Title: Magnolia Crescent
Disclaimer: No, sadly I don't own Harry Potter. And quite frankly, I'm not sure you'd be too happy if I did...
Author's Note: Well, after posting a really really really really really (you get it yet?) old fic of mine titled "Enchantment", I suddenly felt the need to try and save my name before it was too late. Goodness, that was an awful piece of work... This is a story that was spun in my head offhandedly a few months ago, and though I've got a lot of schoolwork to think about, rediscovering my ff.net account has brought me back my muse. I was reading over all of my old favourites under my 'favourite stories' list, and I just couldn't hold back. I suppose getting a livejournal a couple months ago helps a bunch, but whatever. Let's just pretend that this is me reawakening my mediocre writing 'talent'. I haven't written a fiction in a long while, and I honestly believe that my Honours teacher has jaded me with all of her essays and writing assignments to the point that all my writing ability has slipped through my fingers like water. When I try to write, however, it isn't like water. It's like wet sand running through your fingers as you look for sea glass. I'm going to try a different approach, as I've always been a third person kind of writer. But this time, I think I'll try my hand at some first person perspective. I'm feeling kinda angsty after reading those sad fics. Hmm...this should be interesting.
Soundtrack: I'm feeling a Dido kind of vibe here, so go and listen to any song of hers while you read. I recommend "Top of the World" or "Hunter" or "Dear Isobel". Those are always nice. Any angsty, indie music works just as well.
Magnolia Crescent
I: My Definiton of Crazy
If this isn't insanity, I don't know what is.
And I don't mean feeling so overwhelmed that you think you'll shatter into a million pieces; like that porcelain swan I threw against my bedroom wall when my mother rubbed her temples and said, "Cho, I know you're sad, but aren't you being a bit...melodramatic? It's been almost a year since Cedric-- "
I wasn't insane then. I was stressed; my boyfriend died. Granted, it no longer happened recently, but still. I was still sad about it. That was natural. That's what that psychologist at St. Mungo's told me. My parents took me there three times a week for a month, after Dumbledore suggested it. If I had my way, I never would've gone. It was a waste of time. Valuable work time. Valuable reading time. Valuable flying time.
"It's natural to let out your feelings, Cho. Go ahead and cry. It's crazy not to express yourself," she'd say, enunciating too much.
So that must mean that I wasn't crazy when I'd cry every five minutes, but I'm crazy now that I don't. Even though I still want to.
If that's the case, then I suppose running off to some random Muggle neighbourhood every night isn't crazy either.
But it isn't random. This is where Harry Potter lives. The hero of the wizarding world, our own personal God, he lives right here, in this neighbourhood where all the houses look the same and the play park in the centre is only for show.
Well, I'm happy to say that I'm making good use of it.
Muggle swing sets are the closest they'll ever get to flying.
There's this tune I can hear sometimes when I come here. It's so soft, I can't tell if I'm really hearing it, or if it's playing inside my head. It's simple and sometimes it changes, but it's the same basic melody. I don't know what instrument is playing it; perhaps a flute or a violin or maybe even a kazoo. I don't know. I don't care. I want it to stop.
It just makes me feel more crazy.
And we both know that I don't really need any more help in that department.
Sometimes when I start to swing, my mind insists on listing the ways that I'm insane. In that early time when the swing is moving slow and gaining momentum, I count.
One: I'm still crying over Cedric. Only now, I don't shed tears.
Two: I'm still crying over Harry. But for him, I can't shed tears.
Three: I'm still crying for Harry, even though I wasn't the only one who made mistakes in our relationship.
Four: I use the word relationship to describe what Harry and I had together. Whatever that was, it wasn't a relationship.
Five: I was a total prat when Harry and I were...seeing each other, and now that I'm not a hysterical mess, I realise that.
Six: I don't consider myself a hysterical mess anymore. That's not just crazy; that's stupid. And wrong.
Seven: I've changed. I went from being perfect and popular and carefree to being a human phlegm blob, to being a moody and introverted young Asian girl.
Eight: Even though I've changed, to everyone else, I'm still the same. It depends on who you're talking to, of course. To the people who knew me before Ced died ( and yes, I can say it now. And no, I don't thank that horrid psychologist for making me repeat it twenty times.), I'm still their perfect Cho, I just went through a "rough patch". And to the people who knew me after Ced died, I'm always going to be this really emotional, crying person. If I speak a straight sentence to them without sobbing, then they think I'm crazy.
And to me, the only person who really knows me, I'm the thinking Cho, the me who thinks about everything in order to avoid thinking about anything. I'm the Cho that can't cry anymore.
Nine: That bloody song is back again.
I slam my heels down in the dirt and grind to a halt.
And with a loud crack, I'm gone. And the song stops for the night.
II: Seeker's Curse
When you're in the air and there's nothing below you and everything above you, that's magic.
