Work Text:
Rabastan stared unseeing at his brother, Rodolphus, across from him in the adjacent cell. He could only just make out the outline of his form laying in the meager bed. Like himself, Rodolphus wore only a shabby and old prison uniform, something they only got refreshed weekly. Among the dirtied ground and constant emotional stress, the garment could get unbearable quickly.
Currently, Rabastan sat among the thin sheets, leaning against the wall. He did one of the few things he could, retreated into his mind. It was a habit he had gotten from moments like this, quieter than usual but still painted in misery, especially now that there was no one to talk to. Mostly he imagined embracing his brother and father once more, it had to have been at least a year since he had last felt their touch. He couldn’t quite reach through the bars to even meet Rodolphus’ hand. Sometimes, Rabastan would also long to see Barty’s face again since, unlike his neighbor, Crouch Jr. was too far down the hall to actually see, only hear.
Only a few hoarse screams carrying through the halls interrupted his somber thoughts. Though it was still a suffocatingly bleak environment, when the dementors backed off enough Rabastan could actually allow his mind to relax somewhat. Usually it was near tearing itself apart with the dementors sucking out his joy.
He sighed to himself, sluggishly moving toward the cool bars to rest his forehead against them, and allowed himself to fall into a seated position once more with his legs next to him. His breaths came out stuttering, and he attempted to even it out while he still had the chance.
The man in the cell next to him was mumbling again, indecipherable words that made him out to be a mad man. Of course, any outsider would call all of the prisoners here – new or old – crazy. But Rabastan had found, about a year in, that the screaming was only natural given the dementors, not crazed anger, and that some of the conversations held with seemingly the air were not hallucinations. Prolonged and constant exposure to the soul sucking beasts had more side effects than just the mental instability. He, and most convicts here, would consider it an enlightenment, whether cause for joy or not.
Death, the God himself, became visible to their eyes. A magnificent gift, and most certainly the only positive thing the dementors had to offer. At least in his opinion. Others could only fear the being, some even saw it as a curse, seeing their end long before it truly came. It’s as if they don’t even bother to look at the man. More than just his ethereal looks, he almost seemed to take pity on the humans for having been exposed to the ‘Master of Deaths’ creations. Made of Death's essence but not of his choosing.
For Rabastan, everything about him was fascinating. Especially since those who could lay their eyes on him were either dead, or Azkaban residents. More than this, it was ironic that death was one of the few things that kept his mind from breaking. His reminiscent conversations with Rodolphus and yelled exclamations to Barty and Bellatrix could only do so much. Death had that calming more sane factor that had him waiting on the edge of his seat for his return.
He was pulled from his reflection by a sudden chill running down his back, the bars too had grown colder against his brow. He was intimately familiar with the feeling and braced himself against the bars tightly. He would have warned Rodolphus, who was still sleeping, but his time was short. All too quickly he could hear the swishing of dementors just outside and his short moment of relative peace was being aggressively ripped from his conscious. Rabastan was plunged deep into misery and hopelessness. Whereas previously he was fighting to keep his head above the water he was now being overtaken by waves of murky emotions, accompanied by a sharp pain in his skull. Though he couldn’t hear it, he knew from the growing ache in his throat that he was screaming. More so from the paroxysm of despair than the pain.
When they had their fill the ghastly beings moved on, leaving him to take in heavy gulps of air. He’d only just managed to even it out. Rabastan retracted his clamped hands to bring them to his head. He had a headache now, partially because he had been unconsciously shoving his head into the bars.
“Rab?” He looked up, Rodolphus had fallen out of the bed and was only now pulling himself into a seated potion at its foot. “Good?” He questioned. They were never really good but it was best to still ask.
“Yeah. You?” He got a distracted nod in return as he was rubbing his side, sore from the fall. “Ha, you should probably check on that wife of yours. I think I can hear her trying to shove her head through the bars.” More than a year now and the two still gush to each other after every dementor meal.
The two were aggressively in love, and particularly loud about it. Rabastan was only mild;y amused at watching his neighbor throw himself against the bars and begin serenading Bella with sweet words. She was a ways down the right hall and around the corner, so his flashy love poetry had to be quite loud.
