Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended. All credit goes to JK Rowling. If you see something you remember from the books or films, it does not belong to me. You can't sue me, I don't have any money.
Authors note: I got the inspiration for this while watching tv a few nights ago. Very dark, if you don't like it please don't read it. You have been warned. This is just a short drabble to get this out of my system, it won't become a regular thing. Not entirely cannon, if I recall correctly Rabastan was the nervous looking brother during the death eater trile memory Harry witnesses in book 4. This fic has been updated and edited, but you know what to do if you find mistakes...
He knew very well what the muggles would call it. Psychopathy. The complete inability to show empathy, a complete lack of conscience. No remorse.
Merlin, what a joke. He's lost count of the times he's performed the cruciatus curse. He tortured and killed, usually following orders, finding answers and providing proof of death in exchange for gold. Hitman. It was his job, his profession, his calling. He couldn't, wouldn't do any thing else. It was a part of him, he was death.
For him it wasn't about the gold, we'll, in a way it was, he always took it, but there was more to it. He would take his time, he would slowly take his victims apart, studying the emotions they showed, the racing hearts, the panicked breathing, the enlarged pupils. The way they would beg him for mercy when the cold knife blade touched their necks, sometimes a last pathetic attempt to get away from him, then just that unnatural stillness.
It never really mattered, no amount of pleading and tears ever had any effect on him, he simply didn't feel anything.
For him, killing was a strange thing, it didn't make him feel better, it didn't arouse him, it didn't bring him pleasure. He wasn't like dearest Bella, he didn't get any pleasure from the torture, he didn't feel the almost erotic ecstasy that she did when they screamed, when their eyes lost the light. In a way they both liked to tease their prey, liked to play a little game of cat and mouse with their victims, but never for the same reason. What he did was for the look on his master's face when he saw the lifeless bodies, those long nights, the legilimency sessions. He could feed on it, it would sustain him, motivate him.
For as long as he could remember, he was different. He was never like his brother, they never really had any bond, nothing but the blood in their veins connecting them. Rudolphus was weak, a pathetic underling who would do whatever he was told without as much as a raised eyebrow. He knew better.
His first kill was well before he took the dark mark. He was barely 16. The old man never saw it coming. He knew the muggle wouldn't be missed, he was just another tramp. He spent hours with the man until he finally begged to die. He slit his throat just to shut him up.
He could kill with a simple flick of his wand, but the knife would always be his favourite. It was personal, a closeup sort of thing, with just a touch of that old world romance. He wanted to be close to them. He wanted to see them, feel them, smell the blood.
He didn't really think much of the war, he never wanted to rule the world, but the Dark Lord kept him well supplied with potential victims. He could torture and kill at will, bringing memories of the attack back to his master for his enjoyment. Muggle or wizard, it didn't matter to him, in the end they would all bleed red.
Perhaps it wasn't so bad, being different.