But the curse of the Seeker is that you always want something more.
Always chasing.
Always reaching.
Never enjoying flight.
The roar of the crowd in your ears, the wind tangling your hair, and the dry feeling you get in your throat from inhaling and exhaling way too much. None of that matters. Not if you're a Seeker.
Because all that exists is that glimmer of gold just beyond your reach. Always just past your fingertips.
And when you do finally catch that snitch, the match is over, and there's nothing left for you to enjoy. All of the other players get to savour every moment of the game; every cheer, every whooshing noise as players pass by. But for you, there's only the snitch. And when you've got that cold metal ball clenched in a fist, that's it. It's over. The spectators leave and the players land and all you've got to show for your fight is a small, golden ball struggling in your palm.
And the worst part? The worst part is knowing all this and still wanting to be a Seeker. Still feeling that inexplicable yet strong pull to chase a tiny, winged ball around in the air.
Now, imagine being a Seeker even off the pitch.
If there's one thing I've realised during all of those late-night introspections in that play park in Harry's neighbourhood, it's this: I was born a Seeker, and I will die one.
I don't think anyone can truly understand how that feels. Not anyone else in the world besides another Seeker. Besides my favourite Seeker. Besides Harry Potter.
In being a Seeker, you're always alone. It's funny, I've just noticed that all of us Seekers (and not the new Hufflepuff one, but the true Hufflepuff Seeker, Ced) are all only children. Me, Ced, Draco. Harry. I suppose that only children make the best Seekers.
When I'm swinging through the air fast enough to hear it rush by my ears in a song all it's own, I daydream about finding Harry's house and going up to his window and throwing small pebbles at it. And when he comes to the window, I'll ask to talk to him. It's kind of like Romeo and Juliet, only backwards. I've always been an old-fashioned kind of girl (which I credit to my Asian heritage), but that little reverie is okay with me.
I don't think I've ever resented being a Seeker. I hate that even off the pitch, I'm always chasing after a tiny, golden ball of hope. I hate that it's always just beyond me, always tomorrow. Never today. I hate that I expect to catch the snitch and win the game even when I've got both feet planted on the ground. I hate that I can't fly forever. But I don't hate that I'm a Seeker.
It's like... reaching for the moon, and seeing it in your hand. And when you close your fingers around it, you never feel it's cool serenity against your fingertips.
As 11:00 pm rolls around, I always get something reminiscent of the feeling I get before a match. It's not the full on nerves, but a slight tingle of butterflies flitting around in my stomach, as if they too know that I'm about to go out there and chase hope.
Because 11:00 is when I leave every night for that playground in Magnolia Crescent.
III: Moonlight and Mood Rings
A few months ago, my little cousin Mei gave me a mood ring she'd gotten from one of those quarter machines. It was flimsy and it rubbed this weird green stuff off on my fingers when I wore it for too long. Mei has always looked up to me, so much so that sometimes I question if I'm really an only child after all. She's only five, but she seems to understand things a lot better than I give her credit for.
"Here Cho," she said, holding out that plastic bubble with the ring inside. "This will tell you how you feel, that way you can tell when you're going to cry."
I still wear it to this day.
It's stopped leaving that green mark on my finger, and with a little polishing, it almost looks worth more than a quarter. I suppose I've broken it in or something.
I figured out at an early age that mood rings didn't tell your mood at all; rather, they were just influenced by temperature. As you got warmer, the colour would change. Spoken like a true Ravenclaw, yes, but sometimes I wish that I could've believed that the ring really did know how you were feeling. Just for a bit longer.
Inside the plastic container, a folded up piece of paper came with the ring, telling you what each colour meant. I lost that long ago, but that was okay, I memorized it anyways.
Purple meant something like calm or content.
Blue was happy.
Green was energetic.
Brown was nervous.
And black was dying. At least, that's how I remember it. My mood ring was black that day at Hogsmeade when I ran out of Madam Puddifoot's.
I'm sitting on the swing set again, and it's a full moon tonight. On nights like this, when the moon is full and clear, I feel like I'm out in the air and the moon is supposed to be my snitch. I'm supposed to chase it.
When I reach my hand out to grab that silvery orb, my mood ring glints a little in the light of the moon. I try to see what colour it is, but it's too dark, and the moonlight causes a slight glare. That's alright, I know what colour it is even without seeing it. It's been stuck on the same colour for ages now.
That butterfly feeling intensifies in my stomach until I feel as though butterflies will start to fly out of my throat and choke me. I have to swing. I have to get out on the pitch and fly. I have to catch that snitch.
I've been coming out here for about a month now, ever since the summer air started to smell like rain. It's still summer vacation, but September draws near, as does autumn. And in that month, I've gotten a lot better at the art of swinging on a swing set. Before I know it, the chains start to creak from the strain my small body is putting on them, and the stars blur by so fast that they look more like long scratch marks on an inky black chalkboard. And reaching out, the moon is always just beyond my grasp.