At this point, he mostly ignored it, still content with his place on the musty floor by the door. The dementors were never pleasant, but Rabastan found himself able to recover faster with his excitement for what came after. Death would visit, offering conversation to those who were coherent (or brave) enough for it. Not always, of course, he could imagine death was a busy person. It seemed today was a lucky day, since he could hear the shaky praises and enthusiastic shouts in the hall to his right. Fools, really, some of them actually thought if they praised him enough he would free them or spare them from his embrace. Death was impartial, and such attempts only annoyed the man. However, because of this, Death didn’t stop for long and was soon within Rabastan’s eyesight.
A small man, comparable to a ghost only in his frozen age and habit of floating as such. He knew the being had legs under the dark shroud, but Death found it unnecessary to imitate every aspect of a human. He was not one after all and it would not do for all of them to forget it. As he floated along, the seemingly deep black cloak seemed to fall off of him like water, dissolving into mist at the edges. Rabastan had found himself thinking of what it would feel like to touch many times, but he wouldn’t dare overstep to brashly. Regardless, the most striking thing about Death was his face. Sharp angles that made his sex undeniable but beautiful enough that from afar he might be mistaken for a female, especially with his more elegant build. Perhaps that was the point, since he donned long hair that easily disappeared to merge with his misty robes.
“Rabastan.” He finally heard the deep silky voice. “My favorite human company, I nearly find myself missing you.” He said slyly, pulling a fond smile from the man below him.
“Then I will be the one to admit that I have missed you.” Death lowered himself face to face with him inhumanly and still just shy of the ground. At the nearness, Rabastan straightened up so as not to seem so exhausted.
“To miss Death is laughable.” He did indeed laugh at that, brightening both of their moods.
“How was your week then? Finally pick up Barty’s old man yet?” He was only mildly hopeful for his friend.
“Unfortunately no, the man is still kicking. Rather slow week too, boring.” He seemed to sigh dramatically as he pushed a hand into Rabastan’s hair. Certainly dirty from lack of wash but Death didn’t seem to care, and he found himself relaxing into the rare touch. It was the only real contact he got from another living (but not really) being, and only when the man initiated it himself. “Perhaps I shall visit more,” he whispered, but moved on too fast for Rabastan to reply, “and how is the brother! Rodolphus, hello!” He turned to flitter across the hall.
“Death! Oh! I’m simply horrible. Very rude awakening from those dementors.” He could be dramatic after awakening.
“Truely annoying things.” He made it clear his dislike.
But all too soon, he was bidding them goodbye, citing a quick visit to Barty. The young man was just as, if not more, fascinated by the discovery of a God of Death as Rabastan was. Before leaving though, Death approached him again to pat his cheek with an eerily wide smile, on par to his usual. It only made Rabastan smile just as wide in return.
—
Death had come around more often in the next couple of weeks, keeping to his absent minded promise. It rejuvenated Rabastan, and even when the dementors ravaged his mind he was quick to bounce back. They couldn’t manage to steal away the sliver of happiness that was the assuredness that Death would visit once more.
Despite the more positive than usual atmosphere, it had been dampened the last couple of days. Death had not visited in that time, which was fine any regular day, but oddly Barty would not answer their usual calls. Without the free roaming God, they could not accurately check on the young man. So he and Rodolphus were left to haphazardly calling out.
“Has he fallen ill?” Rab! He might be dying.” Rodolphus said visibly worried after another few minutes of failed attempts. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and not for the usual reason.
“Death is going to come back soon,” he replied, though mostly for his own comfort, “we can ask him to check for us.” Neither of them were actually comforted by the plan.
It was almost as if the call had reached Death's ears, because the usual adulation could be heard down the hall. Bellatrix’s high voice louder than the others. The sudden appearance was unnerving, heavily because he only ever visited after the dementors fed, but paired with Barty’s silence it screamed something afoot. Though he could be here for anyone, it was still rare that anyone died on this side of the prison.
He caught his brother’s eye, and could tell he had come to the same thought.
The elegant, drifting form of the man appeared in front of them but disappeared just as quickly. He had barely glanced at them.
