Dear Harry

Heart broken once and again
Is broken once more
Three times loved, three times hurt
One true love to heal the pain
He who defeated the Dark Lord
Will be the one to love her forevermore…

“Remember Cedric Diggory. Remember a kind, honest boy who strayed into Voldemort’s path…�

Heart broken once…

Mrs. Chang stared out the window tensely, hand impulsively clutching the windowsill. She’d heard the panicked rumors, and listened to one variation of the story after another, each one twisting the others, but she would wait. She would wait until Cho came home, and then she would learn the truth; Professor Dumbledore would see to it that every student at Hogwarts knew the solid, undeniable facts.

Who knew? Perhaps the Diggory boy wasn’t dead after all. They were only rumors, thus far. But as her husband led her daughter up the steps to the manor, she knew that they were at least partly true. Paling considerably, she rushed towards the entrance hall, impatiently throwing open the double doors before any house-elf could arrive and found herself face-to-face with her equally ashen daughter.

“My baby… my baby,� she murmured, a tear trickling down her cheek as she pulled her only child close. “I know. And I understand…�

Cho had mechanically put her arms around her concerned mother at first, but at those last words, she visibly stiffened and wrenched herself out of the embrace, a furiously incredulous look on her face. Backing away, she stole one last look at her parents and then made a mad dash up the stairs to her bedroom.

“You understand? You understand?� her eyes had asked. Flinging open her bedroom door, she slammed it behind herself and stumbled, half-blinded by tears, to her four-poster bed before collapsing on it and crying as if she was going to die. She wished that she were dying. Her heart had been split into two, throbbing with an unthinkable ache and she could only think about him. His smile. His charm. How he’d cared about her when every other boy had only pursued her for the physical benefits, how he’d looked beyond the prettiness outside to the beauty within, and loved her for her brain more than for her looks. He was her first and only love. And now he was gone.

“Come back,� she moaned piteously, sobs shaking her entire body; she continued to cry until she had almost no strength left.

“Please, come back,� she whispered, closing her eyes.

He wasn’t coming back and her mind knew that. But who in the world could possibly explain it to her heart?

---

“Go on, dear, blow out the candles.�

Her sixteenth birthday had come. A large elaborate cake sat in front of her, looking exquisite and breathtaking with exactly sixteen candles, all lit. Her mother had insisted once again to take matters of her daughter’s birthday cake into her own hands, refusing to accept help and yet still managing to make one of the most beautiful cakes Cho had ever seen in her entire life. And now it was time for her to blow out the candles.

She took a deep breath and prepared herself to extinguish each flickering flame when her mother held out a hand to stop her.
“Don’t forget to make a wish,� she reminded her gently.

Of course, the birthday wish… how could she have forgotten? In her childhood years she’d spend the days before her birthday dreaming, building her castles in the air and wondering what she’d wish for before she blew out the candles on her cake. The novelty of the entire concept of birthday wishes coming true had long worn off, and it had been quite a while since she last believed in it. She stifled a snort. What would she wish for this time, a doll? A mansion the size of Gringotts?

It had always been a matter of imagination for her, thinking up what to wish for on her birthday. Butterflies, fairies, and unicorns danced around in her head and immediately came to mind before her Hogwarts days, and afterwards she’d innocently wished for a brand-new broomstick. Her Comet was definitely what she hadn’t been envisioning, but it served its purpose, so she held her tongue about it, remembering her traditional values of respect for her parents.

And then the thought came to her, unbidden and unexpected. Cedric. She could wish for him to come back; she could, but it wouldn’t happen. Tears threatened to trickle down her cheeks as the sight of her parents and the cake and gifts and blurred as water welled up in her eyes. She forced them down, a motion she would come to regret later when all her pent-up emotions set off in an explosion at the precise moment when she didn’t want them to. It wouldn’t do to look so ungrateful when her parents had tried so hard to please her and to make this a nice and memorable birthday. She finally decided just to wish for a new broom, even though she didn’t expect or particularly need one.

Saying nothing, she forced a smile, pretended to think, and then blew out all her candles in one breath as her parents cheered and applauded.

