Chapter Text
Dying is indescribable.
It's the absence of everything the soul once knew, which wasn't a whole lot. The soul had only been among the living for little over a year. It hadn't even begun to construct long-term memories, it was that young. The soul hadn't had a chance to become anything more than a vessel with a breath of life. Truly, it was cruel and more common than the average living person would suspect. Less common was the means that the soul had come to return to their skeletal hands. Murdered because of a prophecy that had not even graced its ears.
The soul didn't even know who death was.
Sad, really, Death thought as they cradled the bright soul, that it should come to meet me so soon. But there was nothing that could be done for it. Well, there was, but those who lived when they ought to be dead did not tend to find existence a pleasant thing. They could see it in Tom, as his insanity lead him down a path paved with bodies that would come to an end far from what he had envisioned. Death was not something to be trifled with.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Another soul chimed, fiery red and much older than the brilliant white one Death held yet still so young. It chimed and chimed and chimed, trailing towards them with residual magic simmering beyond it. Most unusual - magic rarely crossed the boundary. Death offered a hand, keeping the white soul in the other, and the red took it. Lily Potter, a witch who died a mere minute before her son who Death now laid claim to. She had committed an act most unnatural, it would seem.
Trading lives often didn't go too well, whether that be through murder or sacrifice. The one who lived would always return to Death soon enough, restoring the natural order in turn. Although Death could not blame the wizards and witches who offered up their lives, the intentions were usually well placed and decisions often made in the most desperate of moments.
Cadmus tutted as he watched Death release the unfortunate soul from their grasp. "It won't do it any good."
Death wondered about that, the ideals of good and bad that the living had conjured. The prophecy, as fickle as it may be, would have either the white soul doing good or Tom further bad. In a world of 'greater goods' and 'lesser evils', perhaps it would do some good to return the soul to its still warm vessel. The act of returning alone would have an adverse effect on Tom, a very appealing prospect which Death would smile at if they had a face. The brothers would just have to smile in their place.
So, Death and Cadmus watched the soul leave them, soon joined by Antioch and Ignotus. It followed the fiery red trail and tethered itself to the realm of the living once more.
Ignotus and Antioch smiled.
Cadmus watched on with knowing eyes.