“Death!” His breaths came quicker when he was still ignored, and the figure continued down the hall. He was here on business, not a house call.
Rabastan knew the God had stopped near Barty’s cell by the loud cries of an old man, clearly out of his mind, who always moaned at the sight of him. It usually sickened Rabastan, but today he found himself too overcome with anxiety. Surely Baty was not dead. He’d asked Death to check on him every so often since he himself could not, he would not have lied.
He felt himself crumble, however, when he heard it.
“He’s dead! Barty Crouch Jr. is dead!” The unknown man laughed with his exclamation. Death had embraced Barty, his friend.
Rabastan was too engrossed in his own grief he barely noticed Rodolphus shouting, unbelieving. He’d not even gotten to see his friend's face before his death. Days of silence too, how long had he been dying for? How had he died at all? Perhaps sickness, or worse yet, could he have taken his own life? Barty was barely twenty, he shouldn't have died for a long time, especially not in a place like this.
He felt numb to the rough rock against his back. He’d fallen away from the warded metal and distantly felt tears running from his eyes. He couldn’t tell if he was sobbing or not, too wrapped up in the fact that Barty was dead. This surge of negative emotions was dangerous, he knew, his mind was already under stress and any excess could be his undoing. However, he couldn’t find it in himself to care at that moment. It was all too sudden and yet slow at the same time.
Just as he was losing himself to his quickened breaths and spotting vision, he blinked, and found Death directly above him. Floating parallel to his body and only a few inches between them. Most striking, he was actually in Rabastan’s cell, something he'd never done before and he didn’t even know Death could.
“Rabastan,” he said in a soft whisper, “calm yourself. It is not Barty’s soul I have taken today.”
The ghostly man held his cheek in both hands, whipping away the stray tears and soothing him calmly. He realized then, that he’d instinctively grabbed onto death, holding him by the waist. Under the guise of calming himself, Rabastan indulged in a glance down. He could see his own hands through the dark mist, it had weirdly cleared just enough for him to glimpse the pale flesh and slim waist below his hands. It was cold.
“Explain?” It was phrased as a question but was more of a shaly demand. Borne of his uneasy grief and rare contact. Had Death not noticed or was he ignoring it?
“I do not know how, but though the boy in there held his face, the soul I collected was that of his mother.” Rabastan was amazed.
“Polyjuice potion? Perhaps he’s free.” He said softly, hopeful for his friend.
“Feasibly. My dear Rabastan, I never would have appeared in a trice had I known she was under the likeness of her son.” The seriousness slipped away, and left Death smiling once more. Admittedly, it was more comforting than his words. But sadly, that also meant Death was pulling away. Rabastan allowed himself to selfishly squeeze the cool skin ever so slightly before letting it slide from his finger tips. With the way the garment had reacted to his hands, he had to wonder if Death was actually wearing any real clothing or if it was just his raw magical power flowing out of his confining human body.
“Not much time for a visit today, sadly.” He huffed, looking down at Rabastan who was slowly bringing himself into a kneeling position. “I must go.” At this, Rabastan could not help himself.
“Wait.” He grabbed his upper arm, lightly and easy enough to pull free from. He was pleased to see Death allowed him to feel the frosty skin once more. He felt dead, aptly fitting. “How did you get in here? I’ve never seen you enter a cell.” Death smiled smugly.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” Only then did he pull away and face the semi wall. Rabastan watched as the being floated toward a gap, only a few inches wide,and began contorting his body. It morphed, twisted, and shrunk, oddly and wholly inhuman, allowing him to squeeze through. It was grotesque, but at the same time enticing.
He’d always thought Death was more like a ghost not just in floating but also his ability to phase through things as a being not actually physical. It seemed he was wrong in his assumption, Death could be touched any time. Not just when he seemed to solidify. He felt warmer than usual after his interaction with him and the realization, and watched, transfixed, as the elegant man departed.
He heard a chuckle from across the hall and turned to see Rodolphus smiling at him.
“What is it?”
“I know that look.” He shook with glee as he spoke, though it only confused Rabastan.
“And what would that look be, brother?”
“That’s how I looked at Bellatrix early into our marriage, even still.”
Rabastan froze at the accusation. Was he in love with Death himself?