Being the birthday girl, she was served the first slice of cake and, although it was as delicious as usual, she couldn’t help but feel that each bite became increasingly difficult to swallow, like glue moving slowly down her throat. Perhaps it was from all her efforts not to cry.

“Now presents,� her mother said, whisking away Cho’s plate as soon as she had finished and turned down seconds.

They were the usual pretty trinkets: a new set of dress robes, the series of books she originally meant to buy once she’d saved enough money, little hair accessories charmed to make her hair-dressing less time-consuming with even nicer results. Cho gasped nonetheless as she lifted a heart-shaped locket out of its cushioning layers of tissue paper.

“It’s pure gold,� informed Mr. Chang proudly as he studied his daughter’s expression.

“We spent days trying to find it for you. It’s a Love Locket,� explained Mrs. Chang.

“But Mum, I thought those were supposed to be a load of—� Cho began, frowning.

“Most of them are, yes. That’s what took us so long to find it; it’s real,� nodded her mother.

“So, technically, it’s not supposed to open until I find my one true love?� asked Cho skeptically, examining the ornate etchings on the gold.

“Yes and no,� replied her father mysteriously.

She frowned slightly and looked at it a few moments more, turning it over in her hands before unclasping the chain and fastening it around her neck.

Her last present was, indeed, an intriguing little mystery within itself.

“This one may look simple, but the real beauty of it is that you can write whatever you want in it; there are no rules or directions on how you must use it,� said Mr. Chang, handing the flat package to her.

With an inquiring look at her parents, she carefully slipped her fingernail underneath each piece of Spellotape, making sure, as with all her presents, that she never ripped the paper.

It was a notebook.

A plain, everyday thing, with no extraordinary traits, only a blue and silver cover and back, and most likely one of the least expensive items that could be purchased at any stationery supply store. She opened the cover and thoughtfully thumbed through the blank pages, musing at what would be written on each as time passed by, remembering her father’s words about the possibilities that it held. No rules or restrictions except for that of her own mind.

“Thank you Mum, Dad. I’ve had a lovely birthday. I’ll go put everything away upstairs,� she thanked finally, placing a kiss on her each of her parents’ cheeks.

“Be sure to change into your new robes for the concert we’re taking you to tonight,� called Mrs. Chang.

“Yes, Mother!� replied her daughter from the foot of the staircase, just outside the dining room. She tactfully willed herself not to seem reluctant to go, since her parents had been looking forward to hearing the classical compositions they favored above all other music. Besides, the fact that the entire orchestra consisted of only one person certainly made it all the more interesting.

“They grow up so fast,� sighed Mrs. Chang once her daughter’s footsteps had faded. A stray streamer floated down from the ceiling and landed beside the stack of wrapping paper on the polished mahogany tabletop.

“It’s the way of life,� shrugged her husband, reclining in his high-backed chair.

“My only hope is that our blossom will find happiness in hers,� she whispered, taking his hand in hers.

He squeezed her hand gently in reassurance, saying, “You are sure of the prophecy?

After all, your gift seems prone to jump from generation to generation; Cho doesn’t seem to have your ability.�

“Divination is one of the most imprecise and unclear arts of magic,� she waved away impatiently. “But I’m absolutely sure of the prophecy.�

“And the notebook?�

“She’ll find it more useful in the future than she does now.�

Chapter 2

…and again.

It was more than she could bear. Life seemed to insist upon being cruel to her, on dangling her emotions from a string that seemed fragile enough to snap at any moment, particularly the most inopportune ones. Grief had been the simplest and most potent feeling she had been capable of for the longest time, and it had slowly become her comforter, her anchor; it kept the walls from closing in on her and her lifelines severed when she felt the most lost at sea. She hadn’t been prepared to fall for someone ever again.

Harry. Such a simple name, and a fairly common one at that, but it would never again be just another form of recognition to her, a bland and informal title. It almost became her obsession. At times she wished that she could just blend into the stone walls of the school or become invisible, just so that she could watch him without any sort of intervention or fear of being discovered and embarrassed. Once she’d observed him as he’d quickly done his homework at breakfast, managing to joke around with his friends at different intervals, and to take a bite or sip.

