for a place of your own. But I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Draco slapped his hand down on the table in frustration, gritting his teeth. “Nothing about being in love with the stupid fucking Saviour is pleasant, Granger.”
She rolled her eyes at him, then left the booth, delivering the second water to Harry.
I’m fine.
But um.
Now we need to jump back to the present and resolve things.
Ahem.
I’d also take one more glimpse to see it end happily ever after, please! If you feel like it!
so sorry to reblog my own long post but, here u go:
“I’m okay,” Nick’s learned to say in his sleep. Shake it off. Down a coffee. He’s okay. He’s Nick Nelson.
But Charlie has laid beside Nick in bed and knows the way his elbows move when he dreams. Charlie has held Nick’s hand when it was bleeding at the knuckles and has kissed him in the pouring winter rain and has seen Nick, really seen him, from that very first day in form, better than Nick’s ever been able to see himself.
The, “I’m okay,” is at the tip of Nick’s tongue. He swallows it back.
“I’m trying to be,” he says instead, as honest an answer as he can stomach, then a little more: “this helps. You help.”
OR, Nick’s first year of uni goes… well, it goes. It takes a while to figure out he’s not alone.
![Not quite as [redacted] as the name would suggest](https://64.media.tumblr.com/avatar_2f830e59e83c_30.png){kind=avatar}