Then, with a jarring impact, I stop suddenly. From a frenzied swinging, I've come to a complete halt, and my heels have dug a deep gash into the ground.
The song is back.
What is that? That violin/flute/kazoo instrument doesn't sound like an instrument at all. Just a distant song. It's not singing, but it can't be coming from an instrument either. I'm sitting stock still, breathing slowly and carefully, straining my ears so hard that I can hear the silent hum of the night.
And finally, it hits me. After all these weeks of hearing this song, I finally know what that noise is. Perhaps the night isn't the only one that's humming.
I could never forget that tune. It's forever engraved into my memory. It plays even when I'm not sitting on this swing set. It plays when I'm up late doing a summer essay. It plays when I'm reading a Quidditch magazine. I could hum it myself, all by heart. The only reason I don't is because I'm afraid to. Because it feels like if I did, something would happen.
I've forgotten to breathe, and I let out all my breath in one long rush. "Goodness..." I murmur.
And all the breath I'd let out is sucked back into me in an instant when a voice breaks the silence I've grown so accustomed to here.
"W-who's there?"
I'd know that voice anywhere. It too is chiseled into my memory forever.
"Harry?"
IV: What a Tangled Web We Weave...
He's coming closer, his sillouhette becoming larger in my field of vision until he's towering above me. I suddenly remember that I'm afraid of the dark.
Looking up at him from my sitting position on the swing hurts my neck, so I stand to ease that. He's grown a bit over the summer. Or maybe I'm just short.
"Cho?" He asks in a shaky voice. His back is to the moon, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking him to move a bit to the left so that I can still see it. I really have gone crazy.
I want to stare into his eyes for a long time, and then let my eyes rove his face to see how his features have become more defined. I want to stand in silence and stare at the face that I've seen in my dreams so many times before, just like in those romance movies. But I can't. All I can think to do is fill the awkward silence with my voice.
"Yeah, it's me!" I squeak, far too chipper to sound sane.
His eyebrow quirks, but his lips still tremble. "W-what are you doing here?"
I laugh nervously, at least that what I was going for. It just comes out sounding hysterical. "I always come here." That's the best reply I can think of. Harry makes me nervous. Still.
"You do?" He asks, and his voice squeaks a little. I want to smile. I guess I make him nervous too.
I sigh. I need to relax. Taking a deep breath, I try to salvage whatever good impression Harry's got left of me. "Yeah," I say, smiling. "It helps clear my mind, you know?"
Maybe it's just me, but Harry's shoulders seem to slump. I hope I've put him at ease.
And perhaps I did. "I know what you mean," he says, grinning.
My knees are starting to shake, and to avoid further embarrassment, I gesture to the swing next to me. "C'mon, let's sit. "I say as casually as possible.
Harry glances at the swing, then at me, and then at the swing again. And just as a mental image of him turning around and sprinting away as fast as his feet can take him streams through my head, he gingerly sits down.
"So...erm...what are you doing up at this time of night?" Harry asks, looking out into the distance.
Thinking about mood rings. Chasing the moon like it was a snitch. Being crazy. Being alone. Being a Seeker. "Oh, nothing really."
A pause, and then, "Do you come here often?"
I'm looking out at that point in the distance that Harry seems so interested in. It seems to be some type of shrub. "Yeah, I've been coming out here for about a month now."
"Oh..." he mutters, as if he has so many questions he wants to ask me, but he doesn't want to seem to nosy.
I'll help him out. "How 'bout you? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"
He doesn't pause to think about it. "Just going for a walk. I've been doing that a lot recently. Like you said, it helps put your mind at ease."
"Oh..." I mutter, wondering if he knows that I want to ask him as much as he wants to ask me.
There's an awkward gap in our conversation, and we both just kind of sit there, wondering what to do next. Why we both decided what to do at the same time is beyond me.
"Look, Harry-"
"Cho, I-"
"Oh, you go ahead,"
"No, that's okay, you first,"
Another sigh. "Alright. Harry, I just wanted to apologize for everything. For crying, for being dramatic, everything. "I pause. "But, I'm not sorry for defending Marietta. She's my friend. Wouldn't you do the same for your friends? You defended Gra- Hermione, didn't you?"
He stares at me puzzled for a moment. And then he smirks. "Yeah, I did. And I'm glad you don't apologize for defending a friend of yours. That's one of the things I like about you."
Apparently he didn't realise what he just said. But it's alright; I've realised it enough for the both of us. I think I'll just let that pass.
"I'm so sorry Harry, I really am. There were so many things I did wrong, and I'm sorry for all of them." He just stares at me. "Forgive me?" I add.
Harry smiles, a mirthless smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Another thing we have in common. "I wasn't exactly a saint either."
