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It’s 2014 when Hermione Granger calls her to ask if she’s coming to the reunion of Dumbledore’s Army. As years go, it’s a decent one. Hermione says they’re having a memorial for Cedric. It’s been nineteen years since his death, she says.
Nineteen years.
Everyone thinks Qiu should have moved on by now. They tell her Cedric would have wanted her to move on. That’s what her mother said when she found the ring in her grandmother’s belongings––when she discovered zidian.
She was twenty-three back then, and the war was over. She’d done her part. She’d fought brilliantly, a true Ravenclaw until the end, using her honed seeker skills to dart through the battlefield. Small and quick, that’s what she always was. The smallest seeker on the field. Cedric used to tease her about it. Harry and Draco might have been younger, but she was smaller. She was faster. She was fast enough to survive the Battle of Hogwarts.
No amount of speed would help her survive what came afterwards. She’d tried different things: a job at the Ministry, a year on the Falcons reserve team, even a few semesters at a muggle university. None of it stuck. The ministry job felt pointless. She was just another cog in a broken machine determined to limp along rather than fix itself. Quidditch was a nice enough distraction, but, every time she mounted a broom, she recalled the feeling of flying alongside Cedric, of grinning at him from across the pitch, of those Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff games where nothing mattered but the chase.
Cedric’s ghost haunted her at every corner. A smile on a stranger’s face. The feeling of a broom under her fingers. The memory of a laugh racing through Diagon Alley.
The muggle world offered a reprieve from the ghosts of the boy she’d once loved. University had been pleasant enough. She’d studied economics. She was good at it––the top of her class––a true Ravenclaw even in a world where such things did not matter. She met a boy at university: Rob. He was nice. Funny. He liked her, and she liked him well enough. When he kissed her, she cried. She didn’t have the heart to tell him why.
For years after the Battle of Hogwarts, she drifted seamlessly. Then, her grandmother died, her mother’s mother. They were estranged––they had been since her mother decided to go to Hogwarts––every New Year celebration was filled with bickering about her mother betraying her bloodline––but she was her only child. Her mother was left to deal with the burial, the will, and the rest of it. Qiu offered to help.
She was put in charge of cleaning out her grandmother’s house. Her mother wanted it sold. What couldn’t be sold was sent to the muggle charity shops she knew of, thanks to Rob. It was as she was packing away her grandmother’s jewelry box that she found the ring.
It was silver––tarnished silver. More black than silver, honestly, at this point. And old. Ancient-looking, but sturdy. A purple gem sat in the center. Was it an amethyst? No. It looked like lavender jade. The ring buzzed with an unfamiliar magic beneath her fingers. For the first time in years, Qiu found her curiosity being piqued.
She slipped it on her ring finger. Flexing her hand, she admired the stone. It glistened brilliantly in the morning light. When she curled her hand into a fist, hoping to admire it from another angle, purple sparks burst free of the ring, winding together into a whip. Qiu jumped back, startled, dropping the whip. It retracted into the ring as soon as it hit the ground.
What was that?
“Oh, you found that ugly thing,” her mother commented when Qiu placed the last of the boxes in the boot of her car.
“What is it?” Qiu asked. What is this magic she’s never felt before? What is this ring that turns into a weapon, not a wand?
“A family heirloom from some long-lost cultivator ancestor. You know my mother. She was obsessed with bringing back cultivation. She even thought she could track down some immortals to teach her their ways.” She scoffed as if that was the most ridiculous idea she’d ever heard. “Cultivators are nothing more than a fairytale.”
Like wizards. Like witches. Qiu did not voice her thoughts to her mother. She would dismiss them, or worse, be worried for her fragile daughter, her daughter who couldn’t move on, who was hung up on a dead love. Qiu didn’t say anything because she remembered her grandmother’s stories. She remembered the Yiling Patriarch.
Wizards and witches had necromancers, beings who twisted themselves into abominations and created zombies and ghouls. There was the more secret, but now well-known, matter of horocruxes. There were vampires. But, in the world of wands and wizards, in the world Qiu had grown up in, it was impossible to bring someone back from the dead.
In her grandmother’s stories, it wasn’t.
