A/N:.... it took a fair bit longer than expected, this. My only excuse is that I at one point was almost done - only to realise I was writing something that disregarded the first part of this entirely. Not too awesome, that. Might still make something out of that, and a third part of this IS coming - hopefully not in another 9 months.

Thanks to celta_diabolica for being an awesome beta and awesome in general!

Indoctrination: Part II

"Thanks for coming," Rabastan said earnestly, waiting for his brother in the corridor below Dumbledore's office. "I didn't realise you were here."

"'s all right," Rodolphus said bracingly, stepping past the Gargoyles. "As I said, I happened to have business in the area."

"I'm sure," Rabastan grinned. As long as he didn't have to either see or hear it, he had nothing in particular against this 'business' that his brother had had with Bellatrix for the past few years – even though it had taken some getting used to.

"Business that I intend to return to," his brother added with a smirk as they walked down the first staircase towards the entrance hall, "so try and keep it together until the holidays at least, will you? Or," he added, "at least show some finesse. Duelling in the common room, I ask you…" he sighed, shaking his head with the air of someone teaching a craft to an amateur. "Not even Slughorn could have protected you from that."

"But Smith kicked me off the team!" Rabastan defended himself furiously, having wanted to do so ever since his brother had dismissed his reasoning the first time around.

"So put Wormwood in his soup. Or lock his broomstick in the Room of Requirement. Anything that requires at least some semblance of a thought process."

"I was thinking!"

"Not enough, clearly," his brother said firmly in his strictest and therefore most annoying I-intend-to-raise-you voice.

"You need to learn these things, Rab," he continued, still rather preachy. "You can't be so bloody obvious about it. It will only get you back up there without having accomplished anything."

"Yeah, yeah," Rabastan snapped, feeling like he'd had enough lessons for the night. "I got it!"

"Then start showing it."

They walked the last steps in stubborn silence, like so many times before after similar exchanges.

"Wormwood, eh?" Rabastan finally said when they reached the entrance hall.

"Has curious side effects when paired with most common soup bases." His brother nodded with a wry grin, as though recalling a fond memory. "Don't let him bully you," Rodolphus then said in a more serious voice, nodding upwards. "I thought he wouldn't have a go at you since you're not in Slytherin, but clearly you've made yourself enough of a name for him to take note," he added approvingly.

"He's tried this with others?

"Sure – you're not that special, Rab," Rodolphus said, amused. "He was all over me for seven years, going on about 'the influences I was letting myself fall prey to'", he quoted with a sneer.

"Rosier got it too, and Wilkes."

"You never said," Rabastan remarked, trying not to sound too accusatory but still annoyed that after all this time he still didn't seem to be trusted and was being treated like a kid.

"You didn't need to know," the calm and almost offhand reply predictably came. It sounded dangerously close to being said in Rodolphus's I'm-the-adult voice, but Rabastan chose to let it slide. This time.

"Anyone who has a parent or relative amongst Dumbledore's political enemies will be summoned sooner or later. He tries to smooth it over of course, but I know better. You'd think someone who prides himself on being politically correct" (as usual, Rodolphus snorted the words) – "would be less obvious about his own….shortcomings. Which of course he never has been. But it won't work forever," he added darkly.

"I told him that!" Rabastan agreed heatedly, not really caring about what his brother was going to do about Dumbledore as the feeling of great injustice and fury overwhelmed him again. "He lets the Gryffindors off for anything, and they're so smug about it! You should hear the stuff the Prewetts say about you," he added, wishing he had sent Fabian Prewett to the hospital wing along with Smith.

"I don't care what some bleeding-heart Gryffindor thinks," his brother scoffed.

"I do," Rabastan muttered through clenched teeth, staring sideways at nothing in particular. And he did care about what they said. In fact, it made him murderous.

"Well you shouldn't," Rodolphus said strictly, studying him intently. "There are far bigger things in the world. And," he added in a softer tone, "I know I'm not making it easy for you. But you simply have to learn how to deal with it, control it – if you don't, you'll never be able to actually do anything worthwhile. If I let every single thing in this world that makes me nauseous get to me, I wouldn't have time for anything else."