"Yeah..." I trail off. "Look, let's just start over, okay?" I get up from my swing and stand in front of him. "My name's Cho, nice to meet you." I say, extending my hand. I hope beyond all hope that he doesn't see how corny this is.
He looks at my hand and then up at my face. That image of him jumping off the swing and running like there's no tomorrow rushes through my head. But, much to my relief, he takes my hand. It's warm and rough, just as I was hoping it would be. I needed to make sure that we had some differences. Because my hands are soft. And so very very cold.
"I'm Harry. It's a pleasure, Miss Chang."
I smile at him.
Sitting back on the swing, I start to rock back and forth a bit. "So, Harry, what's that tune you've been humming?"
He's silent for a long time, and I look over at him in concern. He's got a dull look in his eyes, like his soul flew away for a little while. I don't know what to do. I set my hand on his arm. "Harry?"
He jumps, which startles me as well. I let out a small yelp. "Oh, sorry! I was just...spacing out." Harry stutters.
My heart is beating wildly from that scare. "Yeah," I said in a breathy voice. "I could see that."
"When my godfather died," and he says this clearly without the slightest wince. I wonder for a moment if he had to see a psychiatrist as well. "Dumbledore gave me a whole bunch of his old stuff. In there was a picture that had sound. It was from my parents' wedding. That song I was humming was their song."
"Oh..." I mumble, and this time it's not because I have a lot to ask him. It's because I don't know what to say. I decide to go with the truth. "I've heard that song for such a long time now. Everytime I come here, I can hear it in the distance. I thought I was going crazy. It's nice to know I'm not completely insane yet." I say with a mirthless laugh.
"I know the feeling." He smirks, and his eyes crinkle a bit. I'm glad. At least one of us can smile properly now.
"I know you do."
We look each other in the eyes and grin. And the silence that follows isn't an awkward one.
My hand is hanging down limply at my side. And when I turn my head to look at him again, I feel his fingers twine with mine. We smile, our sad smiles that only we two will ever truly understand.
That image of me throwing rocks at Harry's window resurfaces in my mind. Like Romeo and Juliet.
"Tis the east, and Harry is the sun." I say in my mind.
But that doesn't sound right. The Harry holding my hand right now isn't the Harry who would blush at the sight of me a few months ago. There's something older about his soul, something calm and tranquil and somber. He's aged so quickly, as if he'd lived a whole lifetime in one summer. Harry can never be the sun again. Harry is the moon.
Harry is my moon.
Harry is my snitch.
Harry is my hope.
I smirk. I will forever be a Seeker.
After the sunrise, I apparate back home, albeit reluctantly. We didn't kiss goodbye. There was no rush.
And curling up under the covers of my bed, my mood ring catches my eye.
A lovely, deep purple.
V: Happily Ever After
School seems so normal after all of the magic that took place during the summer. After all of my introspections and everything that happened with Harry, all of my friends suddenly seem shallow and frivolous. But they care, and they have good hearts. That's all that matters. I'm a different Cho when I'm with my friends versus when I'm with Harry. With my friends, life is simple and the most important thing in the world is the latest gossip. But at the sight of Harry, all of the introspections and depth come rushing back, sweeping over me like a wave.
We've changed, he and I. But to our friends, we're still the same, more or less. I suppose that's why we're so special to each other. Because we remind one another who we really are.
We are Seekers. Only now, we're not alone anymore. Now, we can chase the moon together.
I'm on my way up to the Ravenclaw commons now. I fell asleep in the library, and Madam Pince prodded me awake with her ridiculously long fingernails.
Sometimes, when I'm all alone, I start to hum Harry's song without even noticing it. Like right now.
My feet walk to the common room on their own, because my mind is somewhere else. My mind is on the song.
And when I hear someone whistling, picking up the tune, I'm not really surprised.
I whirl around, and Harry's standing there, his old soul shining through his eyes.
A kiss on the cheek, a squeeze of his hand, and we're walking up the stairs together. And all the while, we haven't spoken a word. Just humming and whistling.
It's then that I realise that no matter what happens to us, we'll always have Magnolia Crescent.
A/N: *stretches* Whew... that was written in two days, a record for me. I wanted a one shot, and by golly, I got one! Cheers for me. There are so many things that connected here, I hope you noticed. Please, please say you found all my connections! The mood ring thing, for example. Harry's hands were warm, and Cho's were cold. And then when she got home, her mood ring was purple, which means that she's warm because mood rings rely on temperature. Stuff like that. If you review and you tell me you didn't catch it, I will so make a follow up just to point it all out! And if you review and tell me all the things you find, you'll get a bijillion Kotori points. Sound good? Gah... that was draining! I'm torn between marveling at my accomplishment or banging my head against my desk in shame. Ah well, I'll leave that up to you reviewers.