She spent two years searching for stories, for immortal cultivators who’d learned to adapt to modern times. Two years chasing stories across the world, wondering if she was crazy, if she should give up, if she should go back to university and settle down with some nice muggle boy, forgetting the ghost of the boy who she’d once loved. Two years. Two impossibly long, agonizing years.
She met him in an internet cafe in Wuhan. It was 2005.
As she did whenever she felt like she was approaching the brink of despair, Qiu curled her hand into a fist. Zidian––she’d learned its name a year and a half ago––sprang from its ring. The whip settled in her hand, buzzing with electricity and magic. She’d learned a few tricks over her years searching, but she wasn’t as proficient with the weapon as she was with her wand. For the most part, she simply held it, gripping onto it like a lifeline, a physical reassurance that she wasn’t going mad. That was what she did that day in that internet cafe.
A man sat down next to her. He was dressed in black jeans that sagged the way muggle jeans seemed to and a red shirt with some logo she didn’t recognize on it. He was lithe––skinny, even––but there was a strength to the way he held himself. He sipped his coffee, his eyes flicking from her to the whip then back to her face.
“It’s the nose,” he announced as if that meant something. He gestured to his face. “The brow too, a bit of the cheekbones. Not the eyes. No. Those are different. The nose, though. That’s what marks you as a Jin.”
That was her mother’s maiden name. Jin. Her grandmother had claimed they were once an ancient sect, revered by all for their prowess. Important. That was what her grandmother had wanted: to be important. That was why she’d pursued cultivation.
Qiu didn’t care about importance. She cared about Cedric.
“My name is Qiu Zhang,” she said. “Although everyone at school called me Cho Chang.”
“Why’d you let them do that?”
Qiu shrugged. “It was easier.”
Besides, it was how it had been spelled out in her acceptance letter. She didn’t have the energy to correct people––to tell them that the Q was pronounced like a ch. It had been easier to just go along with it.
The only person who’d ever asked was Cedric.
“Ah.” The man nodded. “A Jin trait, I’m afraid.”
“Have you known many of my ancestors?”
“Who said I knew your ancestors?”
“You did. It’s the nose.”
The man chuckled at her words. “You’re clever like my jiejie. You look like her the most––that’s where the ring is from. Neither of those were Jin traits when I was your age.”
“And how long ago was that?”
The man gasped. “You should know better than to ask a lady her age.”
Qiu shook her head. “Ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told many times, usually by my husband.” He squinted at her once, scrutinizing her features again. “A Lan must have married into your line at one point. The head shaking––the frown––that’s a Lan trait.”
“So you’ve been around for a long time–”
“Hey!”
“–And you know a lot about the ancient cultivation sects,” Qiu surmised. “Do you know anything about the Yiling Patriarch?”
The man snorted. “Honey, I am the Yiling Patriarch.”
And that was how Qiu met Wei Wuxian. In an internet cafe. In 2005. Quite by chance. She’d followed rumors of immortals, and she’d found one, which turned into two when Wei Wuxian insisted on taking her home to meet his husband, Lan Wangji, who was as different from Wei Wuxian as night was from day. Yet they fit like two pieces of a puzzle.
Watching them over the dinner table, Qiu was struck with a pang of loneliness. She’d had this once. She remembered sitting next to Cedric in the Great Hall, laughing with their friends, the teasing glint in his eye, the lilt of his voice that whispered love in every word. She’d had that for such a short period of time, and she’d lost it.
She’d tried to move on. Harry Potter wanted her. After Cedric, it was flattering to be wanted by the Chosen One, one of the most popular boys in school. He was so brave and courageous, like a hero from a storybook. And he’d been there. He’d seen Cedric die. Cedric’s last words were to Harry. She’d thought she could maybe love him too.
She was wrong.
Rob was the same. A nice bloke. A friendly bloke. The kind of guy who always picked up the tab. He was a good kisser, too. She’d thought, maybe, she could love him, but she couldn’t.
There was one person for her, and he was dead.
When she asked Wei Wuxian to help her fix it––to bring Cedric back––he’d hesitated. The look that passed over his face could only be described as heartbroken. “I’m sorry,” he’d said. “I can’t do that. It’s been too long. Even if I could, there are some people who are impossible to bring back––impossible to reach. If he’s moved on… I’m sorry.”
