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She'd lived with him for five months, ten days, twenty hours and forty minutes. He had offered, and it was only natural after going through Professional Quidditch and then Auror training together, after that battle that had taken her parents' lives. She had accepted, and that had been it.
The beginning.
She cooked his meals and kept the flat clean, listless but perfect neatening charms sending his belongings just where they belonged, sorrow-blue Tutshill Tornadoes robes soaring through the air in a lazy arc in a darkened room like a blue stormcloud until it would magically fold itself and arrange itself in an opened drawer. In the evenings, she would sit out on his balcony in that one corner farthest away from the lights, and gaze out at the darkening sky with a blank, dreary face. The wind would blow and buffet her slim, delicate form and tangle the sheet of raven hair hanging down her back.
Once upon a time, in another world where things were more simple and her eyes still lit up when she smiled, she used to sneak out of her bedroom late at night, out the casement, stepping precariously onto the roof with an old broomstick grasped in one hand. And then she would walk carefully to the very edge of the roof, mount the broom, and push off, the wind reddening her cheeks and brightening her eyes as she flew away.
That was back when the war was a myth and Voldemort was a name used to scare naughty children into good behaviour.
They had been friends in school-- good friends who'd read Quidditch books together and shared Honeydukes sweets, heads bent over portentous Potions essays. She told him to buy Fleur Delacour flawless white bramble-roses for the Yule Ball and to make sure to remove the thorns, and he held her when she cried after Cedric's death. Back then, there would be impulsive hugs and kisses on the cheek and whispered secrets. Back then, he knew her well.
He still knew her well, but it was different now. He knew that she drank too many cups of coffee, black with no sugar or cream, and she didn't like to sleep-- for to sleep was to dream, and to dream was to remember. Her wrists were too thin and she still moved with an understated grace, no longer so vivacious. He had already memorized just how her fingers would move to pin her long hair in a messy bun when she cooked, one hand holding the locks in place as the other twisted a chopstick through the mass of ebony to keep it up. Her face remained beautiful despite it all, but it was like the Grey Lady's, the expression solemn and far too old. He knows that her fingers are still slightly callused from Quidditch, and that the nail varnish that she puts on time to time chips quickly, leaving uneven patches of red, because she's not the sort of girl who lives a life of leisure. She's too restless, even under the impassive face she presents the world nowadays.
And he has a nagging feeling that one day, late at night, the shivering ghost-muse that was once upon a time Cho Chang, bright Ravenclaw Seeker, would mount her broom again from his balcony and fly away into the night-- seeking something else that no one could really know or find, and then he would never see her again.
She sits outside now, clad in a sleeveless dress of linen, stark white and moulded to her small breasts and thin stomach with the breeze. Her eyes are fixed upon some distant point in the sky, and the cold night wind lifts her hair away from her neck as it cut across her face. It had been warm during the day, but now the wind had picked up, and he sees her shoulders shake almost imperceptibly from his vantage-point by the balcony door.
"You should come in," he called out. Picking up his warmest cloak, he walks up to her, wrapping it around her shoulders and looking down at her. "It's late, and it's cold."
She finally turns her head, and a wry smile graces her features. It's not a happy expression, but a smile is a smile and it brings out her fresh beauty. "You always worry about me so, Roger," she murmurs softly.
"Of course I do," he tells her candidly. Melancholy blue eyes meet unreadable brown ones. "Someone has to, you know."
"Really?"
"That's a silly question," he tells her, hoping that she is warming up. "And... you need to get some sleep."
She sighs then, and turns away to gaze out upon the endless stretch of navy blue sky once more. "I'll come back in... sometime, I promise." she tells him softly. "You don't need to wait up for me."
He takes it as a dismissal and his heart sinks. Her soul has probably flown out with the icy north wind, and it will be exactly as he feared. He quietly pads back into his flat and goes to his bedroom, his face troubled. If she left---
It is only exhaustion that finally forces him to close his eyes and succumb to sleep. But sleep is merciful, and his mind frees itself from the troubles and stress of the day, of desolate thoughts of her. The lines of worry on his young face ease and smooth out in slumber, and he dreams of a pleasanter time in the past or future where the world is sunny and Cho smiles at him without shadows haunting her eyes.
He wakes late the next morning to the sunlight streaming through the window, feeling warm and refreshed. For a moment, he remains lazily suspended between wakefulness and slumber, but then his eyes snap open as his body comes to a sharp realization.
Cho is fast asleep still, curled up in his bed as though she'd always slept there. Her arms are warm, no goosebumps marring the smooth skin, and they're wrapped around his waist. Her eyelashes rest on her cheeks and her long hair fans out upon his chest like a blanket. She's at his side like she belonged there, and he freezes for a few elongated moments in surprise before smiling and pulling her closer.
She may have her demons, but she would never leave him. It was a start, if nothing else.