Disclaimer: No, sadly I don't own Harry Potter. And quite frankly, I'm not sure you'd be too happy if I did...
Author's Note: Well, after posting a really really really really really (you get it yet?) old fic of mine titled "Enchantment", I suddenly felt the need to try and save my name before it was too late. Goodness, that was an awful piece of work... This is a story that was spun in my head offhandedly a few months ago, and though I've got a lot of schoolwork to think about, rediscovering my ff.net account has brought me back my muse. I was reading over all of my old favourites under my 'favourite stories' list, and I just couldn't hold back. I suppose getting a livejournal a couple months ago helps a bunch, but whatever. Let's just pretend that this is me reawakening my mediocre writing 'talent'. I haven't written a fiction in a long while, and I honestly believe that my Honours teacher has jaded me with all of her essays and writing assignments to the point that all my writing ability has slipped through my fingers like water. When I try to write, however, it isn't like water. It's like wet sand running through your fingers as you look for sea glass. I'm going to try a different approach, as I've always been a third person kind of writer. But this time, I think I'll try my hand at some first person perspective. I'm feeling kinda angsty after reading those sad fics. Hmm...this should be interesting.
Soundtrack: I'm feeling a Dido kind of vibe here, so go and listen to any song of hers while you read. I recommend "Top of the World" or "Hunter" or "Dear Isobel". Those are always nice. Any angsty, indie music works just as well.
Magnolia Crescent
I: My Definiton of Crazy
If this isn't insanity, I don't know what is.
And I don't mean feeling so overwhelmed that you think you'll shatter into a million pieces; like that porcelain swan I threw against my bedroom wall when my mother rubbed her temples and said, "Cho, I know you're sad, but aren't you being a bit...melodramatic? It's been almost a year since Cedric-- "
I wasn't insane then. I was stressed; my boyfriend died. Granted, it no longer happened recently, but still. I was still sad about it. That was natural. That's what that psychologist at St. Mungo's told me. My parents took me there three times a week for a month, after Dumbledore suggested it. If I had my way, I never would've gone. It was a waste of time. Valuable work time. Valuable reading time. Valuable flying time.
"It's natural to let out your feelings, Cho. Go ahead and cry. It's crazy not to express yourself," she'd say, enunciating too much.
So that must mean that I wasn't crazy when I'd cry every five minutes, but I'm crazy now that I don't. Even though I still want to.
If that's the case, then I suppose running off to some random Muggle neighbourhood every night isn't crazy either.
But it isn't random. This is where Harry Potter lives. The hero of the wizarding world, our own personal God, he lives right here, in this neighbourhood where all the houses look the same and the play park in the centre is only for show.
Well, I'm happy to say that I'm making good use of it.
Muggle swing sets are the closest they'll ever get to flying.
There's this tune I can hear sometimes when I come here. It's so soft, I can't tell if I'm really hearing it, or if it's playing inside my head. It's simple and sometimes it changes, but it's the same basic melody. I don't know what instrument is playing it; perhaps a flute or a violin or maybe even a kazoo. I don't know. I don't care. I want it to stop.
It just makes me feel more crazy.
And we both know that I don't really need any more help in that department.
Sometimes when I start to swing, my mind insists on listing the ways that I'm insane. In that early time when the swing is moving slow and gaining momentum, I count.
One: I'm still crying over Cedric. Only now, I don't shed tears.
Two: I'm still crying over Harry. But for him, I can't shed tears.
Three: I'm still crying for Harry, even though I wasn't the only one who made mistakes in our relationship.
Four: I use the word relationship to describe what Harry and I had together. Whatever that was, it wasn't a relationship.
Five: I was a total prat when Harry and I were...seeing each other, and now that I'm not a hysterical mess, I realise that.
Six: I don't consider myself a hysterical mess anymore. That's not just crazy; that's stupid. And wrong.
Seven: I've changed. I went from being perfect and popular and carefree to being a human phlegm blob, to being a moody and introverted young Asian girl.
Eight: Even though I've changed, to everyone else, I'm still the same. It depends on who you're talking to, of course. To the people who knew me before Ced died ( and yes, I can say it now. And no, I don't thank that horrid psychologist for making me repeat it twenty times.), I'm still their perfect Cho, I just went through a "rough patch". And to the people who knew me after Ced died, I'm always going to be this really emotional, crying person. If I speak a straight sentence to them without sobbing, then they think I'm crazy.
And to me, the only person who really knows me, I'm the thinking Cho, the me who thinks about everything in order to avoid thinking about anything. I'm the Cho that can't cry anymore.
Nine: That bloody song is back again.
I slam my heels down in the dirt and grind to a halt.
And with a loud crack, I'm gone. And the song stops for the night.
II: Seeker's Curse
When you're in the air and there's nothing below you and everything above you, that's magic.
