Sleeping With Ghosts

Sleeping With Ghosts

Cho turns her head to the sky, breathes in, lets the rain kiss her face. She has been walking for what seems like days (but is really three hours) through the icy rain, wearing only thin robes. Her cloaks lies in a gutter somewhere, her wand tucked into its pocket, but she has forgotten it by now. Her body feels nothing. Her mind is a blank page, the ink of her thoughts washed from the paper when the storm began.

She steps off the cobblestone road, drawn to the promise of an amber glow on the horizon. Could it be - a city? The prospect is tantalizing. She licks her lips, longing for a brandy to warm her bones and a place to rest her blistered, aching feet. But she does not get far before her shoes are stuck in the thick, heavy mud, and with a cry, she finds that she cannot move. For a moment, she considers letting the earth swallow her up, drowning in mud and rain and tears, but then she laughs bitterly at herself and bends down to untie her shoes.

Freed, Cho presses on, her sodden socks like weights bound to her feet. Each step is a struggle. The road calls to her, its hard, slippery stones singing their siren song of relief from the fight. But the light is stronger, and so she continues, like a moth to the flame.

She wonders, then, sweating, panting, and shivering, what the Death Eaters have done to her wand. Snapped it in two? Years ago she would have cried at the prospect, but now she feels only a dull ache somewhere deep in her chest. If she ever makes it out of these fields and back to civilisation, a new wand can be made. She will mend her life when she's done running. Running, like she's been doing for six years.

Has it really been six years?

Somehow, that seems impossible. The pains and aches in her body, the lines on her face, the numbness of her heart, tell Cho that it has been an eternity. An eternity of fighting, of running, of lying, of holding back the tears. But the memory of Cedric's body lying in Harry Potter's arms is still a fresh wound on her mind, unscarred by time. That night she will never forget: the night Voldemort rose again. She no longer shivers at the name. The only thing she fears now is herself.

All the deaths since Cedric have blurred together in her mind, a collage of screams and blood and light. There is always that green light, every time.

She remembers the light of the Dark Mark above her own home, years ago. She remembers her mother's dark, glassy eyes, wide open in shock, her perfect body unmarred as she lays dead by her bedroom door. She remembers sitting on the floor next to the corpse, stroking its hair and singing it lullabies until the sun comes up and profanes her mother's memory with its harsh, unforgiving light. Beyond that, all she has is the memory of a funeral - not her mother's; no one's in particular, really. Just the gravestones and the smell of wet, freshly upturned earth, and the rain. Rain.

It is still coming down heavily, but Cho has ceased to feel it. The city lights have grown closer, and she can clearly see the silhouettes of buildings, standing like lonely guardsmen on the bare horizon. She begins to run, yanking her feet out of the earth with a sucking sound. She stumbles, falls - a cry escapes her lips as she tumbles to the ground.

Filthy but determined, she pulls herself to her feet and presses on. The rain begins to slow. It falls lazily, splashing carelessly into the puddles on the ground, until it ceases to fall altogether. The heavy grey blanket of the sky rips. Feeble rays of pale sunlight caress Cho's frozen cheeks and she closes her eyes, letting their weak heat warm her skin.

She reaches the city a short time later, covered in mud and still dripping rainwater. The streets are unfamiliar to her; she has never been here before. The few people that have ventured outside do not seem to notice her, and so she ignores them as well and staggers to the nearest pub.

The nearest pub turns out to simply be called Alistair's, a boiling, chaotic hellhole stuffed to bursting with boisterous magical folk. Cho breathes a sigh of relief at having found a wizarding establishment, but immediately chokes on a mouthful of smoke from some strange magical drug and vows not to open her mouth again except to pour liquor down her throat.

She plans to get so drunk she forgets the past few days, passes out in the gutter outside the pub, wakes up with a massive hangover, and then sets to work finding a job. She'll do anything she has to, as long as this place is safe. As long as the Death Eaters never find her here.

Loud music rolls painfully over her in waves as she struggles to find a navigable path to the bar. Dirty-faced wizards wink and catcall at her as she fights through the crowd, driven by the delicious promise of good booze. The sea of bodies finally parts, allowing her to take a barstool. Dazed, she orders an ale. As the bartender goes to fetch it, she looks around at her surroundings. There are few women here. The inhabitants are mostly men: sweaty, old, drunken men who eye her like a piece of fresh meat. She tears her gaze away from them and turns.