His slender, agile hand darted quickly across the paper, leaving behind masses and masses of words that she hadn’t the ability to decipher, given her distance from him. He worked earnestly, although certainly hurriedly, and there was something about his figure as he bent over his work that immediately struck her as attractive. While physical features most definitely made the first most notable impression on her, studious qualities only seemed to enhance them further in a more positive light, an unusual whim of hers that she supposed had something to do with her affiliation to the house of Ravenclaw. Cedric had been a hard worker as well.

She felt like a traitor. There was no other word for the self-loathing she viewed herself with. Cedric would have died a thousand times over again for her, had he lived, and she found herself already moving on to Harry, who could just barely look her in the eye, as though he felt that he couldn’t imagine himself worthy of her gaze. Memories of Cedric became clouded over with visions of Harry Potter, stammering a nervous hello, watching her wistfully with his full emerald eyes. Guilt turned her stomach over again at the reminder of why she’d become interested in Harry in the first place.

Her need for the details of Cedric’s last living moments had driven her to the conclusion that Harry, being the only one who really truly knew anything about what had happened on the night of the third task, would logically be the only one who’d be of any assistance. A burning curiosity for the knowledge was soon replaced with interest.

He fancied her. It was evident from the moment that she’d set foot in his train compartment on the way back to Hogwarts for her sixth year that he had some clumsily hidden feelings for her. Shock was the initial emotion that swept over her, but once it had retreated to make way for other thoughts, she felt slightly intrigued and proud. Of course, she’d had her thoughts and speculations on exactly why he’d asked her specifically, out of all the possible candidates at Hogwarts, to be his date for the Yule Ball. A polite apology had sufficed at the moment, and yet… she found herself wondering over why she’d been his choice. She knew very well now, and was startled to find that she was beginning to return the feelings.

It had to be her damned curiosity that would get in the way of her almost inevitable happiness, that gnawing need to know about the death that neither she nor Harry seemed quite ready to discuss openly. When the time came that she’d worked up enough courage to ask, it had been the wrong moment, the wrong place, yet again, and Harry had closed up to her, when she needed the knowledge the most, to be at peace with herself and her battling emotions.

She knew already that she would never be able to breathe easily again until she had known more about Cedric’s death. Did he die defying the Dark Lord and bravely holding his head up high while the deadliest of the Unforgivable curses was being performed on him, or did he cower behind something before running in a fruitless attempt to escape and being shot down, so to speak, in the process? Was it quick, or was he tortured first? Was an Unforgivable curse even used? Did he mention her at all before he died? Did he have time to? All of these questions swam in her head, clouding her other thoughts and refusing to be cleared until they were answered.

The hatred she felt for herself always seemed to find new reasons to plague her. Her sudden lack of intelligent thought and speech whenever Harry was within fifty feet of her, for instance, had been the cause for more than just embarrassment in front of her classmates, as well as Harry. It had been the cause of the many nights she’d spent in her bed, wide awake with the troubling thoughts of how much idiocy she’d subjected herself to that day in an attempt to give him a reason to glance her way. If she said things that she regretted later, she assured herself that Harry was there to stay and that he thought the world of her, but the idea of it seemed overly confident and gloating.

Every time he spoke to her, an entire acrobatic circus rampaged through her insides, twisting and writhing them in ways she never imagined possible, while her heart seemed ready to tear its way right out of her body with its furious thumping. She desperately needed to divulge to someone all the contradictory feelings that were giving her no peace during the night and endless frustration during the day. But to whom could she confide about this? Surely not any of her so-called friends; they would spread whatever she said far and wide in the form of gossip, trying to make their shallow lives have a little bit more worth. They could be nice, each in their own little way, but when it came to being true friends, she doubted the words co-existed in their vocabularies.

She was struggling with these inner demons yet again one lonely Saturday as she was lying down on her bed in the 6th year girls’ dormitory and not a single soul was in sight, all of them being readily occupied with the task of relaxing in Hogsmeade on their day off. Swearing out loud, she had to fight an almost irresistible urge to turn her trunk over on the floor upside-down and angrily pitched the nearest thing she could get her hands on across the room. The book sailed through the air and disrupted the organized state of her desk, for which she reluctantly stood and went to attend to.

