The Swing

*~*~*~*~* The Swing *~*~*~*~*

    It was early spring, early enough to still be considered winter in some parts of the world. The boy wrapped his cloak tighter about his thin shoulders and hurried onwards, watching the ground under his feet. He had been walking like this for some time now, lost in his own world, willing himself to forget everything but the steady one-two rhythm of his feet. A dry twig snapped sharply under his feet, and he jerked his head upwards, surveying the surroundings for the first time. He was in a part of the Hogwarts grounds he had never seen before, not surprising as he rarely wandered farther than the Quidditch pitch. He could tell by the steady thickening of trees that he was nearing the Forbidden Forest, and almost turned around. A flash of black in the expanse of green caught his eye, and he walked forward, almost involuntarily. Soon, the trees parted, and he was standing in an open clearing, the light shining around him. The source of the blackness was not immediately apparent, but as he scanned the clearing, a small movement drew his attention.

    A small swing hung, ragged and forlorn in the one shadowed corner of the clearing. Ringed in thick, black, vicious looking briars, it didn't look like the sort of place anyone in their right mind would frequent. Yet, sitting on it, her high button-up boots almost dragging in the dirt, was a young girl. She was short, and skinny, and her dress and stockings were far outdated, looking more Victorian than anything else. Although her long, dull hair hung down, obscuring her face, the boy didn't think he had seen her anywhere before. She looked to be in about first year, but he knew he would have recognized that grayish pallor anywhere. He approached her, hesitant at first, then growing bolder. As he came closer, he noticed the slump of her shoulders, the way her hands hung in her lap in complete and total defeat. She looks so sad, he thought. Before he could say anything, murmur any words of comfort, the girl spoke. Her voice, like her clothes, carried the cadence of another time, her lilting Cockney plaintive.

    "Push me?" she said quietly, not lifting her head. The boy hesitated. No one had ever asked for anything before, especially not anything as simple, as trivial as a ride on a swing. "Well..."

    The girl's shoulders slumped even further. "Please?" she pleaded, " no one's pushed me in such a long time..."

    Her tone wrenched the boy's heartstrings. "Well, if you put it that way..."

    The swing, caught by the breeze, spun around until the girl was facing him. She raised her head slowly.

    The boy bit back a scream, and took an involuntary step back. "Y- your...your...face..." he gasped.

    The girl didn't hear him. "Nobody ever wants to push me." She said it flatly, her voice sad.

    "What do you mean?" The boy said slowly. Surely the girl hadn't been there that long. She didn't look a day over ten years old.

    "Nobody's pushed me in such a long, long, time..." she said, "not since Tom."

    "Tom who?" the boy narrowed his eyes a suspicion all ready forming in his mind.

    "Tom Riddle."

 

*~*~*~*~*

    Fifty years ago...

    The girl was running quickly, running away from Hogwarts, from all the people who laughed and taunted. The people who never cared, never stopped, who laughed when she cried. So she ran away. She ran to the one place where she felt safe, where the world didn't laugh, or point, or stare, or tease. She spent more time there then she did at school now.

    When she approached the familiar clearing, with the small swing that had been set up countless years ago by some long dead student, her feet finally slowed, and she clambered on. She sat there, rocking, trying to swing, her wails subsiding to sobs, her sobs to sniffles.

    Several minutes, or hours, later, she was startled by the soft sound of footsteps behind her. She wiped her nose surreptitiously on the back of her sleeve, and spun her head around. Her face brightened at the sight of the tall, dark-haired young man striding towards her. He regarded her for a moment, curious recognition flitting across his face. A smile spread across his face, and he strode forward. "Hello," he said, his voice low, inspiring trust, "would you like a push?"

    "Yes, please."

    He pushed her steadily for five minutes, watching her swing higher and higher, smiling. "D'you like it?" he asked, his arms pumping steadily.

    "Oh yes!" she said happily, smiling, "I like to be pushed."

    Something in her voice caught his memory. He stopped smiling. "What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

    "Serya. Serya Lyonson."

    He recognized that voice. The Muggle girl, from the orphanage...the one who knew his father...

    A rage filled him, hatred against the entire Muggle race, who had never offered him anything but ill. As she swung back towards him, inhuman strength filled his arms. "Stupid Mud-BLOOD!" he whispered violently, punctuating it with a fierce shove, sending the girl toppling off the swing with a scream...

*~*~*~*~*

    "...and then he pushed me," Serya finished, "and I flew. And when I woke up, nobody wanted to push me anymore."

    The boy's heart filled, and he looked straight into the girl's face, cut open to the bone, with long furrows, dripping continuously with silvery blood like tears. "Where did he push you?"

    Serya lifted her arm. "Over there," she said, pointing deep into the heart of a wicked looking briar bush, thick-trunked, with thorns six inches long. The boy gasped. Such a fall...it must have been terrible. He walked solemnly over to the briar patch and pushed the thorns apart with his hands. Lying crumpled at the very base of the tree was the skeleton of a young girl, the remnants of a tattered dress hanging about the thin frame. The boy straightened, squared his shoulders, and walked firmly over to Serya.

    "Of course I'll push you," he said finally. The smile that lit Serya's face almost erased the scars. She clapped her gray hands in delight and gripped the ropes firmly. The boy pulled the swing back and let it go.

    "Draco? What are you doing?" A voice at his back caused him to spin. A tall, brown-haired girl stood there, hands akimbo.

    "Nothing, Hermione," he called back, "be there in a moment." She nodded, satisfied, and left. He turned back to the swing, and Serya, but the swing was empty.

    Draco turned to follow Hermione, when a breeze ruffled his pale hair. A voice, unearthly, disembodied, but hauntingly sweet, tickled his ear. "Thanks."

    Draco nodded in satisfaction and turned to leave. The clearing was empty now, but the swing still swung gently, moved by the sound of a girl's laughter in the breeze.

*~*~*~*~*

    The swing is still there. Every year until the day he graduated, Draco came down and placed a small posies of lilies of the valley on the swing. And when he did, the swing would stir, gently, even though it hadn't been pushed in a long, long time.