He stumbles into the empty church fidgeting with the cross hanging from his neck, soaked in rain. The water pools around his feet and he drops his robes right at the door. He can barely see straight, the room around him spins and spins.
It's dimly lit, and the windows shake at the force of the rain hitting them, but his brain tunes it all out. Muffles it.
His breathing is short and raggedy as he makes it to the end of the church and falls to his knees, flinches as they hit the cold, hard ground. He struggles to put his hands together, but he does, intertwining his fingers so tightly his knuckles go white.
And then he prays; Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
He can't bring himself to do it– to say it, to even think it– so he just sits there, hunched over.
It feels like a dream, high on a fever. He can barely recall the night. All he thinks of is blue, glassy, lifeless eyes. White-blond hair stained red, a horrifying red that made it's way to his hands. Still stains them now, stains his face as he runs his hands across it, cries into them.
He manages to swallow and tries again. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
In the name of all that is Holy, please. Please go back, please.
He knows this is useless; to pray like this. If it was meant to be, then it had to be. Yet.
I need-... Please, I need him- back. I need him back.
Hes trembling now, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking of it.
He doesn't know where the body is, where they took it. Whether they took it. Maybe it's– he's– just laying there. In the rain, alone.
Evan once told him, under the bed covers, eating chocolate frogs, that he hated the rain. Scared of it, the thunder and lightning. And Barty had giggled, laughed until he was out of breath and Evan was punching him along the arm.
He still has the bruises. They never healed, for some reason. His hand unconsciously move upto his arm, resting on that spot.
Bring him back, he prays. I'll go. Just bring him back, I'll give anything, I'll give anything. I swear, I swear, I swear. Please, just bring him back.
He's crying, folded over till his head is touching the ground, the light clinking of the cross necklace scraping against the floor. He grabs onto it, squeezes until the cold metal burns against the inside of his hand.
He remembers reading somewhere , in some book of dark arts or the other, a life for a life. To bring someone back, you must give in return. A small offering is not enough to fulfill an appetite, nothing can pay for a life the same as another.
"Why would you belive in a god?" Evan had snorted, looking him up and down. "When we have magic? We could do everything a god won't do for us."
He lets go of his hands. Sees the blood dripping down his knuckles where he pushed his fingernails in too deep. It moves down his hands, mixing with Evan's dried blood. He inhales deeply through his nostrils and wipes the blood on his face, the metallic smell filling his nostrils, making him gag.
He looks up at the sculpture of Jesus Christ across a cross, looks him dead in the eye, his merciful gaze.
He will bring Evan back himself, if he has to. He closes his eyes, imagines chewing on the guts of the dead, swallowing down their hearts, the tough meat rolling around in his mouth. Whatever ritual he must perform for it.
Seeing Evan's eyes open, a life for a life.
And if he gave his own? Slitting his wrists with his wand, the blood dripping down his stark white arms, falling onto the Holy floor of the church, mixing with his tears pooled in front of him. Immediately falling to the ground, eyes wide, as Evan finally wakes up.
The body is long gone by the time he gets there.