"I guess."

"You'd be right to do so," Rodolphus nodded. "Trust me, Rab – I know," he continued. "But it gets better once you get out of this place."

"That's comforting," Rabastan snorted, thinking of the almost two long years he had ahead of him.

"Well, yes. And no," Rodolphus said in a firmer voice. "I'm not letting you skip a year! But," he continued, reverting to the slight smirk, "things might start to look up at some point."

The scowl on his face replaced by keen interest, Rabastan looked up.

"Like what?"

"Not my place," his brother smirked. "Just… keep up with the news."

"Like you'd print it," Rabastan laughed. Only a small part of what actually happened made it into the Prophet these days, and it still amused him that so few seemed to notice this ("Tell people what they want to hear," his brother had explained wryly, "and they will never miss the rest until it's knocking on their front door.")

"Listen to them. For once, I'd recommend Lovegood."

"You want me to listen to Lovegood?" Rabastan asked, seriously laughing now. Why the WWN humoured that nutter by letting his weekly news commentary The Xenophone stay on air he didn't know, nor did he know why anyone took seriously Lovegood, his Snorkacks and pathetic threats to one day challenge the truth in the publishing industry.

"Indeed I do," his brother chuckled. "He does tend to – unwittingly, I'm sure – strike gold every once in a while."

"I'll take your word for it," Rabastan said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"It usually serves you well to do that," Rodolphus said, still smirking.

"I guess," Rabastan replied, growing distant instead of falling into his brother's smirk. A completely different thought had struck him now, inspired by the Christmas decorations that had recently been hung around the castle. Christmas – it would mean going home, but to what exactly?

"Is he coming home for Christmas?" he asked, all thoughts of Lovegood and the Dark Lord momentarily postponed. He tried to remember where in the world Reynard might be, but ended up torn between Malawi and Argentina.

"Not that I know of," his brother said lightly.

"Right," Rabastan nodded, not really knowing if he was disappointed or not. He didn't really think he was. "Where is he anyway?"

"Bangladesh, last I spoke with him."

"Oh," Rabastan said, surprised. "Wasn't it Argentina?"

His brother shrugged. "Possibly. My interest in the migration patterns of tea is very limited."

Foggily, Rabastan began to recall something about Turkey too, and chose to disregard the matter entirely. It seemed far simpler that way.

"But yes, Christmas," Rodolphus said thoughtfully, as though the nearing holiday came as a surprise to him. "We can go to the Rosiers, if you like," he offered.

They had gone to the Rosiers the year before too, that time because Reynard had had to admit defeat and accept that he was unable to conjure a Christmas dinner without a House-elf. Regardless of this he had refused to let go of his insistence to not have one ("it might be a fascinating experiment, don't you think?"). Neither Rodolphus nor Rabastan thought so, but had soon learnt that it mattered very little – once the line of elves in a household was broken it was difficult to come by another, especially if you were not the owner of the house in question, and it appeared that until Reynard signed over the rest of his responsibilities on Rodolphus, they would have to do without. And as that meant either leaning on the Rosiers or starving, Rabastan readily chose the Rosiers.

"Sure."

Rodolphus nodded. "And the Blacks have their soirée on Christmas Eve."

"In Wiltshire?" Rabastan asked hopefully.

"No, in London."

Rabastan groaned, and his brother gave him another strict look.

"Grimmauld Place is very respectable house."

"And really mouldy," Rabastan retorted. "Honestly," he laughed at the look his brother shot him – "do you like listening to his tirades?" He could think of nicer things to do on Christmas Eve than listening to Orion Black going on about his family's ancient roots in his monotonous voice, not overly subtly hinting at the drawbacks of one having Norman blood.

Rodolphus smirked.

"Selective listening where the Black family tree is concerned is a key to dealing with the Black family."

"You would know." They all did, but given the amount of time Rodolphus spent with Bellatrix he was bound to know the Black family tree backwards by now even if he'd stopped listening years ago.

