A/N: For my lovely wifey, Megan who gave me this beautiful scenario to write. I love you, darling. Enjoy. Also for the Sherlock Competition (Part One, Prompt Twelve: write a Muggle!AU)

You sit at the front desk, legs folded, reminiscent of the lotus position as you put the finishing touches on the serpent design Blaise has requested.

It's not quite what you'd imagined, and the image is quite a bit darker than most of your other work, but you decide you like it well enough. After all, it won't be placed upon your body. If Blaise is happy with it, then you're happy.

The bell above the door chimes, and your hand jerks slightly, extending the tail a bit too far. Frowning slightly, you look up to see a pretty Asian girl looking around with nervous eyes.

"I'm guessing you're not Lee Jordan," you say, glancing at the mess of a schedule beneath your teacup. "He's not due for another two hours, so I can do yours now if you'd like."

"Oh, I'm just looking," she says, taking another step inside, fingers dancing across the sketched designs you've tacked to the shop's walls. "If that's okay."

You nod, climbing to your feet in case she needs assistance. "Oh, I don't mind," you assure her. "Take your time."

She makes quick work of covering the perimeter of the parlor. Nothing seems to catch her eye, and you wonder if she has any intention of getting anything done at all.

"What's your name?"

"Cho."

"Well, Cho, do you see anything you like?"

She turns, and there's a hint of amusement in her eyes that you don't understand. "Not sure yet."

And without another word, she slips out the door, leaving you dumbstruck.

"Must have changed her mind," you decide, all too aware that people get cold feet all the time.

OoOoO

She returns the next day and, without a word, begins looking at the same designs again. You follow behind her, your long skirt dragging over the floor.

Once again, she barely glances at anything.

You don't understand her. By now, you've spent enough time in life's background, observing people, reading their actions like words on a page, figuring them out like they're easy puzzles.

But nothing about Cho makes sense, and, for you, that's rare. You're supposed to be the strange one. The brilliant girl who'd had a shot at Oxford but had instead chosen to throw herself in something creative, something outside the social norm. The girl who lives in daydreams and sees only good even in darkness, who finds the simplest of things monumental.

"Have you found anything?"

"Maybe," she says without looking at you.

Then she's gone again.

OoOoO

For a solid week, she returns. She never stays long, never says much. All it takes is the same question from you, always with a different response from her, and she's out the door.

"Maybe she fancies you," Ginny says, grimacing her way through your vegan casserole.

You laugh, shaking your head. "That's impossible."

"Says the girl who believes in everything."

With a shrug, you sip your tea. "Maybe not everything."

OoOoO

You're so lost in your sketch that you don't even realize she's there until she speaks directly behind you. "What's that?"

You drop your pencil, cursing softly before turning to face Cho. "It's a Nargle."

"Never heard of it."

"That's because I dreamt it," you answer, shrugging. "I like drawing things from my dreams."

"Very pretty," she says, and you realize she's looking at you, not your drawing.

You swallow dryly. "See anything you like?"

"I think so," she whispers, leaning in, her lips brushing yours.

You hesitate. This isn't something you've ever done, and you fear your inexperience might send her running out the door, never to return.

That thought bothers you, and even if you don't know what you're doing, you pull her closer, praying the movements of your lips will be enough to keep her here.

As she pulls away, she smiles. "Definitely liked it," she chuckles.

OoOoO

"Steady," you soothe over the buzz of the tattoo gun.

Cho groans, body trembling.

"Nearly done."

"I wish you would let me see it," she grumbles. "You know I hate surprises."

"Where's the fun in that?"

You set the gun down, wiping away the excess ink and leaving black steaks across her flesh. "Done," you report, pulling off your gloves and helping her to the mirror.

Her fingers dance over the tender, reddened skin of her hip. "A butterfly?"

"Cho means butterfly."

"Funnily enough, I already knew that," she teases.

"It also means beautiful, you know."

She blushes, keeping her eyes fixed on her reflection. "I love it," she whispers, kissing your cheek. "I love you."