She got angry after that. Two years she’d spent searching––two years she’d held out hope––and now, nothing. It was all for nothing. She yelled at him. She could not remember the words she’d shouted, but she knew they were unkind. She knew Wei Wuxian did not deserve them.
Lan Wangji stopped her with a quiet comment. “You could gamble with the ghost king.”
Wei Wuxian inhaled sharply. “Lan Zhan–”
“It’s what I tried to do when you were gone. I found my way to the Ghost City and I tried to gamble with Crimson Rain Sought Flower. He did not let me.”
“But could he help?” Qiu felt a stirring of hope again.
Lan Wangji nodded. Wei Wuxian was far more hesitant. Lan Wangji said it was because he did not understand. He was not the one who’d waited for his beloved, desperate for him to return. When Wei Wuxian’s loved ones died, he regretted, he mourned, and he moved on. He was lucky in that way. Lan Wangji was like Qiu: desperate. He understood why she needed to go to the Ghost City.
Qiu had been to many magical districts in her travels, but none of them could hold a candle to Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s legendary Ghost City. It was half monstrous, half wondrous. A place filled with crimson lanterns and vendors hawking wares. She passed by a demon selling cakes with eyes in them and a ghost selling Tamagotchis. The beings inhabiting this realm were unlike any Qiu had ever seen. The Ministry of Magic would freak out if they ever stumbled onto the streets of Diagon Alley.
This place was wondrous.
The gambling hall was as magnificent as the rest of the city. Nerves buzzed beneath her skin as Qiu awaited her turn to play the Ghost King. Here, money was not the currency of choice. No, it was years, lives, love, and anything else a person valued. Qiu would bet her magic, she decided. If she lost, she had no need for it anyway. She was comfortable enough in the muggle world. There was no point in returning to the magical world without Cedric.
Before Qiu could join the table, a man in white robes approached her. His long brown hair swayed behind him as he walked. He would have looked odd on the streets of Shanghai, but here, in Ghost City, he was simply another face. A handsome one at that. Qiu felt a heavy weight upon her, as if someone was watching them, as the man smiled at her.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“The same thing as everyone else.”
“You desire riches?” He referenced the man currently playing dice with the hidden ghost kind above them.
“Love,” Qiu admitted. “The person I love was taken from me. He died––was killed by a dark lord, or, well, one of his minions, technically, but it’s all the same. He died, and I’ve tried to move on, but… I can’t.”
“I know how you feel,” the man said with a sincerity she didn’t doubt. “I desire to offer you what little help I can.”
“How? No offense, but I came here to play the ghost king. You’re not him.”
“No. I’m not,” the man agreed. “I’m Xie Lian.”
Qiu did not believe in gods until she met the ruler of the heavens. He smiled at her awkwardly as if he were embarrassed by his title, then led her past the gambling den to Crimson Rain Sought Flower’s palace. He poured her tea, which she choked down without offending him. Somehow, the ruler of the heavens had managed to burn the tea leaves. Qiu did not think it appropriate to tell him that.
“I admit your appearance caught me off guard, even though I was told to expect it,” Xie Lian said. “I did not expect you to be a cultivator. Qiu Zhang is a witch, not a cultivator.”
“I am a witch,” Qiu pointed out. She supposed Lan Wangji had told the heavenly emperor she was coming. She would have liked a little warning––thank you, Lan Wangji. “I’m not a cultivator.”
“You carry a spiritual weapon, and you possess a magical core. You are a cultivator.”
She was not brave enough to argue otherwise.
“So, tell me more about this love of yours.”
What was there to say about Cedric? When she was a first year, she’d accompany her friends to the quidditch pitch to watch him practice. While the other girls were swooning over his looks, she was studying his form. She’d given him pointers that first year, and he’d taken them to heart. When a move she’d suggested helped him catch the snitch, they’d become friends. From that friendship, something bigger blossomed: blushes at accidental brushes, lingering touches, an electricity she’d never felt with anyone else, and an understanding so deep she didn’t need to vocalize it. He kissed her the summer she turned sixteen, right before her fifth year, hidden under the bleachers after the Quidditch World Cup. She’d loved him for as long as she’d known what love was, and then, he was gone.
She told Xie Lian all of it. Every last sappy story. He smiled along, reacting at just the right moments, genuinely interested in what she had to say. She understood why the other gods had chosen him to rule the heavens. Xie Lian felt like a friend.