Her eyes stop.

Beside her is a man. Not just any man, but a man with bloodshot grey eyes, greasy brown hair, and a strong jaw. He has shaved his beard (the mustache still remains, however), but the face is unmistakable. The ruddy skin. The genial curve of the lips. The deeply etched laugh lines.

Amos Diggory.

The bartender slides her drink across the table, and she blindly tosses him a handful of galleons in return. Her tremblings hands squeeze the frosted glass and she brings it to her lips, heart thudding, eyes never leaving Amos. She takes a long swig, the cold liquid soothing her parched throat and calming her violently shuddering body. Her weight shifts, and splinters from the old barstool dig into her tender flesh. Her eyes never leave Amos.

He seems to become aware of her penetrating stare, then, and he turns his head. His bleary eyes meet hers. He freezes, a horrified look of recognition crossing his features. Cho forces an unsteady smile.

"Cho? Cho Chang?" he says, incredulously.

"Amos Diggory," she breathes.

He reaches out to shake her hand and accidentally knocks over his drink. Crimson wine soaks his off-white shirt like blood, and Cho stiffens. For a moment, Amos's face fades into Cedric's, lying dead in Harry's arms, a terrified look on his beautiful features. She blinks, and the image is gone. Cho pulls a damp handkerchief out of her breast pocket and tries to wipe the stain from Mr. Diggory's shirt, to no avail. He laughs, softly, without mirth.

"Stop, Cho. It's ruined."

She meets his eyes again. "I'm sorry." Her voice is the wind rustling the dead leaves of autumn, barely audible. She pauses. "It's been so long since I've seen you."

He nods. "Quite a few years."

Realising that her hand has been resting on his chest throughout the whole exchange, Cho withdraws it, shyly. Amos studies her face, carefully, before he gestures outside. His movements are uncoordinated . . . drunken. Cho pays no heed. She nods and knocks back her entire ale before he has time to elaborate.

They make their way back through the crowd wordlessly. The cool air outdoors is a welcome relief after the hot, smoky air inside the pub, and Cho gulps it down. Amos leans uncomfortably against the wall, watching her with intense interest. He fiddles in his pocket for something.

"Cigarette?"

Cho blinks. She had forgotten the taste of cigarettes and the way her body used to crave them in the years after Cedric's death, during her time at the Department of Mysteries. They were like oxygen to her back then, which she thought was morbidly ironic, considering the damage they did to her oxygen-sucking lungs.

"Yes, please," she says, taking the proffered cigarette and letting Amos light it with his wand. For a moment, she intensely misses her own wand, but distracts herself by taking a long drag on the cigarette.

Amos and Cho stand silently smoking for a few minutes, enjoying the early spring air. Cho wonders what to say to him, and prays that he will do most of the talking. What can she say to her dead boyfriend's father that hasn't been said at the funeral, the last time she saw him? He had cried so much, then . . .

"How have you been?" Amos asks.

Cho jumps. "I've been all right," she says. "You?"

He shrugs, wearily. "I'm still trying to get used to Cedric being gone."

Caught off guard by his candid speech, Cho merely manages an "Oh." Then she sighs. "So am I."

Their eyes meet. Amos is so much like Cedric would have been, should have been, was. His eyes, though shot with red, are the same grey. His nose is the same, high cheekbones the same, height the same. If not for his bushy mustache and ruddy face, Cho thinks he would be handsome, for his age. She stops herself, shocked that she'd ever think that. He is twenty years older than her, at least. And the father of the only boy she ever loved . . .

"How is your wife?" Cho struggles to remind herself that Amos is married.

"We've been divorced for five years," Amos says sullenly. "She said I reminded her too much of Cedric." He gives a heavy sigh. "I remind myself too much of Cedric, I told her, but I can't escape myself. I try - that's why I come to places like this. Why are you here?"

