cho chang

-(Jessica Henwick, Ciswoman, 28) did you see that person over there? that’s CHO CHANG. they’re a HALF-BLOOD and work as a HEALER at ST. MUNGO’S. honestly, they’re A BIT OF A DOORMAT. i can tolerate them though as they can also be LOYAL. they remind me of the warmth of a soup eaten on a sick day and dark circles under the eyes. anyway, i heard they’re POLITICALLY APATHETIC. watch your back around them.

TW: Mention of Dead Body, Grief, Mention of Therapy

it takes daphne no more than a minute to convince the bartender and within seconds there is a bowl in front of them. the addition of the vodka and sugar is genius and she closes her eyes as her lips wrap around the red globe of the cherry. “this was such a good idea,” she says with a moan, spitting out the pit gracefully – if one could even do so gracefully. she takes another cherry, offers it to cho with a smile. “bear the fruit of your genius, your majesty,” she jokes, feeling giddy as the set turns into something more upbeat. she doesn’t mind this down time by the bar, but she would much rather be bouncing on her feet.

daphne leans close, furrows her brows as if cho has just said something pressing. she’s tempted to let out a tear or two, having mastered the art of crying on the spot, but she doesn’t and it’s worth it to see cho fend off the stranger. though in all honesty, daphne wouldn’t have minded being her savior for the night.

“harsh,” she kids, “couldn’t even give the lad your name, huh?” she’s smiling and perhaps it has to do with being the center of cho’s attention, or anyone’s really. she spent so much of her childhood making herself small for the men around her, it’s refreshing to finally be free. daphne smiles sweetly at the bartender and he looks at her, mesmerized, before taking the bottle of vodka and pouring a splash. “hmmm, what would you do without me?”

-

She takes the cherry Daphne offers and pops it in her mouth, laughing along. Hanging out with Daphne is easy and comforting. There’s always been an ease in their interactions. And Cho likes that she doesn’t have to be perfect or prim and proper around Daphne. They can just be two girls, getting drunk off of cherries vodka (or vodka cherries?) and everything will be fine.

She’s missed this. She must admit that she likes it better when Daphne is off-duty, when she’s reachable by quick owls instead of trans Atlantic owls.

“If I give them my name, they might show up at the hospital,” she puts up a look of pretend dread, giggling before shaking her head. The image of someone romantically-interested in her trying to find her at Mungo’s is horrifying. “That would be like someone taking a Portkey all the way to your digsite, just to see you. Which would be impressive but also slightly creepy.” Cho points out, already reaching for another cherry.

When the bartender comes over once again to pour another splash of vodka into their cherries, utterly bewitched by Daphne, Cho has to hold back her laughter. Daphne really can get her way anywhere. Her confidence and charisma are something else entirely. Cho doesn’t have Daphne’s aura. She prefers to be lowkey, to not draw much attention to herself, to only let herself be seen when she wants to be seen. After the war and the onslaught of interviews focused in framing her as a widow of some sort, she finds it’s easier to fade into the background. To make herself a tiny bit smaller so that the media loses interest in her.

Justin was quiet for a little, looking into his glass almost pensively. “It’s always about the money not the people, yeah?” he said, a rueful smile crossing his expression. Maybe he needed to lay off the drinks. He always got too thoughtful and bitter after drinking too much, and a place like this with a party like this going on around him was not the place for it. Maybe at the end of the night, early early in the morning, he would pour himself into the bed of one of his friends, and complain to them about what a burden it was to have such a wealthy family.

At the moment he didn’t feel like sounding like that much of an intolerable prick to his own ears, or to Cho’s. So, he left it at that. It was better to sit and think about new ideas for charity events.

A party like this was certainly inspiring.

“If you dress hard alcohol up in sweet drinks people are less likely to complain as well,” He said. A bit like being young, and unable to stand the taste of real alcohol. Pour in the sweetest drinks you could find and you’d be fine with it. Posh people looking to off load money for a good cause were not so different than a first year university student. “Really? That would be great,” Justin said perking up a little bit at the thought of Cho helping him with some galas. Even a little bit. It could be a lot of fun. “I’ve been speaking with some of the administration at Mungo’s. I’d like to do more work outside of the Ministry, and TPF, honestly.”

