AN: I do not own the Harry Potter universe. I am simply borrowing it for a fic. Enjoy!

Written for the Fanfiction Tournament Competition, the Doing Time in Azkaban Competition, and the Chapter Titles Challenge (#64).

Characters: (Scabior, Rabastan L.)

Rating: T

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

Scabior sat, curled up in the corner of his cell. Given that over the past few days his permanent residence had been plunged into a seemingly perpetual cold, he guessed that it was winter. That meant he had been in Azkaban for… a year—or something near to that. He'd lost track of time… some time ago.

It was always freezing cold in his cell, and given that Dementors passed by at least four times a day it wasn't a surprise. The despair they brought along was all-consuming, and only because he was alone did Scabior allow himself to cower and whimper. He could hear other criminals—mostly Death Eaters—doing the same.

He wasn't a Death Eater. No, he had be sent to Azkaban after breaking into the Department of Mysteries—and selling on a few items he had stolen from there. Of course, it had been covered up by the Ministry; it would be both a scandal and embarrassment for them so his imprisonment had been kept a secret. There weren't many that would miss him, and those who would, wouldn't risk their own necks to come and save him, so he had resigned himself to a long time in Azkaban.

Unfortunately, Azkaban hadn't been as easy to endure as he had first believed.

He sneered at his own naivety, but quickly brought his knees to his face with a whine. A sudden onset of crippling fear had enveloped him and he grunted with the effort to resist the feeling of hopelessness the Dementors induced.

A rattling and clanging met his ears and he stiffened. This was a new sound to him, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he could recognise it.

He shook off the hand that was clamped down on his shoulder, putting on a brave face. This place was much more sinister than he had previously thought it would be, and the guards were opening the cell with a horrible rattling and clanging. If the hairs on his arms weren't stood up already, they would have risen at the sound.

"There's your new home," said one of the guards. To Scabior, his grin seemed slightly feral. Perhaps that was the result of remaining around this place for too long.

He shouted as they shoved him into his cell, and as they walked away from one commented: "He's stick-thin but he's got a lot of life in him."

The one who had the feral grin laughed; it sounded animalistic. "He won't last long. There's been bigger men than him who've come out half-starved and on the edge of death."

"He seems like he's got some strength in him. I'd bet he'll last longer than a year."

"How much?"

Their voices muted as they moved further and further away.

Scabior never knew if they had put money on his name, but now, his head out of moments in the past, he saw someone stood in the doorway.

He watched as the stranger was pushed in; he didn't make a fuss.

Scabior tried to move towards the doorway, but he felt too weak to drag himself more than a few steps and besides, the cell door was already being closed—leaving him with his new cellmate.

"Why are you here?" asked the new prisoner, looking at Scabior through the strands of his dark hair.

He certainly didn't waste any time.

His dark eyes bored into Scabior as he licked his dry lips before speaking. "Why are you?" His voice was scratchy from disuse, but his words were clear enough.

"Death Eater," answered the other man quite simply. He looked the very image of sophistication, and Scabior wondered if he would get to see the other man's hair matted and dirty, his chiselled face sunken and gaunt. For the moment, he looked too clean to be one of Voldemort's fanatic followers. Then again, it was clear he was a pureblood.

"What's it like outside?" asked Scabior.

The Death Eater frowned, and pointed out that he hadn't answered his first question.

Scabior laughed, it sounded more like a bark, and said: "Well, the Minister 'erself said I was a 'delinquent ragamuffin of the worst kind' in the trial."

The Death Eater chuckled, but his eyes were interested—and slightly crazed. "I don't remember a trial like that," he said.

Scabior smirked. "It was a private trial."

The Death Eater's eyes were even more keen now, and Scabior waited for the inevitable question. "Now, what did you do to make Bagnold call you a delinquent ragamuffin and give you a private trial?" asked the Death Eater. His voice was low and Scabior suppressed a shiver; he wasn't sure if the feeling that had crept up his spine was because of the cold.

Scabior laughed again, the sound beginning to return to its normal state, before he had been captured. "The Department of Mysteries 'ad a surprise visit—and some people got… artefacts from there at an expensive price."

Rabastan smirked. "Well, it would only be fair to price such items at a high price."

Scabior was amused, but the emotion was quickly diminished as a wave of anguish washed over him—and from his facial expression, it was clear that the Death Eater felt it, too.

"My sister-in-law loves them," he ground out.

Scabior was confused, and then he realised. He was talking about the Dementors.

After the Dementors had passed, Scabior shook with the effort of trying not to curl up like he usually did. He could hear the Death Eater's pants and a cackling from somewhere far off. Allowing his back to hit the wall, Scabior stretched his legs to recover them after keeping them stiff, (so they didn't draw up to his chest).

"Fucking 'ell," breathed Scabior once he gained the strength to speak.

His cellmate remained silent.

"Who's laughing?" he asked, not expecting an answer as the cackling continued.

"My sister-in-law," said the Death Eater.

"She's mental."

The Death Eater only gave a pained grin, showing two rows of perfectly straight white teeth.

It felt like an age had passed before there was any more conversation.

"I'm Rabastan."

Scabior turned around to the Death Eater whose pale face was still visible in the darkness, and said: "Well then, Rab. You never told me told me what it's like outside."

Rabastan's brow furrowed at the abbreviation Scabior had made. "It's cold," he answered.

Scabior rolled his eyes. "I'm not that thick; that's obvious."

"It's snowing."

Scabior's eyes widened. "What's it like—to feel snow?"

It was evident that Rabastan was amused by his sudden change in demeanor. Scabior couldn't help it; he craved the knowledge of what life was like outside of the four walls he had been enclosed in for a year. He had not felt the snow in a long time.

