Her true name was Chang Mo Chou, but her father’s broken English and a typist’s mistake on her Hogwarts’ registration form tore away her old name and replaced it with a new label. She didn’t mind. She was used to being labeled and re-labeled, floating like a feather upon the winds of Western whims. Her skin was no longer moon-light pale, as her mother had praised in the nursery, it was the yellow of old parchment and early spring blossoms. Respecting authority and keeping quiet was no longer a sign of good breeding (how many times had her mother told her that children should keep open ears and silent tongues?) - somehow, in English, her behavior translated into painful shyness and introversion. Tea was drunk cold as tap water, masked by shades of milk and sugar and the electric zing of lemon. Words melted from labours of art into cold formulas, each element carefully measured and lined up behind the one before.
Like the world around her, she too was simplified for Western consumption. First name, Cho, middle name, Mo, last name, Chang. Cho Chang. Cho didn’t mind. The words sounded like bells, ringing in the quiet distance. So would she live, ringing quietly and steadily, waiting for someone to hear her music in the wind. But not silver bells, Cho whispers to herself, a bronze ling, reciting the poem of her complex existence.