Not to mention that if Justin really had political aspirations (which he did) it would look good. That wasn’t why he did charity work like that, he really did want to help where he could help, but it was hard to deny.

Cho nods, agreeing with him. People, their personalities and their lives and the things they do, seem to always place second. Money prevails and lands on top always for her grandparents. Sometimes she wonders if they see her as a person with individuality or simply as an unexplored currency. They look at her with such fascination sometimes, asking her questions about investments in the Wizarding World and calculating Galleon to pound exchanges inside their heads. Other times they ask about her Taiwanese passport, the one document her father’s family filed for her to have. And then they’d talk about offshore accounts and tax havens. Muggle wealthy families are as dirty as they come.

“The money is what makes the person worthwhile it seems,” she gives him a neutral smile, trying not to seem too bothered by the idea.

When he shifts the topic to parties, she’s almost glad. Her family’s money and the money her family dips their toes in are sensitive matters. And she isn’t quite drunk enough to really explore where that money came from and where it goes.

“That’s true. That’s why they serve Buck’s Fizz at Christmas breakfast instead of straight up alcohol. People like it better when they’re getting wasted without tasting the alcohol.” It’s a psychology thing really. The feeling of less guilt. It’s the same idea as drinking a diet coke instead of a regular coke; a diet coke has the word “diet” on it. A diet coke sounds more harmless. “Mungo’s would like that. We usually do fundraising galas annually but the administration would love more charity events,” The Mungo’s needs more money after all. “I think instead of approaching the administration as a whole, you can approach the ward overseers instead. The administration listens to them.”

“Absolutely. The one with the polka dots should do,” he said, nodding along. He noticed her watching him for a moment. It was subtle, but her eyes were still locked onto him, scanning him, like she was making sure he was not going to fall onto the ground and dissolve into a million pieces. (he’d done that once already in front of his mother and he was determined that was not going to happen again.) 

George’s hand flew over his heart and he let out a gasp of mock hurt. “Well, Cho, I was under the impression that you would search every seedy corner of London until you’d found out what exactly happened to me, all by yourself.” Shaking his head in mock dismay, he turned away from her to look out at the crowd (and hid the smile on his face). “Well, I suppose if you put Harry on the case then that would be good enough.”

And there it was. The one question he hated most in the world. It was phrased differently than other people would have chosen to ask it, but it was still the same, ‘are you ok? Is there anything I can do?’ And the answer was always ‘no,’ but he’d grown tired of the polite smile that he used to fake whenever anyone asked him that.

He looked away from Cho and back out into the crowd. 

She tried to make it seem like she wasn’t asking that same question by masking it with the shop, but George knew what she meant. “I’m fine,” he said casually. “Shop’s been great. Lots of sales and lots of kids coming in.”

-

She laughs at his theatrics. George has a way of delivering words that is innately funny. His exaggeration and expression are always so spot on for whatever one liner he’s about to crack. It’s his comedic timing and tone that really makes his jokes land with her.

“You know I’d make a very bad detective,” she replies, amused. “And the first twenty hours after someone goes missing are the most crucial hours. If I spent those twenty four hours going around seedy corners in London instead of reporting you missing, then I probably killed you or I helped the killer kill you.” Not that Cho would ever kill George or anyone. She doesn’t think she’s made for a life of crime, she’s too much of a goody two shoe to go on a murder spree. “I’d put whichever Auror they give me on the case.” she promises, sipping the last of her drink.

She can see him withdrawing the moment she asks him her last question, the question she tries to deliver as delicate as possible. Cho doesn’t have great timing or a way with words. She’s never been good at asking questions subtly and inoffensively. Still, they’re close friends. She figures she should be able to ask him this question and make sure he’s actually okay.

Cho pokes his arm. “Why are you looking away?” she asks again. He probably hates the question she asked. He probably doesn’t like talking about it. He probably has a different approach to handling his emotions than Cho. But she doesn’t want him to withdraw like this. Or to give her the classical answer like this. “So shop is great,” she nods her head. “How about you? Answer me honestly?”