But the curse of the Seeker is that you always want something more.
Always chasing.
Always reaching.
Never enjoying flight.
The roar of the crowd in your ears, the wind tangling your hair, and the dry feeling you get in your throat from inhaling and exhaling way too much. None of that matters. Not if you're a Seeker.
Because all that exists is that glimmer of gold just beyond your reach. Always just past your fingertips.
And when you do finally catch that snitch, the match is over, and there's nothing left for you to enjoy. All of the other players get to savour every moment of the game; every cheer, every whooshing noise as players pass by. But for you, there's only the snitch. And when you've got that cold metal ball clenched in a fist, that's it. It's over. The spectators leave and the players land and all you've got to show for your fight is a small, golden ball struggling in your palm.
And the worst part? The worst part is knowing all this and still wanting to be a Seeker. Still feeling that inexplicable yet strong pull to chase a tiny, winged ball around in the air.
Now, imagine being a Seeker even off the pitch.
If there's one thing I've realised during all of those late-night introspections in that play park in Harry's neighbourhood, it's this: I was born a Seeker, and I will die one.
I don't think anyone can truly understand how that feels. Not anyone else in the world besides another Seeker. Besides my favourite Seeker. Besides Harry Potter.
In being a Seeker, you're always alone. It's funny, I've just noticed that all of us Seekers (and not the new Hufflepuff one, but the true Hufflepuff Seeker, Ced) are all only children. Me, Ced, Draco. Harry. I suppose that only children make the best Seekers.
When I'm swinging through the air fast enough to hear it rush by my ears in a song all it's own, I daydream about finding Harry's house and going up to his window and throwing small pebbles at it. And when he comes to the window, I'll ask to talk to him. It's kind of like Romeo and Juliet, only backwards. I've always been an old-fashioned kind of girl (which I credit to my Asian heritage), but that little reverie is okay with me.
I don't think I've ever resented being a Seeker. I hate that even off the pitch, I'm always chasing after a tiny, golden ball of hope. I hate that it's always just beyond me, always tomorrow. Never today. I hate that I expect to catch the snitch and win the game even when I've got both feet planted on the ground. I hate that I can't fly forever. But I don't hate that I'm a Seeker.
It's like... reaching for the moon, and seeing it in your hand. And when you close your fingers around it, you never feel it's cool serenity against your fingertips.
As 11:00 pm rolls around, I always get something reminiscent of the feeling I get before a match. It's not the full on nerves, but a slight tingle of butterflies flitting around in my stomach, as if they too know that I'm about to go out there and chase hope.
Because 11:00 is when I leave every night for that playground in Magnolia Crescent.
III: Moonlight and Mood Rings
A few months ago, my little cousin Mei gave me a mood ring she'd gotten from one of those quarter machines. It was flimsy and it rubbed this weird green stuff off on my fingers when I wore it for too long. Mei has always looked up to me, so much so that sometimes I question if I'm really an only child after all. She's only five, but she seems to understand things a lot better than I give her credit for.
"Here Cho," she said, holding out that plastic bubble with the ring inside. "This will tell you how you feel, that way you can tell when you're going to cry."
I still wear it to this day.
It's stopped leaving that green mark on my finger, and with a little polishing, it almost looks worth more than a quarter. I suppose I've broken it in or something.
I figured out at an early age that mood rings didn't tell your mood at all; rather, they were just influenced by temperature. As you got warmer, the colour would change. Spoken like a true Ravenclaw, yes, but sometimes I wish that I could've believed that the ring really did know how you were feeling. Just for a bit longer.
Inside the plastic container, a folded up piece of paper came with the ring, telling you what each colour meant. I lost that long ago, but that was okay, I memorized it anyways.
Purple meant something like calm or content.
Blue was happy.
Green was energetic.
Brown was nervous.
And black was dying. At least, that's how I remember it. My mood ring was black that day at Hogsmeade when I ran out of Madam Puddifoot's.
I'm sitting on the swing set again, and it's a full moon tonight. On nights like this, when the moon is full and clear, I feel like I'm out in the air and the moon is supposed to be my snitch. I'm supposed to chase it.
When I reach my hand out to grab that silvery orb, my mood ring glints a little in the light of the moon. I try to see what colour it is, but it's too dark, and the moonlight causes a slight glare. That's alright, I know what colour it is even without seeing it. It's been stuck on the same colour for ages now.
That butterfly feeling intensifies in my stomach until I feel as though butterflies will start to fly out of my throat and choke me. I have to swing. I have to get out on the pitch and fly. I have to catch that snitch.
I've been coming out here for about a month now, ever since the summer air started to smell like rain. It's still summer vacation, but September draws near, as does autumn. And in that month, I've gotten a lot better at the art of swinging on a swing set. Before I know it, the chains start to creak from the strain my small body is putting on them, and the stars blur by so fast that they look more like long scratch marks on an inky black chalkboard. And reaching out, the moon is always just beyond my grasp.
