Hospitals.

In one room, life is given. In another, it is taken. One patient is screaming because they just tore their body apart to welcome a little one into the world. Now, their babe is laying on their chest while they cry warm tears. In the room across the hall, a second patient is crying out because their beloved just took their last breath. Now, they can hear the soul leave their darling's body while they tremble from fear of continuing lonely.

On one floor, men are coming in from battle, and their fingers drip red, though they laugh their pain away. Has war made them mad or desperate? On the floor above, shivering bodies are being kept alive with needles, machines, and another's blood. Has suffering slaughtered their desire to live?

Life, for most, is a horrible rollercoaster leading to the afterlife. Love, work, and entertainments are all distractions so that you will not pay attention to the clock ticking way to your end; losses, hurt, and wounds are all reminders of your last dying breath. You spend your life focusing on the ocean, but sometimes you need to be reminded of the salt in it.

Darya Swan loved the rollercoaster of life with all her heart. She cherished every drop of water just as much as every pinch of the salt. A poem it all was, and she didn't mind if the poet was to drown when they had finished writing it.

For her, death was familiar; there was a reason why her whole family spent their time in hospitals. It was the same reason why the Swans were famous in the Wizarding World. The surname was written in too many books than one could read - it had been ever since the Swans had been forced to leave their home country a hundred years ago.

It was now June 1979. St. Mungo's Hospital was filled with patients. Darya had put on the white dress that nurses wore. She wiped her palms on the hem of it and took a deep breath. Then, she entered the room with the yellow door on floor three.

She wasn't supposed to have favorite patients at the hospital, but little Amalia had crept her way into her heart. Because of her Down syndrome, she was staying at the hospital for a check-up. When Darya walked into the room, her face lit up.

"Good morning, daisy," she mumbled to Darya, reaching to rub her eye, forgetting that she was holding her doll. It lived in her hands - who could blame her for forgetting it was not part of her?

Darya reached to pick it up. When she tried to return it to its owner, Amalia reached her short arms around her and pulled her into a hug.

"Good morning, angel. Want to help me with today's rounds?"

Darya had various patients, but she still remembered each of their names and stories. Her mother, grandmother, older sister, and aunts had many more patients, though. It wasn't because Darya was young and weak that she had less, but because she wasn't able to fully use her healing powers yet.

Many generations ago, when her family had still lived in Greece, a curse had been placed upon her bloodline. Because of this curse, the Swan women had become deadly Sirens. Darya's grandmother spent her life learning how to use the power for good, and now she was teaching the rest of the family it all. However, Swans still have to suffer for what they are: every man who has ever fallen in love with a Swan has died a violent death. Not a man who has married into the family has managed to grow old and died of natural causes.

But the women in the family have always managed to carry on with their heads held high, sorrow in their hearts. Dealing with so much death has made them prepared to help others who are about to face the great sleep. That's just one of the thousands of reasons why they fit so well in at hospitals: they are able to help patients calm down and enter the darkness in peace with themselves.

A Swan is not able to fully use her healing powers before someone who has loved her, and she has loved back, has died a violent death. So, you could say that Darya was lucky that she couldn't fully use her powers.

Coughs pushed out from tired and fragile lunges; the sight of twenty faces with little hope; the smell of sickness. The hospital's Common Room was already loaded with patients and their closest. Perhaps Darya's sister had already completed her daily rounds and healed some wounds, for the tone was lighter than usual. Or maybe it was the breeze of summer that had made the ill find happiness.

"What are you thinking of?" The voice of her sister snapped her out of her thoughts.

Darya shook her head and looked at Valerie. "Nothing."

The Swans were easy to spot in the crowded room. The curse placed upon them had shaped their beauty for the sole purpose of luring men to their deaths, though the Swans refused to do so.

"Any new patients today?"

Valerie blew raspberries and placed her hands on her hips. "Let's see... Two Aurors, I think, and that Potter boy."

"James? Again? What is this - the fourth time this summer?"

"Fifth, actually." Her sister smiled and rolled her eyes. "I'll take care of him if you check up on Mrs. Mai."

The woman had stayed in the room with the purple door on the fourth floor for many months now. She had come during a winter day, nearly collapsing on the hospital's hard floor. Old she was, yes, but Mrs. Mai had not expected death to find her. Neither had her husband.

The room smelled sorrow and ends, and Mr. Mai was sitting on the edge of his wife's bed, large tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to grip her hand. He acted as if her misery could transfer to his body if he touched her.

Darya knew what was happening. Looking down at little Amalia, she wondered if it would be a good idea to keep her in the room, but before she could say anything, the girl had run to the bed.