When Cho Chang turns around to face her, Pansy feels that same little burn of envy from her days at Hogwarts. Cho seems like she’s as put together on the inside as she is outwardly, effortlessly beautiful and successful. She vaguely remembers instances of Cho crying during school, something about that Hufflepuff boy, but Pansy had been so removed from all that back then (plus a year younger) that it never really registered. She’d always been a little jealous that Cho had lots of friends, excelled in her classes (Ravenclaw, hello), was good at quidditch, and had plenty of boys (and girls) drooling over her. Pansy’s obviously not into men, but it’s nice to feel wanted, or so she assumes.

“Cho!” She smiles conspiratorially, like they’re old friends. “So good to see you. What are you up to these days?” Pansy slides along the bar so they’re a little closer and can hear each other better. She waves a hand, brushing off Cho’s comments. “Pretty sure that’s rubbish,” she says. “I mean, not for muggles, they can get cancer and all that—but I heard us wixen can’t? Or is that a conspiracy theory? Either way,” she continues, “if the muggles I serve every night can’t be bothered to give it up despite the risks, why should I?”

Pansy takes a sip of her hot pink drink; it’s a bit too sweet for her liking, but at least she can taste the punch of booze, so it’ll do the trick. “I suppose I can at least wait til I’m home. What’s your drug of choice, then? Or are you not into all that? Perfectly respectable, of course,” she adds. She’s a little surprised perfect Cho is even talking to her, and doesn’t want to scare the first amicable person off immediately. Pansy knows she can be intense.

Pansy Parkinson is treating her like an old friend, like they’ve talked a lot before, like they were close before. It feels weird and forced. But Cho isn’t taught to be rude or impolite to people so she follows Pansy’s lead and treats her with the politeness she reserves for old friends and acquaintances. “It’s a conspiracy theory,” she starts to explain. “Wixen can catch Muggle diseases too. That includes cancer. We’ve got a research on that in the Mungo’s. I’m employed at the Mungo’s.” The last part she adds in to answer Pansy’s question.

“Muggles tend to ignore the warning signs on cigarettes,” Cho shrugs. Her own grandfather smokes like a pipe. It doesn’t matter what words and pictures they put on the packages, people will still buy and smoke cigarettes. “Doesn’t mean you should ignore them too. If you don’t want to quit, limiting cigarettes works too.”

It’s been years since their first meeting, and it’s still difficult for Draco to look out Cho without something akin to hero worship. He’d been so averse to the whole idea of any kind of ‘therapy’—a muggle waste of time, he’d thought—that he’d waited the full three years the Ministry had given him before finally contacting St. Mungo’s about a healer. Now, he wishes he hadn’t been such a coward about it. While he’s certainly not perfect, the ability to talk about and talk through the things he’d been through with someone sworn to confidentiality was freeing, healing.

He’d been wary of Cho at first; after all, she knew him from school, and most people from that time in his life weren’t too keen to give him the benefit of the doubt. However, she’d been nothing but kind and professional from the start, easing his worries quickly. She knows nearly everything about him (everything important, anyway). His embarrassments, fears, wants. She knows about his weird little obsession with Potter during school, his terror during the war, his family and hatred toward his father—things Draco hadn’t necessarily even known about himself before their sessions.

In fact, Cho knows more about Draco than anyone else alive, and he’s never had his trust in her broken. It’s a lot, sometimes, the guilt he feels about how she probably knows how much he leans on her without giving anything in return, but it’s not enough to allow him to let her support go. He’s still selfish.

“Dunno what I’d do without you,” Draco says, sniffing a little. “Maybe your time with me would’ve been easier if you were a skilled Legilimens,” he adds wryly. “You wouldn’t have had to waste 5 years trying to get me to say things myself.”

Gingerly, he takes the thermos of tea from her, sipping from it and closing his eyes at the sweetness on his tongue. “I’ve had enough exposure for the next six months, at least,” he shudders. “I get that it’s supposedly progress but, you know, I’d rather just go the rest of my life without seeing another snake. Ever. At least this panic attack didn’t last as long. The boggart wasn’t even real but that one looked just like… like Nagini, so it was almost worse. I was sobbing and trying to catch my breath for over an hour. Definitely left that part out in my letter to Justin.”