She struggles to concoct a lie, but decides against it at the last minute. "I'm running from Death Eaters. They raided my office, kidnapped me, and messed with my magic. When I tried to Apparate, I ended up in the middle of nowhere without a cloak or a wand. I've been running for three hours at least." She keeps her voice emotionless.

Amos is looking at her in horror. She tries to appear brave, but her exhaustion is too plain to see and she feels it too deeply to disguise it.

"Do you need a place to stay tonight?"

She wants to appear prepared, but the thought of sleeping on the streets keeps her from lying. She nods, frantically. Amos gives her a returning nod and motions to a nearby hotel. She follows his gesture down the moonlit street. Night has crept in like a stealthy thief, stealing away the sun to be her captive until morning comes.

"I have a room there," Amos was explaining. "You can stay there until we find somewhere else."

Cho nods, and then he has grabbed her elbow and is leading her down the street, struggling with small talk. She answers his questions adequately but dispassionately, distracted by his warm fingers on her cool, white arm. They reach the hotel and he takes her upstairs to the third floor, where he stops at an orange door and taps his wand against the keyhole, muttering a password. The door swings open.

Amos steps in. He claps his hands and flourescent lights illuminate the tiny room. The carpet is an unflattering shade of sea green. The walls are painted a lighter, minty green, and adorned with paintings of mermaids that doze peacefully in their frames. The large, single bed is lit by starlight and moonlight streaming in from the open window. The entire room smells sterilized, like a hospital. Amos is rummaging around in the cramped closet for extra pillows and blankets.

"I"ll sleep on the floor," he says in a muffled voice, "and you can have the bed. Is that all right? Cho?"

He turns around, clutching a huge, ugly blanket and two rock-hard pillows, to see Cho sitting on the bed, her arms outstretched towards him. She motions with her small fingers for him to come closer. He hesitates, looking around, as if to check for spies hidden in the shadows, then drops the pillows and blankets and crosses the distance between them.

When he is about a metre away from where Cho sits, she slowly wraps her arms around the back of his legs and pulls him closer. He stands trembling as she reaches up to unbutton his stained shirt. She has ceased to see him now; he has melted into Cedric. She is making up for the nights she lost with his son, and by the way he shakes, she is sure that he knows it. Her soft lips meet the skin of his stomach. She is surprised by how thin he is, but then she is too thin as well, a mark of her grief.

Her mouth runs down the line of hair below his navel, and when it meets the top of his trousers, she reaches up to unbutton them. Removing his belt, she slides backwards onto the bed and pulls him down to her, removing his trousers in the process. His hands cup her chin and just before their lips meet, he softly grazes her cheek.

"This is wrong, Cho," he whispers.

"I know," she replies, covering his face with kisses. "But you've wanted me so long, haven't you, Mr. Diggory? I remember how you used to look at me when Cedric brought me home."

Amos's hands, undoing Cho's blouse, are convulsing now. "But - but my son loved you," he protests. "You belong to my son."

"I loved your son as well," Cho says, her hands now cradling Mr. Diggory's face. "But your son is dead."

His hands are resting on her breasts, trembling, and his grey gaze resting on her own black one. She knows how pale she is, how skinny - he treats her like a china doll, touching her as if he might break her. She is slippery, from sweat, rainwater, and mud, and his hands slide across her slick skin.

"He would not have wanted this," Amos whispers.

"But I want this," Cho says.

Then she brings her mouth to his, and any more protests are silenced. He tastes of alcohol and cigarettes, sweet and sour and smoky. She breathes him in.

She holds him, kisses him, touches him, all with the knowledge of who he is, and of how drunk he is. The way he keeps one hand on the small of her back is just like Cedric, and she begins to cry, holding Amos's head to her chest and running her fingers through his hair. Later, when she is face-to-face with him again, she does not see him, but Cedric. It is Cedric whose arms she rests in. Her thin arms entwine around the ghost of a boy long dead, feeling his forgotten heartbeat against her own.

Night fades into morning and Cho is sleeping, her naked body sprawled across the cotton sheets. Amos wakes at the first light of the sun and traces his fingers over the places where his own teardrops fell on her skin, staring at the girl his son loved and understanding why his son did. Then sleeps takes him again and he closes his eyes.

Cho wakes mere hours later. It is time to run again.