A bell chimed more times than Rabastan cared to count somewhere in the castle, and Rodolphus – who seemed to have been counting – put on his hat, readying himself to leave. Clearly, their unexpected time was coming to an end.

With a sigh, Rabastan's eyes travelled towards the door leading down to the Hufflepuff common room, where he supposed he ought to be going when Rodolphus left. Brilliant. If he was really lucky, Smith would already be back and would have turned the whole house against him even more than before. Malawi-Argentina-Bangladesh-Turkey and the migration patterns of tea suddenly seemed appealing, even if it would mean listening to his father's erratic musings on how wizards and plants actually had a lot more in common than most people ("any sane person") might think ("well, we certainly have weeds amongst us," Rodolphus would add under his breath.)

"Are you in the village?" Rabastan asked, knowing the answer before his brother nodded affirmatively. "Can I come? Not now, obviously," he added, horrified at the thought of being in the same house as Rodolphus and Bellatrix at night any more than he needed to be - "but later?"

The smirk that still had been playing on his brother's face softened. "I'm going back to London first thing tomorrow morning," Rodolphus said apologetically.

"Right," Rabastan sighed, trying not to betray too much disappointment or jealously that the one Rodolphus chose to see on his rare trips north was Bellatrix, not him – unless it was to save him from brainwashing.

"I'm sorry, Rab. But I'm rather tied up right now."

Rabastan nodded, again swallowing the burning desire to once again ask what it was that would be happening soon (he tried to keep himself from thinking that Bellatrix undoubtedly knew). But the middle of the entrance hall wasn't the setting for it.

"And I really have to go," Rodolphus sighed. "I'm sorry, but I do."

"Yeah, I know," Rabastan nodded, feeling childish for trying to hold him back or run away with him. But he couldn't help it.

"She's going to kill you," he added with a brave grin, shoving away the angst for a moment and preferring to think of what undoubtedly would be Bellatrix' reaction to her rather long wait in the village.

Rodolphus chuckled.

"I have my ways of making her want to reconsider that," he said suggestively, making Rabastan groan.

"Thanks for that image," he shuddered. If it were anyone else it might have been a fascinating topic, but even without hearing any further details he could barely see Bellatrix without reflexively hearing the nightly sounds that had had a habit of leaking out of his brother's bedroom the past summers replayed in his head.

"Anytime," Rodolphus continued mercilessly, chuckling at the look on Rabastan's face. Clearly, he had too few opportunities to torture people these days.

"Didn't you have somewhere to be just now?" Rabastan whined, grimacing. As little as he liked the idea of facing a common room of angry Hufflepuffs, listening to this was even less appealing.

"Most certainly do, yes."

"Then go on, and stop harassing me!"

"Will do," his brother said importantly. "Just try and keep it together?"

"Will do," Rabastan parroted, grinning.

He had only just turned around to bitterly face the entrance to the common room, seriously contemplating crossing the hall to the Slytherin dungeons instead and making Malfoy let him in to kip on a couch, when an arm grabbed him around the neck and he felt himself lifted off the floor and spun around.

"Hey! Geroff!"

He tugged furiously at his brother's arm, not wanting to be spun around like a kid when just about anyone (especially starting with "Alexandra" and ending in "Yaxley") could walk by and see it, but soon fell into his brother's roaring laughter. He hadn't heard it in a while and could appreciate the fact that even though Rodolphus seemed set on aging two decades in two years and generally becoming even more serious than before, he had some sense of humour left.

"Maniac," he gasped, grinning, once he stood steadily on the ground again, rubbing his neck.

"Lightweight," Rodolphus shot back, chuckling as he put his hat back on (Rabastan had managed to swat it off) and composed himself into becoming Rodolphus Lestrange, Head of Lestrange Publications and Deputy Member of the Wizengamot again. He gave Rabastan a final nod and then turned to leave, for real this time.

"How much Wormwood?" Rabastan called after him on a whim, still grinning.

"Three ounces to a normal bowl," his brother shot back over his shoulder. "Fifth drawer from the left in Slughorn's cabinet. If possible, nick it over a period of time; he's less likely to notice it that way."