"It feels cold," answered Rabastan. He was smirking, obviously enjoying Scabior's barely-veiled desperation.

"You know what I meant, mate," said Scabior, his voice was feeling strained from using it so much after not using it at all for so long.

Instead of answering, Rabastan ran his tongue over his finger and stuck it in the air for a few moments.

What's he doing?

Somehow, Scabior was amazed to see, the Death Eater had the strength to walk over to him.

Well, he's only been here one day.

Something cold and wet broke Scabior from his thoughts and he yelped, making Rabastan laugh. The bastard had put his saliva on him.

Putting his clean face close to Scabior's, Rabastan whispered: "That's how it feels: cold and wet."

Scabior moved his finger over the spot where Rabastan had left his spit; it came away wet, and he took their close proximity as an advantage, smearing the saliva right back on Rabastan's face.

The slight madness in the Death Eater's eyes grew, but the overall impression was one of him being impressed. "You have a lot of courage doing that," said Rabastan.

Scabior smirked, but gasped as one of Rabastan's hands reached for his throat.

"Sometimes, courage can be foolish," he said. Loosening his grip, and rubbing small circles on Scabior's neck, he continued: "Now, I like you, but I'd be careful to not get too…" Here, Rabastan trailed off, trying to think of the right word.

"Cheeky?" offered Scabior.

The grip tightened. "Comfortable."

"Fair enough."

Scabior felt a sense of both relief and loss as Rabastan let go of his neck. Now, he could see how he would be a Death Eater.

The rest of the night passed in silence, and Scabior tried to relax. The cell was hard enough to relax in with the wintry chill, but with a head full of wicked tongues and clever fingers, it was even more difficult.

Somehow, he must have managed it, as Rabastan was pushing him awake, telling him that there was a meal waiting for them. Scabior groaned and shut his eyes against the dim light of day.

Then something cold and wet touched him, and he jumped awake. He knew exactly what it was.

Rabastan's face loomed over him, grinning like he wasn't imprisoned in a miserable shit-hole. As Scabior reached to do exactly what he had done yesterday, Rabastan grabbed his hands, pinning them above his head.

"Remember, what I warned you about yesterday," he said, still grinning, but Scabior could hear the warning in his voice. He had no doubt that Rabastan would carry through with his threat, and he had no desire to find out just what the Death Eater would do.

And as Rabastan's hands let go of his wrists and he sat up, Scabior felt that same sense of loss and relief from the night before.

He turned to his plate, edged with frost, and ate the usual tasteless old gruel.

Left behind. Left behind. Left behind. No one followed to find you. No one followed to find you. Forgotten. You've been forgotten. You were left behind. No one bothered to look for you.

The Dementors passed and Scabior gasped, taking deep breaths as if he had been underwater for an age. Rabastan, beside him, was paler than usual, but he still recovered faster than his cellmate.

"They affect you more," commented Rabastan.

"They'll affect you more the longer you're here," groaned Scabior.

The Death Eater smiled, and shook his head.

"How are you still smiling after that?"

Rabastan laughed and Scabior decided that he was entirely mad. "The Dark Lord is going to release us," he said.

"Us?" asked Scabior.

"Rod, Bella, Barty and I—we remained loyal to him until the very end. The Dark Lord rewards those who are loyal to him generously."

Scabior listened intently to Rabastan's reverent tone. The other man seemed to have respect for no one; in his mind, it was clear he thought that he was above them. But clearly, this rule didn't apply to the Dark Lord.

"Who are Rod, Bella, and Barty?" asked Scabior, once their cell had lapsed into silence again.

Rabastan looked at him. "Rodolphus is my brother, Bellatrix is my sister-in-law, and Barty is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's son—a fellow Death Eater."

"Bellatrix's the one who cackles?" asked Scabior.

Rabastan chuckled. "Yes, she's the one who loves Dementors. She managed to get them on the Dark Lord's side earlier in the war; I still don't know how she did that."

"So, this Dark—" Scabior stopped himself, realising that it sounded like a disrespectful way to address the wizard—and Merlin knew that Rabastan seemed like he would take Scabior's head off of his shoulders for doing so. "When is the Dark Lord going to release you?" he asked, instead.

Rabastan hadn't even noticed. "He will when the time is right. I trust him completely; he'll find us, his most loyal servants, and ensure we live lives that are content until the end of our days."

The idea sounded fascinating, and Scabior couldn't help but think the Dark Lord was an excellent master to serve. He had always preferred to work for his own gain, but this was the one time he had ever heard of someone so well-rewarded for working under someone.

"The Dark Lord's generous," commented Scabior, still fascinated.

Rabastan's head spun to face him. "Are you a Death Eater? I don't recognise your face—then again, we wear masks."

Scabior shook his head, startled by the sudden reaction his words had elicited from Rabastan.

At his answer, Rabastan's expression of confusion changed to a smirk again. "Would you like to be one?"

Scabior thought about it for a moment, and heard the Death Eater move over to him. The presence of the other man helped make his decision.

As he was making up his mind, Rabastan whispered: "Would you follow me?"

Scabior looked up and said: "I'd follow the Dark Lord."

Rabastan's eyes gleamed; he was pleased with the answer he had been given. "You would still have to follow me. The Dark Lord would want you to learn from one of his most loyal servants, after all."

"Then I'd follow you," said Scabior, looking directly into those dark eyes.

He would follow Rabastan, if only for gain from a master. He would follow Rabastan for that wicked tongue, and those clever fingers and the strong hands they belonged to. He would follow Rabastan because that meant a master who wouldn't forget him, and a man who would always be guiding him—who would always be with him.

He would follow Rabastan into the dark for all of those reasons, and to never experience that feeling of loss ever again—to always feel content with a hand around his neck, spit on his chin, and his arms pinned above his head.