An unbidden tear fell from her eyes that she quickly wiped away before she stooped down to pick up her things off of the floor. Scooping her papers and other trifles into her arms and dumping them on the table, she fell back into the wooden chair that accompanied the desk and sighed heavily. Quickly scanning the floor for any signs of something she’d overlooked in her hasty tidy-up, the largest object that caught her eye was the blue and silver notebook.

She picked it up and did exactly as she had done when she’d first unwrapped it, turning it over in her hands and flipping through the pages absently. She’d almost inevitably forgotten about the notebook, and wondered why she hadn’t noticed it sooner, since she could have been putting it to use in one of her classes. There had always been a suspicious thought lurking in the depths of her mind, she finally allowed herself to admit, which had immediately emerged when she’d first held it. Her parents were always the most sensible and rational people she’d ever known, and they had always had some reason for every single thing they did and said, although their logic was certainly not as consistently explained to her. As with everything, there had to be a catch, a little hint as to why she’d gotten such an ordinary gift among all her other treasures. It must have been meant for something special.

Perhaps her parents had meant for her to write letters to them in it while she was at school.

She snorted at the thought.

Not only did they write her epic novels, but they also sent her enough parchment enclosed in their own letters to ensure that she did the same.

Letters…

Of course. The only person she could feel better from telling her feelings would be Harry.

She rashly shoved the items that littered her desk aside, knocking most of the ones she’d just gathered together back on the floor again. Setting down the notebook in the cleared space, she hunted through her belongings for a pot of ink and quill. Finally despairing of finding the expensive quill she’d been searching for, she settled for the next best pen and opened the front cover of the notebook, dipping the tip of her quill in the well of blue ink she’d dug up from the pile. Pausing with her pen poised in a hovering position above the clean, smooth paper, she wondered how to begin. Feelings flooded her senses and triggered some mechanism in her mind and hand, and she soon found, much to her surprise, that the words came out as easily as if she’d been planning them out her entire life.

Maybe she had.

When she’d finished her first letter, an hour and a half later, she held the notebook back to examine her writing. Everything she’d written was the truth, the honest truth, and nothing but the truth, and could potentially be too truthful. Truthfully. A fragment of her emotions and thoughts could be glimpsed by skimming through the neatly formed sentences, and perhaps more could be deciphered from the words on the paper.

At any rate, she knew that she would rather die than let Harry actually read any of the letters she’d write…

---

Dear Harry,
Even now, just writing your name down on paper makes me feel dizzy. I’ve decided that since I can never tell you in person how I feel, I’m going to write to you, safe in the knowledge that your eyes will never see anything written on these pages. To start off, I have one particular comment that I need to tell you: you drive me out of my wits. One day you’d be talking to me as though I was one of the most important people in your life, the next, you barely seem to see me when I walk by you in the hallway, although my attempts to get your attention are rather feeble…

There are so many things that I want to tell you, but can’t. I wish I could tell you that you aren’t crazy, that I honestly believe that you and Professor Dumbledore are telling the truth about You-know-who. That first night at school after the feast was over, I saw you approach the first years. I’m sorry about that Harry, I really am. I know I shouldn’t be the one apologizing, but I am. When you’re that age, what’s printed in black ink in the newspapers is true because you simply don’t suspect that the editors would allow lying. At least, that’s how I was. You might have been a little bit more cautious of your surroundings, and you had a right to be, even if you don’t remember your parents and the night you lost them. I’ve heard about how those muggles you live with treat you and it appalls me. I don’t know how they could hate their own flesh and blood so much. Still, it’s just something I’ve heard, it’s not like I really know anything about it…

My mother always says that when I’m nervous I ramble on and on. I guess I’m doing that now. I just feel like a load has been taken off my mind as each word is penned, but right now my mind doesn’t seem to be working properly; I’m just as nervous as if you were looking over my shoulder right at this moment, reading everything I’m writing down. I’ll try again when my thoughts are more organized.
Sincerely,
Cho

