The sunbeams were merry and fair as they danced over the Ruskin garden, and the late afternoon waned over Bartonburg. Dunstan sat alone on the long wooden swing, which was held up by a tree he'd always thought to be older than time itself. He wound his hand around the rope and swung just a little, but felt no desire to go wild as he used to. The young Ravenclaw was home for the Easter holidays, and after catching up with the locale and getting a head start on some homework, he'd returned to the swing he'd once loved. But now he sat, and gazed at the wild bluebells growing by the wall, quietly wishing for the days when all he wanted to do was play.

Life was different now. Was childhood done?