Chapter Text
By the Christmas holidays, Harry never wanted to see a tongue again as long as he lived. Nearly every Dark Arts assignment returned to him had been thoroughly licked. Amycus (properly known as Professor Carrow, though Harry had overheard a few second-year Hufflepuffs referring to him as Professor Licky-Licky) took to licking all the school's broomsticks, rendering Quidditch a slippery sport that had to be cancelled. And worst of all, Amycus liked lemon pie, and though a house-elf tried to scold him, Amycus simply immobilized the elf and proceeded to lick all the lemon pie on the Hogwarts grounds. He found every one of Harry's most private hiding places.
Now Harry had to have the elves bring him cherry pie. And cherry pie was simply not good enough for the great Boy Who Lived.
He was beyond frustrated. His assignments were being licked, he couldn't enjoy his lemon pie, and Yaxley still wouldn't get him a monkey. Everything was wrong in Harry's world.
At least he had a letter from Yaxley to take his mind off things.
Harry was so desperate for a pick-me-up that he collapsed into a chair in the Gryffindor common room instead of retreating to his dormitory where people were far less likely to read over his shoulder. At the very least, Yaxley's letter might help him to relax.
My dear boy Harrison,
Yaxley is simply not a name that is conducive to many nicknames. Before I came up with the idea of having people call me their Yaxleyness, I was just Yaxley. Alecto seems to enjoy calling me Yax, but I'm still mad at her because last year at Christmas she gave me a Muggle cotton ball, so no one is allowed to call me that until she apologizes to me.
The next time you see this Sirius, let me know so I can tell him that he can have some fried chicken if he stops calling you James Junior. Fried chicken is the perfect incentive to get anyone to do anything.
I passed by the address you gave me where the little girl with the hair lives. I didn't see any little girl, but there was a nosy-looking woman in one of the windows. I left before she decided she wanted my fried chicken.
Maybe I'll have to send some of the house-elves here to bring you lemon pie. I couldn't imagine going without my fried chicken for so long, and the lack of lemon pie must be painful for you.
I really did try to get you a monkey. I captured one, locked it up in a cage, and was going to send it to you after last week's Death Eater meeting. But Alecto got mad at me when I tried to make her apologize for the Christmas incident, so she bit the monkey and I had to take it to St. Mungo's. And just so you know, St. Mungo's does not treat monkeys. So now I'm back to square one on that, but you can yell at her about it and not me.
The Dark Lord pulled the Carrows aside after the meeting and told them to stop licking and biting, but he's not at Hogwarts, so he can't really tell them what to do and they know it. I agree with you because they've already victimized my fried chicken and your monkey, but unless the Dark Lord is there to supervise them all day every day, they'll never stop. Just try to avoid them and keep your lemon pie close.
I will try to think of more things you can call me, though I must say that I like the name "little weasel" for your friend and will continue to call him by it.
Your special food can be lemon pie, but you can't force your lemon pie on me. I never force you to eat fried chicken, because it is rude to disrespect food preferences.
Just so you know, I would have gladly forgone an assignment at your age if I had a penpal worthy of the Yaxleyness. But you were not born yet and no one else understands the power of fried chicken, so I never had that chance. Remember that you are a lucky boy.
Regards,
Your Yaxleyness
P.S. I am fully aware that dementors are rude. When I was in Azkaban, there was one dementor who constantly lectured me and the other prisoners. It was not fun. I reported that dementor to the Dementor Board as soon as I got out, but I don't know what became of that.
Harry immediately whipped out his quill and drafted a reply.
To my Yaxleyness Yaxley,
How about Yak? Yaxleyness takes too long to write, Yaxley is your true name, and Yax is apparently forbidden. But Yak is short enough for my liking.
I don't think Sirius likes fried chicken. No letter from him has ever mentioned fried chicken. I write about my lemon pie and you write about your fried chicken, so it's clear that food you like is food written about. He wrote about the food in Azkaban once. Perhaps we ought to send him that.
The woman was my Aunt Petunia, and you could have stared at her much longer if you wanted. My aunt dislikes fried chicken. I know because when I was nine I wanted a bicycle and tried to bribe her with fried chicken, but she still said no. Most people will give in when you bribe them with fried chicken. Or was that lemon pie? That's why she said no. She would have said yes if I bribed her with lemon pie.
On the subject of lemon pie, get some here straightaway. I have gone a full eight hours without eating lemon pie, and it's all I can think about. I wrote "lemon pie" instead of "newt tongues" on a Potions essay and nearly turned it in. You should not be allowing an innocent schoolboy such as myself to be distracted from learning for so long.
I have come to the conclusion that you are just making excuses. If you didn't want to get me a monkey, you should have said something instead of making a promise you never planned to keep. Two years on, I don't even expect a monkey. I just expect to be disappointed, and I've never been wrong.
