DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter
Written for If You Dare Challenge: 118. Silence
Written for Percy Jackson Characters Challenge: Minos
Prompt: Write about a ghost.
Written for Quidditch Pitch
Prompt: playground (word)
Written for Challenge Your Versatility: Horror (genre)
Written for Drabble Club
Prompt: He never understood why people feared the darkness; it had always been such a comfort to him. (sentence)
The sun is almost gone, only a blazing red speck in the darkening sky. The last of its rays drizzle light onto the playground. It will soon be replaced by a shower of silver—at least, that is what you want.
You sit on a lone bench at the far corner of the playground, head bowed. A small sandwich lies beside you, neglected. There is no one else. No one. The silence is a welcomed comfort.
No wind ruffles the leaves that lay on the ground, ready to be trampled on. No rustling of trees. No chirping of birds. And soon, no light.
The darkness has always been an enigma to you. Scary, but so intriguing. So many possibilities. You have heard the tales, the legends of ghosts wandering this playground, but you've always brushed it off.
"As if the ghosts could harm me," you'd say. But now, you wonder.
You shake your head slightly, lifting it afterwards. For the first time, you take a closer look at the playground.
It is one where little children used to play. You imagine a child playing in a sandbox, wearing an ignorant smile. You see girls swinging, their raucous laughter ringing. But now, that is no more. The chains of the swings are long since rusted. The sandbox is a mess of dirt and weeds. The slides are covered in slick mud, dirty water pooling at the bottoms. The sickly yellow paint of the bars—monkey bars—is chipped, defeated by the rough, burnt orange tint of rust. Small speckles of silver still show through, just barely, on the chimes.
The playground is a desolate place. Hopeless. Just like you.
You throw the sandwich a flippant glance. Why did you even bring it? You knew you wouldn't eat it. Maybe the birds will.
You scan the playground, hoping at least one person will walk in now. Even the smallest scurry of squirrels up in a tree would soothe you. But there is nothing. Only silence. This time, it does not comfort you. No, it makes you nervous instead.
You let your head drop down again, your bushy, brown locks hanging down in a disarray, providing a curtain of protection. It is meager, but protection nevertheless. At least, it is to you.
You hear the soft, haunting tune of chimes playing and flinch, looking up. But no one is there. Now, your heart hammers against your chest, a beat that reverberates with doom to come. You blink, wondering if it was only a figment of your imagination. But then you hear it again. Louder. Taunting. It echoes, filling you with dread.
Now you hear creaking. The creaking of swings, old and rusted swings. Your gaze darts to them nervously, and you nearly jump.
The swings are moving, dancing back and forth. But no one is sitting on the swings, nor is anyone pushing them. You wonder if it's the work of the wind, but you remember that there is no wind at all.
You glance at the sandbox now, swallowing the lump in your throat. You hold back a silent scream as you see footprints walk forward. As soon as you see them, they are almost immediately covered by sand again.
The air turns cold around you. The moon hides behind dark, thundering clouds, gifting you only a dim light. Only enough to let you see the footprints.
You feel icy breath graze your cheek as the cold draws closer, in sync with the footprints. Freezing hands rest on your shoulder, fingers brushing against your neck, leaving a burning trail. You gasp, eyes wide with fright, heart pounding.
"Hello, my dear," a voice whispers.
You can hear the smile in it. You go still, holding back your breath. "Who are you?" you ask, your voice trembling. But, for some strange reason, the voice sounds familiar.
"You know who I am. The boy with white hair. The one you called ferret," the voice says. It slips into your veins, chilling your blood.
Draco Malfoy. No. This must be a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare. "No. It can't be you."
"Oh, but it is," he taunts you. Slowly, a transparent figure appears before you as the hands leave your shoulders. "Miss me?" He leans closer, raising your chin with a single finger, and the shadows are drawn in with him.
"What are you going to do?" You are afraid of the answer, and a shudder runs through your figure.
"Take what I want, of course!" He smirks. A derisive, haunting laugh echoes through the playground. "Isn't the darkness wonderful? I've never understood why people fear the darkness; it has always been such a comfort to me," he continues. He runs his finger down your cheek, stopping at your lips.
"No, please," you say, screwing your eyes shut. This can't be happening. He leans even closer until you can feel his cool breath brush your neck.
"I shall take mercy on you. Your death will be short and painless." There is a slight disappointment in his voice as if he wishes to do more.
"Let me live. Please." You are begging now, tears brimming your eyes. Everything is blurry around you
A smile contorts Draco's transparent features. He laughs once again. "I'm sorry. No can do."
Your lips part in a silent scream, calling for help that will never reach you. Hands wrap around your neck in a tight hold. They begin to squeeze, closing your throat. Your eyes bulge, and you try to scream, but you can't. You can't breathe. Can't do anything.
You attempt to pry his cold, burning fingers off of your neck. But you can't. No one can escape him.
You remember the parting words Draco said to you before he died. Before the life left his grey eyes. "I'll meet you in death, Hermione. Soon. I always get what I want." You were the cause of his death, his only bane.
Now his haunting words have come true. You will meet him in death.
The world goes black around you, and you fall limp. Draco's hands release your neck.
You will meet him in death.