#roserosekiller

He smelled of rotten flesh as if they were of his own. He lowered down, closer to the leaking moonlight, hoping that it was a patronous. Swoosh, and there he saw the shallow of their hood. Something forced him from within to press his palm against his ears. Suck the sensation out of them.

The first wave of coldness clashed with his sweat, the next followed a shudder. They were many; the dementors.

"Please", he whispered.

A clamped thunder seized him back, choking out air. Barty saw a body on the floor. There was blood all around. And it smelled badly. Barty hated that smell. Then someone lifted the body to the side, he has seen the face somewhere. Someone who reminded him of power. But what was more familiar was the face of the dead.

Something inside him was so desperate to name it. A force binding his hand back but a desire to pull the body closer to himself throwing away the man who picked it up. It was like his favourite toy broomstick that no had the right to touch. But Barty barely knew whose dead it was.

Hands gripped him from behind. Nails digging into his ribs. There was a green flash, Barty saw it all. Someone stomping on his broomstick, someone using the killing curse on the dead. Someone shouted, someone laughed. Barty screamed. He has never felt so much pain. He was binded. Then there was a shriek of a woman, an air splitting cry, followed by another flash. Yet, he didn't know whose dead it was.

Curiosity was cutting his own flesh. The scratching sound of stone against stone. The unsettling bloodshot eyes of the dead looking into Barty, searching for help. And the stoned smirk on the face. Barty wished that the eyes could blink again. He couldn't see them anymore. The smirk had to be stopped, they had to reminded of fate.

Someone pulled back Barty as he tried to crawl to the lifeless body, to shut their eyes. It was so important to shut them that Barty couldn't leave with them looking into him. And Barty heard the last scream, this time the voice was painfully audible, arising from his heart, pushing out his chest. It was his own voice.

"EVAN!", Barty ordered the air. His pitch kissed the dead. But yet, Barty doubted the name.

Suddenly, Barty thought that he smelled of rose-water. Peculiar, isn't?

"Evan! Shut your eyes, you scare me", he said playfully, before fainting.

The dementors traced away, leaving scared moonlight on Barty's pale face.