---

Dear Harry,
I saw you in the hallway today, looking angry again. I sometimes wonder why you look so glum. Of course, what with seeing Cedric die in front of you and watching He-who-must-not-be-named come back must have had some sort of impact on you. Your whole life changes when you realize that someone close to you is gone. To tell you the truth, before Cedric was killed, I had never really had someone that dear to me die. I can just barely remember a few times when You-know-who had been so powerful, when I was too young to grasp the concepts of death. He killed my relatives one by one, and my parents’ friends as well. I can just remember faintly, if I really try hard, going to funerals held in secret, the only remains able to be found from the shambles of completely annihilated homes and if not that, some personal items that were able to be salvaged were put in a simple and single coffin for all to see. They never opened any of the coffins while the children (including me) were present. I can imagine the shocked look on your face now.

“How can she not have felt that much pain and loss until now?� your expression tells me without a single word uttered from your lips. Either that or you would think me simple or silly, like a little girl trapped in a sixteen-year-old body. It’s true, I’m trapped, but with all that I have experienced in the past year or so, I would be fortunate indeed to feel the same innocent obliviousness to the harsh reality of life. However, I shouldn’t write as though I’ve the burden of the world upon me with all the hardships in life; you learned far too early that life is not fair and this world is not always merciful, not always bending to your every whim and fulfilling your every need. I can sympathize with you and try to comfort you, but I cannot honestly say that I have experienced true hardships and trials as you have. Still, my heart seems to feel otherwise, regardless of what my mind thinks. As I’ve said countless times before, you torture me. You really do. I lie awake in bed at night wondering if I should have said something differently or if I could have done something other than what I had actually done, my cheeks burning as though someone had ignited something underneath my skin and I was slowly smoldering into nothing when I remembered my embarrassment. Ah! If only I could do just that…then I would no longer be left alone with nothing but my bewildering thoughts, feeling myself slowly fall into lunacy. There are times now when I question my sanity, wondering whether I’m simply being blinded by never-to-be fantasies to think clearly. This is where I truly am thankful that I have this notebook to write in; I can organize myself in thought while simply relieving myself of the words that I dare not speak aloud, but prefer to pen instead. The other girls sleep like the dead, unconscious of how I’m suffering. Well, until the next time I can write; my hand begs me to let it rest.
Sincerely,
Cho

---

Dear Harry,
I wonder where I stand right now. Do I love you? Although I’m sixteen, I highly doubt that I have any idea what love is, which is why I’ve signed all my letters thus far with “Sincerely� instead of “Love;� because I don’t know if it would be proper if I did use that word. I suppose I’m confessing another fault (or is it a virtue…?): paying attention to the small details even when it doesn’t quite seem to matter. I also wonder about how you feel. I’m sure I ruined everything between the two of us when I ran out of that café in Hogsmeade, but I couldn’t help it. Everything that I had been feeling, that I had been trying to keep contained, just broke the dam and spilled out.

I’m sorry for that, and for obviously confusing you by doing things that I thought would impress or intrigue you, but only pushed you farther away from me. I’M SORRY. I would write it over a billion times, if I could only know if you would feel better as a result. I know that there’s nothing going on between you and Hermione; she seems to be falling as hard for Ron as I am for you and Ron clearly feels the same way. I doubt you’d noticed…

I can now no longer stand romance novels. If they end well with happy endings for everyone, I’m torn between happiness and envy: happiness because they’re happy and they have what they want and envy because I’m not happy and I don’t have what I want. Sometimes I feel like no one really likes me for who I am, like just because I’m pretty to look at, my personality matters less. It’s almost like getting a beautifully wrapped package with elaborate, expensive wrapping paper and then caring more for admiring the gift without ever opening it to find out what’s inside. I’m sure you would think that, if I were that package and you were the recipient of me, you would think that the box was empty. I hope you don’t really feel that way, because I would just feel like I could die right on the spot if you did. You seem so distant around me, like you had purposely built a wall to keep me out. Then again, you always seem so distant around everyone, including your closest friends. Did you know that I saw Hermione crying in the girls’ bathroom the other day? Someone told me that you had yelled at her again. You probably don’t even know about how upset she gets whenever you raise your voice. I see her, trying to be strong, dealing with Ron refusing to reveal any of his feelings about her and you being constantly angry… it almost reminds me of myself… tonight my quill weighs heavily in my hand and the fact that I can’t write steadily is another distraction. I keep thinking about the Quidditch game tomorrow, Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor. I know you’ll be in the crowd, watching instead of playing because of that Umbridge woman. I want to write more, but I need my rest and Marietta is starting to become a light sleeper, waking at the smallest sound.
Sincerely,
Cho