He hands the thermos back to Cho, smiling slightly. “Please don’t waste your entire lunch break on my behalf. Let me buy you lunch, at least. You look like you’ve barely slept and could use the energy. How’s work, these days?”

Cho sits on the floor. She listens to Draco talk.

Their first official patient-Healer meeting five years ago was filled with long silences and her coaxing him to talk. Getting him to open up and tell her himself his worries and his fears and everything that happened during the war. Cho was a slightly awkward Healer back then, still dabbling in so many assignments and switching back and forth between wards. And Draco didn’t trust her. He was wary of her.

His trust was a hard won thing. They spent months going back and forth or being stuck in one place or making minimal progress. But in the end the process smoothened out. Their Wednesday meetings became easier. Now that Cho thinks about it, Draco is probably one of her longest standing patients.

“But that’s the important thing though,” Cho points out. “Getting you to actually tell me things yourself. Legilimens is a cruel spell.”

“Well, maybe you won’t meet another snake in six months,” she offers him a patient smile. Cho remembers the Boggart accident. How bad it was. But she also remembers the end result. Draco was eventually able to vanquish the Boggart. “You did sob for an hour. But Boggarts are creatures specifically designed to target your fears. So of course you would have a bigger reaction to it because the Boggart changed itself to mimic Nagini. And do you remember that you did get rid of the Boggart in the end? It took time but you beat the Boggart. You made progress too that time.”

She takes the thermos of tea from him and puts it back into her bag, shaking her head when he tells her not to waste his lunch break on him. “I already ate. Don’t worry about it. You can buy me ice cream instead,” Cho pats his shoulder, widening her smile. “Work is busier this time of year. So many new cases. I’m also working on a new research so that takes up my sleeping time.”

where: abandoned factory, venue of night of magick

when: 11.40 pm

If she’s being honest with herself—and Pansy does make it a habit to be as honest with herself as possible—she’s excited for this party. Rave. Whatever. Opportunistic as ever, it’s prime for networking, and whatever whispers people might pass around about her family, the same can’t be said for her.

As far as everyone knows, she’s dirt poor and disowned by her conservative, Voldemort-loving parents, which works in her favor. Unlike some of her other Slytherin friends, she’s not afraid to use people’s pity to her advantage. The dirt poor part is true, and while it’s more that she’d disowned her parents, rather than the other way around, it doesn’t really matter; all that matters is that she makes a perfect, charming impression on everyone she hasn’t seen in years, and hopefully make some friends in the Ministry while she’s at it.

She’s done herself up, per usual; it’s rare for Pansy to even leave her bedroom without looking immaculate, let alone her flat, and she converted her hefty stack of muggle tips from the club into galleons, sickles, and knuts last week in preparation. New outfit, with a little help from a few spells. Makeup set to last for hours. Hair arrow straight, falling just slightly below her collar.

When she walks inside the warehouse, it’s with confidence—it’s not that she feels 100 percent confident on the inside, but has mastered the art of appearing that way, with no one able to spot the deceit. She heads to the bar, a pretty smile radiant on her lips as she orders something hot pink and dangerous looking, and then turns around, leaning casually against the counter with an elbow, to survey the crowd. Some familiar Hogwarts faces, though she doesn’t spot anyone she could sidle up to just yet.

Pursing her lips slightly, she leans toward the person on her left who’s just ordered a drink and taps them lightly on the shoulder with a manicured finger. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette to spare, hmm?” she purrs, inwardly hoping this person a) works at the Ministry and b) isn’t someone who hates her.

Cho has lost sight of her friends exactly ten minutes ago. She was ordering a drink. And the second she looked back to the spot where her friends were with something to say on the tip of her tongue, they’d all disappeared. Probably went off to the dance floor or wandered around to socialize. Nevertheless, being left alone has never bothered Cho. So she takes her drink from her bartender graciously and is about to leave a tip when someone taps on her shoulder. Cho turns around, hoping it’s her friend, ready to tease them about leaving her lonesome. Only to be met with the face of Pansy Parkinson.