Mrs. Mai's death rattle signaled that her death was very near. It was a crackling, harsh noise, coming from her chest and throat. It must have been horrible for Mr. Mai to have to listen to it while they were alone. Even Darya had to remind herself that Mrs. Mai didn't feel pain at this moment.

She walked to grab a pillow from an empty bed and placed it under the woman's head. A choke came before she breathed more easily.

"Are you alright, orchid?" Amalia asked carefully. Darya always wondered why she named the people at the hospital after flowers. "You can borrow my doll if you want. It helps to hold it sometimes when you are feeling ouch-ouch."

She laid down beside Mrs. Mai, and looked up at her. The husband blinked away his tears to watch them.

"I think it is my time to go." It took all of Mai's strength to whisper it. Her breathing was interrupted by a gasp. Darya reached to stroke her cheek and found it colder than ever.

Amalia played with Mai's necklace and furrowed her brows. "Go? You're right here!"

She smiled her last smile in response. Darya pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. Seeing the state the woman was in, she assumed that she only had minutes or hours left.

As if Darya was the woman in the hospital bed, she watched her life go by. A large hat being placed on her head, a beautiful lake, a wedding dress, a daughter laughing. Darya is Mrs. Mai. Then, it's over. She continued to stroke her cheek while a bird flew close to the window beside the bed. Was it a sign of death - or maybe her late daughter welcoming her to the afterlife?

"Mrs. Mai," Darya whispered. "Have you ever seen the ocean?"

"Ocean," Mai said the word slowly, tasting it. She tried to nod her head, but didn't have the strength to do it.

Darya reached for the glass placed on the nightstand by the bed. When she twirled a finger around it, the water rose slightly above the glass.

"The beautiful thing about the ocean is that every wave that leaves the shore returns," Darya said. "Sometimes stronger. Sometimes more gentle. But you know that it will always come back. If you let it take you, it will guide you to wherever you belong. It will gift you a new beginning."

Water formed a wave. It was small, not wider than the glass, but it was enough to give Mai a glimpse of the ocean.

"The water will take you, accept you, no matter how damaged you are. And when you feel yourself falling deeper and deeper into the blue, you will feel more alive than ever. You will not drown, but swim. Sweat and tears, all salt, give you the ocean. It has been, and will always be, your home."

When the scent of saltwater fought with the stench of death - though there was no saltwater in the room - Darya let the tide down in the glass again, and looked at the dying woman in front of her.

"Don't fight. It's time to go home."

Was there use in saying it? Mrs. Mai had already closed her eyes. Her chest was not rising anymore. Amalia was resting on it silently.

Mr. Mai was shaking when he put his wife's cold hand up to his lips and kissed her for the last time. He let out a whimper.

Darya got up from the chair and walked to the window. Opening it, the bird that had been sitting outside came flying in, its black, white, and yellow colors dancing around the room. It made two rounds around her before it flew to Mr. Mai and landed on his head.

Amalia let out a loud laugh. She got to her feet, and took the little bird in her small hands. "Well, hello." When she held it close to her face, Mai let the corners of his lips pull upward. He knew it was his wife's last goodbye before the waves took her away.

"I should get my sister," Darya said. Valerie was always the one who talked to the families after someone had passed.

Before she could leave, Mr. Mai reached for her hand. He met her eyes. "Thank you, Miss Swan."

Stroking the back of his hand, she gifted him a weak smile and a nod. Walking out of the room, she tried to hold back tears.

Pure love. That's what Mr. Mai had given to Mrs. Mai. His body and soul. Such a simple word: love. It was still paradise. It was still something Darya would never feel. Never would she let someone fall in love with her. She did not want someone to die just because of her. After seeing what the curse on her family had done to all the men that had loved the Swans, she had decided that she would go without love for all her life.

Darya had to stand still in the hallway for a while before she could go back into the Common Room. She rested her back on the wall, her hand pressed hard against her lips so she would not cry out.

That was when she saw him.

Her head throbbing with every beat of her heart, she straightened her back and wiped her face. She pretended that she was not broken.

It was him. Darya was certain.

She had never spoken to him or been in the same room as him, but she had seen glimpses of him here and there, pictures of him, heard other people describe him. She recognizes those dark eyes, those black curls dangling in front of them, his pink lips, and defined cheekbones.

He walked up to her, bowed down to her height, and leaned in. He whispered into her ear, "What a wonderful speech you gave there, Darya."

She felt color drench from her face. He pulled away and looked down at her, not showing any emotion. In a way, he looked like a doll.

There was no doubt it was him.

Tom Riddle.