That's a terrible way to treat your supposed friends, Yaxley. Friends are supposed to be there for each other and keep their promises. For two years you have failed to do this. I enjoy your letters, but I simply cannot associate myself with someone who lies to me and lies about lying to me.
If you're going to lie to me, I can't keep writing to you. I don't know about you, but I know I have feelings. Don't hurt them.
Yours,
Harrison "Harry" Potter
After he wrote the letter, Harry sighed. He had almost forgotten his name wasn't short for Harrison.
It seemed like almost every day now, Voldemort summoned Hermione and told her to control her best friend. There had been a time when Bellatrix had developed a habit of using the toilet and asking whoever passed by if they wanted to see it, but Hermione had reminded her that she was just distracting the other Death Eaters when they could have been thinking of how to kill Harry Potter. A few weeks later, she had decided to show up to a meeting in something you might wear to a desert tea party, but Hermione had told her that desert tea party attire was rarely appropriate in other circumstances. She knew that one day, the Dark Lord would assign her a task she had no idea how to even begin dealing with. That day had come.
The first indication that something was wrong should have been when Voldemort appeared in front of her wearing a bonnet, or when he ordered Hermione to go to Rabastan's bedroom, or even when she noticed he was holding a rattle. But as Hermione had grown used to giving Bellatrix the benefit of the doubt, she didn't think much of it until she appeared in the doorway of Rabastan's bedroom.
Rabastan Lestrange was sitting in the middle of the floor, a pacifier in his mouth and a mix of helplessness and exasperation on his face. He was half-wrapped in a blanket that Bellatrix was forcefully tucking under his chin, and to the side was what looked suspiciously like a jar of baby food.
"Bellatrix?" Hermione attempted, not quite knowing how to respond to this situation. "What are you doing?"
Without looking up, Bellatrix said, "Oh, I'm just taking care of my little boy," as if this were an everyday occurence. "Want to help?"
"I am not your little boy!" Rabastan protested, with the air of someone who had said this multiple times in the last hour.
Bellatrix shot him a look. "Then who is?"
"Not me, or Lucius, or Dolohov, or Alecto, or Severus, or any of the others you've done this to!"
So not only was this an apparent thing, it had happened multiple times before. And while Hermione couldn't speak for any of the other Death Eaters subjected to Bellatrix's attempts at caregiving, Rabastan seemed to be strongly against it. So did the Dark Lord, judging from his displeasure when he told Hermione to deal with the situation. And if Bellatrix kept doing something the Dark Lord didn't approve of, he might torture her, even though she was his wife and torturing is not a sign of a healthy relationship. Hermione didn't want to see that happen.
"I have to agree with Rabastan," Hermione decided, carefully choosing her words. "He's...a big boy now."
"Oh," Bellatrix frowned deeply, as if she hadn't noticed that before. "Okay." She put the blanket aside and unceremoniously pulled the pacifier out of his mouth. Rabastan shot Hermione a look of gratitude before he got up and left the room. He was already late for Death Eater bingo night, which for some reason was at noon.
As soon as he was gone, Hermione turned to her best friend. "What was that about?"
"Waffles." For some reason, if you asked a Death Eater that question, they always answered with waffles. No one knows why.
A sigh. "Why do you want Rabastan to be your little boy?"
"Because he is a little boy. He's younger than me."
"So anyone younger than you is a little boy?"
"Yes."
"So I'm a little boy?"
"No. You're a little girl. Women can't be little boys."
Clearly this approach wasn't going to work. Hermione tried again. "It seems like you have a habit of...trying to take care of your fellow Death Eaters. Do you want to tell me why you do this?"
Bellatrix thought for a moment, then a few more moments passed where she said nothing. Eventually, she looked her best friend in the eyes and placed Hermione's hand on her stomach.
Usually when Bellatrix did this, it was to enable Hermione to guess what she'd had for breakfast. She could never actually tell what she'd eaten and usually just made things up. Hermione said something about pea soup and roast leg of muggle, but that didn't have the same effect as it usually did.
"So you didn't eat pea soup," Hermione concluded. "Then what did you eat, Bellatrix?"
"Some grass and eighteen Chocolate Frogs, but that's not the point."
"What is the point?"
Bellatrix leaned in so close to Hermione she could smell the Chocolate Frogs on her breath, even though Rabastan had left long ago. "You can't tell anyone about this," she said. "Except for Regulus, because I already told him. And the Dark Lord, because he was there."
"I won't tell anyone but Regulus," the confused Hermione promised.
"If you must know, I have to practice taking care of a baby. Otherwise, I won't know what to do when mine comes."
"Oh, okay," It was only after she had spoken that she realized what Bellatrix had just said. "Wait, WHAT?"