Pansy Parkinson is someone Cho only knows by name and face and by rumours and gossips. She doesn’t know what Pansy is actually like, what kind of person she is, or what her personality is like. But due to the grapevines, she knows a surprisingly good amount about her life. She has heard of the Parkinsons’ fall from grace. That they lost a good amount of money. That the Ministry didn’t go easy on them asset-wise the way they did the Malfoys or the Crabbes. She has heard the stories. The severance of ties that happened a few years back. How everyone effectively turned their backs on the Parkinsons.

Frankly, Cho is a bit surprised to see her here, wearing what must be her Sunday best and looking the picture of confidence. Cho isn’t a judgemental person but it takes guts to come back from what happened to the Parkinsons.

“Sorry,” she apologizes politely, “I don’t have a cigarette. I don’t even smoke.”

where: the leaky cauldron

For Cho, The Leaky Cauldron is a convenient place to go to for lunch. It’s within walking distance of the hospital. She doesn’t have to Floo or Apparate to reach it. It also serves pretty cheap, filling food that tastes so much better compared to whatever Mungo’s has in its cafeteria of bland, hospital food. The food actually has an adequate amount of sodium in it. And they taste like something.

So it isn’t strange to find Cho Chang there most weekdays during the lunch rush. She’s become a regular. She has her favourite menu to order and everything. She knows the right time to come get lunch so that she can get an empty table. She’s figured out a routine of coming to Leaky.

Today, though, the routine has been thrown off. The Healer who’s supposed to be stationed at the ward after Cho had ran late so Cho stayed behind longer than usual. By the time she arrives, Leaky is already packed with people. Not a single empty table in sight. She looks around worriedly, glancing at her watch. Ready to head out and find some other restaurant to eat at when she spots an empty chair on a table occupied by one Katie Bell. She quickly walks over.

Katie is an acquaintance of some sorts. They were in the same year at Hogwarts. And after Hogwarts, they meet with each other pretty regularly at the hospital. Katie getting full body examination and scans for dark magic, Cho sometimes assisting with the procedure and then later on leading it. So, at this point, their relationship is more patient-Haler than anything else. “Katie, hey,” she waves to Katie, “Is this seat empty?”

Justin’s eyes raised towards the ceiling as well, staring for a while almost as if he zoned out, before his eyes moved back to Cho with a grin. “I don’t know about your family, but I certainly know mine treat most of the dead that way. Not a respectful bone in their bodies,” he said. Perhaps a little cruely. It was definitely nothing he would say about his family were he sober, the airing of ones grievances like that was uncouth.

But he was a little too drunk to care.

He had his own childhood paintings, videos of piano recitals, and numerous photographs somewhere hidden in the far reaches of his families estate, which was at least something. The only son and heir to the Finch-Fletchley name, of course his parents logged every single movement he made like it was the most impressive thing to happen. He could do the same for a friend, as a silly joke. “I look forward to seeing the amazing work of Christie Smit,” he said, a finalizing nod, as if they had just made some kind of business deal.

“Hm. A wider selection of alcohol would be good. Some might question the idea of a bar stocked with hard liquor but once they’re all drunk enough I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Justin laughed. It would make it easier to get money out of some of them. Rich people could be so … shrewd sometimes. “Perhaps I can see if Ms. Jones will start planning parties with me. It’ll be the best of both worlds. I feel like I could use some help more often than not, anyway. You don’t happen to have secret party planning experience, do you?”

“Is it because of the inheritances?” Cho asks a bit bluntly, slightly surprised at Justin’s candor. If she were more sober, she would have averted the topic to something else. But she isn’t and the alcohol has loosened her tongue. “My family--well my mother’s side, the posh side, isn’t any better. We haven’t visited anyone’s graves for a very very long time. We only visited before their wills were revealed.” She doesn’t even know if her grandparents have been paying the upkeep fees for the graves of their relatives. The minute the wills were read out and the assets divided, it’s like the person and their memories have completely ceased to exist. No one ever talks about them ever again. The only time the dead relatives are ever mentioned is in connection to antiques in the house or in an old story that paints the dead in an unflattering light. 