---

A/N: So, what do you think? Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you really made my day! Also, please note that the letters above are random snatches of what Cho wrote in the notebook, hence the time jumps from her first letter to the one referring to Umbridge.

-Unicorn13

Chapter 3

Cho looked around, taking everything in. One year had passed since that fateful night when she first started writing in her notebook and she could hardly believe that in a few hours she would leave Hogwarts forever to enter into the real world and take her place among the rest of the adult wizarding world. She had broken up with Michael Corner shortly after the school year had begun and stayed single for the rest of the year, although she certainly had numerous offers from more than one worthy candidate and more than she could count from unworthy bachelors.

The teachers had all stressed the importance of having an education when applying for employment anywhere; from the Ministry of Magic to a store in Diagon Alley, an education or degree of some sort would be crucial. She had struggled with the rest of her classmates to maintain good marks in their classes, and nervously waited to take the dreaded N.E.W.T.S., and then hoped afterwards that she had passed. The worst and the best of the year had passed, and the entire time, she continued to write.

There was now no doubt in her mind that she loved him. Every day as she thought about what could be or could have been, she kept sinking deeper and deeper into the trap that would almost be impossible to escape from, the trap of loving someone who didn’t return her affections, or so she believed. It was much different from what her friends described love as, which without a single doubt made it real, since their concepts of the topic were that you were in love once you had started doodling your name, replacing your surname with his and adding Mrs. at the beginning instead of Ms., on scrap pieces of parchment.

Harry had faced something even more deadly and life affecting than he had even been challenged with before only last year, but this time he said not a word to reveal this fact; instead, it was felt in the way he was present in a room, the words he said or didn’t say. He looked and acted older, so much older than she felt, even though she was a year his senior, and it seemed as though he had entered into a world in which she could no longer follow. Maybe it was just a temporary reaction to whatever he had experienced the year before, and maybe it was permanent, but it made her heart ache more for him all the same. Instead of breaking out angrily, he had become eerily calm and more reserved, speaking no more than a few sentences at a time, if he spoke at all. If she walked past him in the hallway, he almost seemed to shoot daggers at her from his eyes, although she could have simply imagined it. No matter how he reacted towards her, he was generally distant towards everyone, even Ron and Hermione.

She held the notebook close to her as she walked down the long hallway, pausing every now and then when a particularly poignant memory came rushing back to her, covered up by the sands of time. She stopped in front of the library, thinking of all the times that she had gone there to write her letters when some of her dorm mates had begun to suspect her nightly activities when Marietta, light sleeper as she had become, woke up one night when Cho had lighted a single candle, but a bright one that filled the room with light. When she had inquired as to what her friend was doing up so late, she had quickly lied about finishing off an essay and decided that from then on that she would write elsewhere, having many privileges granted to her now that she was Head Girl. This was one of her main motives for exploring the castle that day, for she wanted to write one last time while she was still inside this school that was so dear to her. More than once the notebook had near escapes from being drowned in a downpour of bitter tears shed during the most trying times when she had seemed close to giving up hope of everything, including life itself, but something held her back. She could never quite put her finger on what it was that kept her living and holding on through the dark days, but it was there, and it anchored her down, keeping her safe.

Opening the large doors, she was greeted only by the almost stifling atmosphere of absolute silence and thin clouds of dust, swirling on the small breezes created by her sudden entrance before drifting down to settle on some of the books that were read the least. She walked to her favorite table in this perfect location to take refuge, as was known very well by a certain Hermione Granger, and sat down, wiping the top clean until the beautiful polished mahogany gleamed up at her as warm rays of sunlight fell across it, shining in through the windows.

