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.”