Cho nods to Justin, making a mental note to really send him an artwork. “Christie Smit is phenomenal. She’s a bit of a genius.” Cho snorts out a laugh, shaking her head. Talking about her lousy art as if it’s some masterpiece is hilarious. 

She shakes her head again to Justin’s question. Cho isn’t made for party planning. She’d rather attend one than plan one. “Not a single bone for party planning here,” she answers, “Honestly, two hours into the party and no one would complain about the hard alcohol. I think they’d be grateful for it. You can get them to sign over their money easier too.” Loose minds mean unguarded pockets. She can see Justin scoring a record number of donations just from giving out vodka and tequila instead of the usual red and white wine. “I’m sure Hestia Jones would love to plan it out with you,” Cho nods. “I can help too. But with the smaller things like the food. I know a great Wizarding caterer. Mungo’s has been using them for the fundraising galas.”

Dear George,

Are you free on Saturday? I got two tickets for the Puddlemere United vs Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch match. St. Mungo’s was doing a lottery for Quidditch tickets. Don’t know how management got these tickets or why they decided to make a big event out of it by doing a lottery. I was actually hoping to get the Tutshill Tornados tickets but someone from Janus Thickney won it instead. Sad day.

Anyway, let me know if you’re free! Marietta won’t go because she doesn’t get Quidditch. And I think Daphne’s out of town. So owl me if you’re up for it. Otherwise, I’m gonna resell the ticket for a ridiculous amount to a Mediwix from Llewellyn.

Best,

where: tutshill tornados’ first quidditch game of the season

In all of her adult life, Cho has never missed the Tutshill Tornados’ first game of the season. She couldn’t go to their games much when she was little. Her father had work and travelled extensively. Her mother didn’t get Quidditch and was miffed by the idea of taking Cho to a magical venue all by herself. So little Cho had to make do with listening to the wireless and reading The Daily Prophet’s a day late recount of the match. It was frustrating, not being able to watch the game. Infuriating to not be able to say she was there when the team won their League Cup or when their Seeker pulled off one of the best Wronski Feints ever.

That doesn’t matter now though. As an adult, she has her own money and her own schedule. She can watch all the matches she wants to watch. She can call in sick or use one of her leave days to catch a game live. And she never ever has to miss the first game. It’s exhilarating.

Today, Tutshill Tornados is playing their first game of the season. Cho has bought her own ticket, snagged it from one of her work friends who has to take care of family matters and couldn’t use the ticket. She’s made her way over to the stadium via Portkey. And is now simply waiting in line for the concession stand for some kettle corn and Butterbeer for the match when she spots the telltale long red hair of Ginny Weasley.

where: florean fortescue’s ice cream parlour

The Wizarding World believes in the importance of small businesses too much to ever invest in a Wizarding supermarket, Cho thinks as she exits her final shop of the day, charming yet another bag to float seamlessly and follow her around. She has never been awfully fond of grocery shopping in the Wizarding World. Shops sell different things here. And you can’t visit just one or two shops to cross off everything on your list. It’s so inconvenient and impractical in comparison to Muggle grocery shopping.

Nevertheless, she’s glad the grocery shopping part is finally over with because now she can get her cone of ice cream, a little treat for a stressful shopping day, at Florean Fortescue’s. The ice cream shop finally opened its doors again two years ago after the discovery of Florean’s book of ice cream recipes. The new owner, Florean’s brother, manned the shop now to honour the memory of Florean.

Cho wanders into the shop, approaching the cashier and is starting to order her ice cream (a scoop of salted caramel ice cream and a scoop of rum raisin ice cream) when one of her bags wildly jerk away from her, smacking into a person holding their own cup of ice cream. Quickly, she pulls out her wand, calling the stray bag back to her. An apologetic look crossing her face.

Draco squeezes his eyes shut as soon as he registers that that’s Cho’s voice, the hand on his shoulder like an anchor. Of all the people to fall apart in front of, she’s the best option, has seen him like this before and probably will again. It’s still embarrassing—Draco doesn’t think he’ll ever fully get past that particular complex—but at the same time it’s familiar, and the way he trusts her is unlike any kind of trust he’s ever had with another person in his life.