She set the notebook down on it before flipping open the cover as she had done so many times in the past two years, writing in intervals of days and sometimes weeks, but still recording everything that she felt was worth writing down. Page after page was filled completely, front-to-back with writing, and she stopped turning the sheets so quickly whenever something caught her eye and she felt a desire to read it. When she had finally turned to the last page, still blank, she got her quill and a bottle of ink out of her bag to write one final letter.

---

Dear Harry,

I’ve written those two words over and over again, and yet they still hold the same sentimental meaning for me. Most people write it out of habit, but for me, it actually symbolizes something. I’ve spent a good part of my sixth and seventh years writing letters to you in this notebook, risking being discovered by the other girls in my dorm. You’ve almost been like my imaginary friend in a way, or a picture that can’t talk… I’m making absolutely no sense again…

He-who-must-not-be-named has returned. There is no doubt of that. And somehow, I know that you’ll have to face him sooner or later. Maybe we all knew that from the day we first learned the name Harry Potter, when you had defeated him the first time; we all knew deep down inside that this victory would be short-lived, although we would rather deny it. I have faith in you. You will succeed, whether or not you live to tell the tale. I see it in your eyes. As the famous quote goes, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.� I think that you and you alone can decide which one describes yourself. Although I would rather you live through your last encounter with You-know-who, I know that it is possible that you will not, and yet I believe that I could live on knowing that someone like you genuinely liked me once. You will not fail us. You will not fail me. If you die, you will die with honor and dignity, standing tall and proud, just as your parents would have wanted you to. You will die like a man. And if you survive, you’ll be able to say that you faced the Dark Lord and fought well. Or, being as modest as you are, you’ll let someone else tell your tale of courageousness and try to refrain from taking all the praise and recognition, saying simply that you had help along the way and that it was just luck. I just wish that I could say this to you, face-to-face…

I wish you luck in whatever career that you choose to pursue, and may life be more kind to you than it has been for the past sixteen years. Perhaps fate will take pity on me and our paths will cross later on in life, under different circumstances where I’ll be able to walk straight up to you, defiant of what anyone thinks, strong-minded and confident, and talk to you as I’ve often longed to. It’s too bad that the most pleasant dreams don’t always come true, similar to the curse of not being able to say anything in a verbal argument and then coming up with a perfect response to a particularly scathing insult three hours later. I won’t say good-bye; I actually refuse to. Even though you’ll never know anything about the contents of this notebook, I refuse to write good-bye in my last letter. Instead, I shall write until we meet again, to be on the positive side, like looking at the glass as half full instead of half empty. And now, I can finally write with certainty:

Love,
Cho

---

She ended her letters there, deciding to leave the back of the page blank, although she wasn’t quite sure why she had decided this; however, she had been so unsure about so many things lately that she paid no attention to it. As she closed the notebook, she felt an unexplainable sense of sadness, as though an important chapter of her life had been closed.

And it was.

Not lost forever exactly, but ended so that a new part in her life that would be much sweeter could be written.

She stood up, tears starting to gather in her eyes as they had done so many times before, but now, she didn’t try to contain them. She let a tear slowly course down her cheek, leaving a thin trail behind. And yet, it made her feel better. Crying uncontrollably and hysterically wasn’t quite the best for easing pain; subtle, slow tears were much more effective. However, knowing that those treacherous drops of water gained speed sooner than she would have liked them to, she let only two more tears fall before wiping them away and standing up.

She should have cast a charm on the notebook, to ensure that, if it would ever be found, its contents would be concealed from prying eyes, but she half-wanted him to find it. And then again, she didn’t. There was positively no one that she had been so brutally honest and trusting with as she had when she’d assumed the manner of writing to Harry. So naturally, the thought of him reading over the emotion-heavy words she herself had penned at all ungodly hours of the night and morning frightened her. She absently placed a hand on the side of her bag, reassured with the thought that the notebook was safe and secure there.