Eventually, they were joined by the ghost king, by Crimson Rain Saught Flower, by Hua Cheng, by San Lang, as Xie Lian called him. Qiu did not address the ghost king by that name. It felt private.
“Qiu here is searching for her departed love,” Xie Lian told Hua Cheng, who Qiu thought might be his husband. The two seemed overly affectionate with each other, but, unlike Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, they did not announce it to every passing… cultivator witch.
“Is she?” Hua Cheng asked. “And what will you do if he has moved on from this world?”
“Has he?” Qiu asked. If anyone were to know, wouldn’t the ghost king? Wasn’t this his domain?
Hua Cheng tilted his head to the side. He did not look at either Qiu or Xie Lian as he listened to an invisible voice whisper in his ear. Finally, after a long moment where Qiu’s heart pounded rapidly in her chest, he answered, “Do you believe he’s moved on?”
Did she? It was not a question Qiu had asked herself in all this time searching. No, was her answer. If Cedric had moved on, surely she would be able to move on as well. Surely she would be able to marry a nice muggle boy and do her best to forget about the tragedy that haunted her dreams.
“No,” Qiu answered honestly.
Reaching into his robes, Hua Cheng pulled out a red string. He took Qiu’s hand in his own and tied the string around her finger. The other end he threw into the distance. It disappeared, hanging there suspended, a string to guide her.
“Follow that string,” Hua Cheng said. “It will take you to your answers.”
Compared to the years she’d spent searching, following the string took no time. Four days was how long it took her to travel from Shanghai to London, then take a car north, following the string the entire time. Four days was how long it took her to travel to Hogwarts.
It was the summer. There were no students wandering around the grounds. Most of the teachers had gone home for the summer, and those who had stayed did not notice her slipping in. They did not notice her following the red string that pulled her away from the school towards the quidditch grounds. No one saw Qiu approach the field she’d once held sacred––no one save for the freshly born Great Calamity.
A ghost sat on the quidditch pitch. He did not look like the ghosts that roamed the halls of Hogwarts. He was not transparent. There was nothing impermanent about his presence. He sat in stylish black robes, leaning against the bleachers as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked as handsome as he had the last time Qiu saw him. His face lit up when he noticed her approach. Abandoning the stands, he raced across the pitch, stopping before her.
“You found me,” Cedric breathed.
“I did,” she agreed.
Later, Qiu would ask him where he had been all this time. Later, Cedric would tell her a story about a fight, about a kiln, about a place where ghosts were forged into something more. Later, they would leave behind this place and find their way in their new world––a world of ghosts and cultivators. Later.
Right at that moment, Qiu kissed Cedric for the first time since she was sixteen, and he kissed her back.
It’s 2014 when Hermione Granger calls Qiu. As years go, it’s a decent one. It’s a lot better than those years she spent alone, trying to move on from a love that she was never meant to leave behind. She and Cedric are visiting the Cloud Recesses, the last of the surviving cultivation sects. She has to go down the mountain to answer Hermione’s call on her cell phone. It would seem both she and Hermione prefer things a little bit the muggle way.
“Are you coming to the Dumbledore’s Army reunion?" Hermione asks. “It’s in May.”
“Probably not,” Qiu admits.
Hermione sighs. “I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye, but I really think you should be there. We’re having a memorial for Cedric. It would mean a lot to Harry and everyone if you could say a few words.”
“I moved away.” It’s a lame excuse, but Qiu doesn't want to go to the reunion. “Thanks for the invitation, Hermione, but I’m in a really good place right now, and I feel like going back…”
“Would remind you of everything,” Hermione finishes for her. “I’m glad you’ve managed to find your own happiness, even if it is away from the rest of us.” A beat, then, “What did you get up to after everything?”
Qiu glances over her shoulder to where Cedric is sitting on the steps leading up to the Cloud Recesses, watching her chat with a loving smile. They’re having dinner with Xie Lian and Hua Cheng later this week. Wei Wuxian has been teaching her how to use zidian, how to properly cultivate so she can join her newfound family in immortality. If she told Hermione the truth, would she believe her?
Probably not, Qiu decides. She wouldn't believe herself in Hermione's shoes.
Qiu grins at Cedric as she tells Hermione, “Didn’t you hear? I married a muggle.”