Lost In Translation
Written for Shipping Week on Morsmordre
Pairing: Barty Crouch Jr/Les
Another day was coming to an end. Les and Barty's children were nestled in their beds, warm and comfortable, after listening to another translated story. But on this particular evening Les began to wonder what would happen if they ran out of translated stories for their children.
Les changed into her nightgown and slid into bed, settling beside her husband. "Barty, you know those nursery rhymes Modesty was telling us about?"
Barty lowered his book and looked at his wife. "You mean those Muggle poems about sentient eggs falling off the retaining wall?"
"That's the story of Humpty Dumpty. But the point I'm getting at is that maybe we should learn more about them. That way the children will have something to listen to if we can't find anymore translated stories to read."
The Death Eater frowned. "Are you sure that's wise? We probably shouldn't be filling our children's heads with Muggle nonsense."
This made his wife stop and think. Most of the Muggle nursery rhymes had no educational value. Then again, it's not like their translated stories offered a wealth of useful information. Most of them were full of misspellings, slamming body parts and an excessive amount of nausea.
"What if we translated the nursery rhymes?" Les suggested. "It might be fun to see what those nursery rhymes look like once we run them through the translator."
Les summoned her laptop from the desk and flipped it open, typing the words "nursery rhymes" into the search box.
"I don't know," Barty drawled. He leaned over slightly so he could get a better look at the screen. "Translating stories about our family and friends is one thing. But this is rubbish."
Les rolled her eyes and sighed. She copied the text from Little Jack Horner into the translator, and this is what appeared on screen.
Little Jack Horner
Eating his cat at Christmas;
He put his thumb on
And threw a hose
And he said, Am I a good son?
Their jaws dropped, both of them staring at the screen.
"Why the bloody hell is he eating his cat?" Barty exclaimed loudly.
"We can't read this to them," said Les, hastily typing the name of a different nursery rhyme into the search box. "This isn't appropriate for children."
"Wait." Barty placed a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Modesty was telling us about Mary Lou's favorite nursery rhyme, the one about pea porridge. Perhaps it'll change into something better if we translated it."
The dementor shrugged. "I suppose it's worth a try."
She typed the nursery rhyme into the translator, clicked her mouse and was shocked by what appeared on the screen.
Hot pudding, hot porridge beans,
Fill a pan with a saucepan, nine days old;
Some love it, some are hot,
Some love you in the pot, nine days.
Barty burst out laughing. "Nothing like some hot lovein' in the pot," he said, chuckling and leaning back against the pillows. "Just remember to clean the peas out of the toilet before you start getting down and dirty in there."
"Barty!" Les hauled off and slapped her husband's shoulder. "We are not reading toilet pea smut to our children!"
The Death Eater wiped the tears from his eyes, his sides aching from laughing so hard. "I'm sorry. I just find that mildly hilarious. Might be a good idea to try making love in alternative locations, with some hot pudding on my - "
"Alright," Les said, cutting him off in midsentence. She looked fairly amused by his suggestion. "I'll have to go shopping first. But we aren't getting mushy in the toilet. Understand?"
Barty smiled and nodded. "Yes, dear. I understand."
Les moved a little closer to her husband, a smile tugging on the corners of her lips. "Maybe we should try Itsy Bitsy Spider," she said, putting her arm around him. "That should be harmless enough."
Once again she typed the nursery rhyme into the translator, and for the third time this evening she was presented with something most unusual.
Tropical mountain ranges climbed the waterways.
and he left the wounds of the spider.
The sun came up
and it was completely dry
and he that eateth of the evil goeth up unto the judgment.
This time nobody was laughing.
"I think the ghost of Mary Lou possessed the translator," said Les. She typed a few sentences from Aiken Drum into the translator, and was rewarded with absolute nonsense.
His ist his his and his and his and his and his and his and his and his, he put his coat on his sack,
And his raiment he made for the heavens,
His name was Aiken Drum.
Les closed her laptop. "Alright, that's enough. We'll stick to our usual stories. This shit is just too weird, even for me. And I know a thing or two about weirdness."