Sniffling a little, she casually checked her watch and saw that it was 9:00. 9:00… the graduation ceremony was in an hour and she hadn’t even started preparing, packing, everything that she needed to do before leaving! Hurrying, she grabbed her belongings and loosely stuck the notebook in her bag. Blowing a wisp of hair out of her face, she shouldered her bag and rushed out of the library, mentally scolding herself for her thoughtlessness. As she walked at a dangerously fast pace, she literally ran straight into Harry and in her hurry to get away never noticed that she had dropped something that she could not afford to leave lying around and found.

---

I know you think that I shouldn't still love you,
I'll tell you that.
But if I didn't say it, well I'd still have felt it
where's the sense in that?

I promise I'm not trying to make your life harder
Or return to where we were

Well I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be

I know I left too much mess and
destruction to come back again
And I caused but nothing but trouble
I understand if you can't talk to me again
And if you live by the rules of "it's over"
then I'm sure that that makes sense

Well I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be

And when we meet
Which I'm sure we will
All that was then
Will be there still
I'll let it pass
And hold my tongue
And you will think
That I've moved on....

Well I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be

I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be

I will go down with this ship
And I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love and always will be

-Dido, “White Flag�

---

Harry Potter walked at a brisk pace, although by no means happily. His face was drawn in a serious expression that was almost painful to behold and laughter coming from him was so rare that his friends treasured every sign of optimism that he showed, brief though they were.

Hermione and Ron had first suggested relaxing beside the lake that morning.

“Why don’t we all go out and get some fresh air?� Hermione suggested, smiling at him and jerking her head towards him as a hint to Ron.

Catching on, Ron agreed, “Y-yeah, that would be nice…�

“Have you packed?� Harry asked tonelessly.

“Yes, I packed last night,� Hermione nodded.

“Me too,� Ron added.

“I haven’t finished,� Harry said flatly, turning back to stare into the fire.

“Well, would you like some help?� Hermione inquired kindly.

“No, you go ahead. I’ll catch up.� Harry sighed, starting for the dormitory.

“Oh.� said Hermione, looking slightly crestfallen. “Well, don’t take too long… it’s beautiful outside today…�

And with that, she motioned for Ron to follow her and leave their friend in peace. He nodded and walked out of the portrait hole with her, both looking sad instead of worried, the kind of sadness that could be seen visibly and felt strongly.

Upstairs, true to his words, Harry had started packing, and he took as much time as he could. He knew that his friends had meant well, but right now, he needed time to brood by himself without the distractions of people constantly buzzing around him and trying to hold his hand as if he were a little boy. Well, they couldn’t help unless they could somehow undo the prophecy that had been thus far fulfilled and save him from his fate of having to either be murdered or commit murder. He had told no one about the full contents of the prophecy, being warned by Professor Dumbledore that the risks were too great for him to tell anyone, which was perfectly fine with him. People talked too much for their own good already, and he wasn’t about to add kindling to the flame.

He spent a good half hour (most of which was dedicated to finding his books; all of them had seemed to spread themselves around the room, hidden in corners and concealed behind desks) putting everything in his trunk before finally starting to head out to meet Hermione and Ron after checking to see that he had his wand.

And so, here he was now, walking and thinking ominous thoughts at the same time. However, they were interrupted when someone came rushing out of the library as he passed it, bumping into him. Cho Chang looked up at him, still being shorter than he, and gave a look of pure astonishment before flushing deep scarlet and brushing past him, murmuring an apology and dropping something in her haste.

Arching an eyebrow, he looked inquisitively at what she had dropped; it seemed to be a notebook of some sort. He turned to tell her that she had left something behind, but it was of no use; she had already disappeared. Resolving to give it to her later when he had a chance, although he had no idea as to when that may be, he shrank it to fit in his pocket before returning to his previous course. As he stepped outside, the sunshine and cheerful atmosphere got the better of him, and he managed to lighten his mood slightly and all thoughts about the notebook escaped his mind completely as he joined Hermione and Ron, who didn’t about getting wet due to the extreme heat, in a splashing war down by the lake.

---

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update; I've been horrendously busy. Constructive criticism and compliments are always welcome.