Then, with a jarring impact, I stop suddenly. From a frenzied swinging, I've come to a complete halt, and my heels have dug a deep gash into the ground.
The song is back.
What is that? That violin/flute/kazoo instrument doesn't sound like an instrument at all. Just a distant song. It's not singing, but it can't be coming from an instrument either. I'm sitting stock still, breathing slowly and carefully, straining my ears so hard that I can hear the silent hum of the night.
And finally, it hits me. After all these weeks of hearing this song, I finally know what that noise is. Perhaps the night isn't the only one that's humming.
I could never forget that tune. It's forever engraved into my memory. It plays even when I'm not sitting on this swing set. It plays when I'm up late doing a summer essay. It plays when I'm reading a Quidditch magazine. I could hum it myself, all by heart. The only reason I don't is because I'm afraid to. Because it feels like if I did, something would happen.
I've forgotten to breathe, and I let out all my breath in one long rush. "Goodness..." I murmur.
And all the breath I'd let out is sucked back into me in an instant when a voice breaks the silence I've grown so accustomed to here.
"W-who's there?"
I'd know that voice anywhere. It too is chiseled into my memory forever.
"Harry?"
IV: What a Tangled Web We Weave...
He's coming closer, his sillouhette becoming larger in my field of vision until he's towering above me. I suddenly remember that I'm afraid of the dark.
Looking up at him from my sitting position on the swing hurts my neck, so I stand to ease that. He's grown a bit over the summer. Or maybe I'm just short.
"Cho?" He asks in a shaky voice. His back is to the moon, and I bite my tongue to keep from asking him to move a bit to the left so that I can still see it. I really have gone crazy.
I want to stare into his eyes for a long time, and then let my eyes rove his face to see how his features have become more defined. I want to stand in silence and stare at the face that I've seen in my dreams so many times before, just like in those romance movies. But I can't. All I can think to do is fill the awkward silence with my voice.
"Yeah, it's me!" I squeak, far too chipper to sound sane.
His eyebrow quirks, but his lips still tremble. "W-what are you doing here?"
I laugh nervously, at least that what I was going for. It just comes out sounding hysterical. "I always come here." That's the best reply I can think of. Harry makes me nervous. Still.
"You do?" He asks, and his voice squeaks a little. I want to smile. I guess I make him nervous too.
I sigh. I need to relax. Taking a deep breath, I try to salvage whatever good impression Harry's got left of me. "Yeah," I say, smiling. "It helps clear my mind, you know?"
Maybe it's just me, but Harry's shoulders seem to slump. I hope I've put him at ease.
And perhaps I did. "I know what you mean," he says, grinning.
My knees are starting to shake, and to avoid further embarrassment, I gesture to the swing next to me. "C'mon, let's sit. "I say as casually as possible.
Harry glances at the swing, then at me, and then at the swing again. And just as a mental image of him turning around and sprinting away as fast as his feet can take him streams through my head, he gingerly sits down.
"So...erm...what are you doing up at this time of night?" Harry asks, looking out into the distance.
Thinking about mood rings. Chasing the moon like it was a snitch. Being crazy. Being alone. Being a Seeker. "Oh, nothing really."
A pause, and then, "Do you come here often?"
I'm looking out at that point in the distance that Harry seems so interested in. It seems to be some type of shrub. "Yeah, I've been coming out here for about a month now."
"Oh..." he mutters, as if he has so many questions he wants to ask me, but he doesn't want to seem to nosy.
I'll help him out. "How 'bout you? What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"
He doesn't pause to think about it. "Just going for a walk. I've been doing that a lot recently. Like you said, it helps put your mind at ease."
"Oh..." I mutter, wondering if he knows that I want to ask him as much as he wants to ask me.
There's an awkward gap in our conversation, and we both just kind of sit there, wondering what to do next. Why we both decided what to do at the same time is beyond me.
"Look, Harry-"
"Cho, I-"
"Oh, you go ahead,"
"No, that's okay, you first,"
Another sigh. "Alright. Harry, I just wanted to apologize for everything. For crying, for being dramatic, everything. "I pause. "But, I'm not sorry for defending Marietta. She's my friend. Wouldn't you do the same for your friends? You defended Gra- Hermione, didn't you?"
He stares at me puzzled for a moment. And then he smirks. "Yeah, I did. And I'm glad you don't apologize for defending a friend of yours. That's one of the things I like about you."
Apparently he didn't realise what he just said. But it's alright; I've realised it enough for the both of us. I think I'll just let that pass.
"I'm so sorry Harry, I really am. There were so many things I did wrong, and I'm sorry for all of them." He just stares at me. "Forgive me?" I add.
Harry smiles, a mirthless smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Another thing we have in common. "I wasn't exactly a saint either."
"Yeah..." I trail off. "Look, let's just start over, okay?" I get up from my swing and stand in front of him. "My name's Cho, nice to meet you." I say, extending my hand. I hope beyond all hope that he doesn't see how corny this is.
He looks at my hand and then up at my face. That image of him jumping off the swing and running like there's no tomorrow rushes through my head. But, much to my relief, he takes my hand. It's warm and rough, just as I was hoping it would be. I needed to make sure that we had some differences. Because my hands are soft. And so very very cold.
"I'm Harry. It's a pleasure, Miss Chang."
I smile at him.
Sitting back on the swing, I start to rock back and forth a bit. "So, Harry, what's that tune you've been humming?"
He's silent for a long time, and I look over at him in concern. He's got a dull look in his eyes, like his soul flew away for a little while. I don't know what to do. I set my hand on his arm. "Harry?"
He jumps, which startles me as well. I let out a small yelp. "Oh, sorry! I was just...spacing out." Harry stutters.
My heart is beating wildly from that scare. "Yeah," I said in a breathy voice. "I could see that."
"When my godfather died," and he says this clearly without the slightest wince. I wonder for a moment if he had to see a psychiatrist as well. "Dumbledore gave me a whole bunch of his old stuff. In there was a picture that had sound. It was from my parents' wedding. That song I was humming was their song."
"Oh..." I mumble, and this time it's not because I have a lot to ask him. It's because I don't know what to say. I decide to go with the truth. "I've heard that song for such a long time now. Everytime I come here, I can hear it in the distance. I thought I was going crazy. It's nice to know I'm not completely insane yet." I say with a mirthless laugh.
"I know the feeling." He smirks, and his eyes crinkle a bit. I'm glad. At least one of us can smile properly now.
"I know you do."
We look each other in the eyes and grin. And the silence that follows isn't an awkward one.
My hand is hanging down limply at my side. And when I turn my head to look at him again, I feel his fingers twine with mine. We smile, our sad smiles that only we two will ever truly understand.
That image of me throwing rocks at Harry's window resurfaces in my mind. Like Romeo and Juliet.
"Tis the east, and Harry is the sun." I say in my mind.
But that doesn't sound right. The Harry holding my hand right now isn't the Harry who would blush at the sight of me a few months ago. There's something older about his soul, something calm and tranquil and somber. He's aged so quickly, as if he'd lived a whole lifetime in one summer. Harry can never be the sun again. Harry is the moon.
Harry is my moon.
Harry is my snitch.
Harry is my hope.
I smirk. I will forever be a Seeker.
After the sunrise, I apparate back home, albeit reluctantly. We didn't kiss goodbye. There was no rush.
And curling up under the covers of my bed, my mood ring catches my eye.
A lovely, deep purple.
V: Happily Ever After
School seems so normal after all of the magic that took place during the summer. After all of my introspections and everything that happened with Harry, all of my friends suddenly seem shallow and frivolous. But they care, and they have good hearts. That's all that matters. I'm a different Cho when I'm with my friends versus when I'm with Harry. With my friends, life is simple and the most important thing in the world is the latest gossip. But at the sight of Harry, all of the introspections and depth come rushing back, sweeping over me like a wave.
We've changed, he and I. But to our friends, we're still the same, more or less. I suppose that's why we're so special to each other. Because we remind one another who we really are.
We are Seekers. Only now, we're not alone anymore. Now, we can chase the moon together.
I'm on my way up to the Ravenclaw commons now. I fell asleep in the library, and Madam Pince prodded me awake with her ridiculously long fingernails.
Sometimes, when I'm all alone, I start to hum Harry's song without even noticing it. Like right now.
My feet walk to the common room on their own, because my mind is somewhere else. My mind is on the song.
And when I hear someone whistling, picking up the tune, I'm not really surprised.
I whirl around, and Harry's standing there, his old soul shining through his eyes.
A kiss on the cheek, a squeeze of his hand, and we're walking up the stairs together. And all the while, we haven't spoken a word. Just humming and whistling.
It's then that I realise that no matter what happens to us, we'll always have Magnolia Crescent.
A/N: *stretches* Whew... that was written in two days, a record for me. I wanted a one shot, and by golly, I got one! Cheers for me. There are so many things that connected here, I hope you noticed. Please, please say you found all my connections! The mood ring thing, for example. Harry's hands were warm, and Cho's were cold. And then when she got home, her mood ring was purple, which means that she's warm because mood rings rely on temperature. Stuff like that. If you review and you tell me you didn't catch it, I will so make a follow up just to point it all out! And if you review and tell me all the things you find, you'll get a bijillion Kotori points. Sound good? Gah... that was draining! I'm torn between marveling at my accomplishment or banging my head against my desk in shame. Ah well, I'll leave that up to you reviewers.