Slowly, her words filter through to his ears as if she’s been speaking underwater and his head’s just cleared the surface. Breathe. And then slowly release on my count of three? One… Some part of him realizes he’s sitting on the ground now, knees drawn up to his chest, which isn’t the best as it restricts his airway even more. He lets his legs fall straight as he leans back against the nearest shelf, head tilted up so that he’s staring at the dim lamps dotting the ceiling, little balls of light that dance in his vision.

…three. Draco exhales fully, an intrinsic response to what they’ve practiced before in their sessions. He listens to her, does it again, and then once more for good measure til it no longer requires a herculean effort to take a breath. Gratefully, he takes the water bottle from Cho with trembling fingers, offering her a weak smile before taking a long swig. The temperature shocks him, wakes him up a bit more. Fuck, he hates panic attacks.

“Is visiting pet shops a hobby of yours?” he asks finally, once he feels like he can speak again. “Or did you somehow know I was having a crisis on the floor. You’ve not been using Legilimency on me, have you?” He squints his eyes at her, familiar kind face and dark hair like a favorite blanket during a snowstorm. It’s not often he gets the opportunity to ask her questions—usually it’s the other way around—and while he pathetically considers Cho to be his one and only friend, they don’t see each other outside of their sessions each Wednesday.

“As you can see,” he continues, voice marginally more steady, “I’m still brought to my knees by the sight of a living snake. It’s just as bad as when I had to get rid of that boggart a year ago.” The memory makes him shudder. Then he frowns. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Briefly, he considers getting up, saving himself from any other prying eyes that might be in Eeylop’s, but his legs feel like jelly and he resorts to sitting here like a tossed stuffed animal in front of his healer for the near future. 

When Draco finally looks slightly better, Cho lets out a sigh of relief. Relaxing her stance a bit. It’s always stressful to tend to patients in settings outside of the hospital where she doesn’t have backup or the right equipments. Where she has to follow her instinct on what to do next instead of having several other heads to level her rapid thinking. Add in the fact that Wizarding psychology and psychiatry are basically uncharted medical territories, Cho is always having to second guess and question herself.

Right now, she’s just relieved the situation is slightly more under control. Especially since Draco can already make a somewhat sarcastic, somewhat joking comment on her hobby and her non-existent Legilimency abilities. “I just had lunch at Leaky,” answers Cho. “Then I figured there’s nothing wrong with looking around to see which toad I can buy if I ever decide to take the leap.”

“I also never bothered to learn to read minds,” she offers him a friendly smile. “So don’t worry about that.” Reading minds isn’t practical. Cho’s an observant person, she can infer. She doesn’t need to read minds to know most things. When you’re a Healer, you learn to see more closely, to take note of things others miss.

She listens to Draco and ponders for a second. The boggart incident last year was bad but that was a boggart. This time, it’s a real snake. A real, living, breathing snake. The league’s different. “Yes, but look at it this way. Last year, it was a boggart and it was your first time facing a snake in a long time. This time is also only your second time seeing a snake or, technically, your first time seeing a real snake. I think you should give yourself more credit here. You faced a snake. You didn’t have control over seeing the snake.” She emphasizes on the word control, pausing for a second. “You’re not going to suddenly be okay with facing a snake. It takes time and overtime exposure. The fact that you can talk to me right now? After seeing the snake? The fact that you are aware of your reaction to it? That’s progress.”

24. favorite crystal?

“I like amethyst. The crystal is said to bring balance. I need that. Work-life balance and just balance in general.”

28. five songs to describe you?

(Note: This isn’t 2006 music-compliant.)

“Peace by Taylor Swift. And then Seven Years by Norah James. Flora Cash’s You’re Somebody Else. I think Good Days by SZA also describes me in a way. Heather by Conan Gray.”

daphne was not a kelly clarkson fan and she knew that cho knew it. however, she couldn’t help but smile back at her friend, mesmerized by the whiteness of her teeth and the barely their dimples she had always found to be adorable. “shitty music and shitty alcohol, it really brings you back doesn’t it?” she jokes, remembering all the times daphne had snuck alcohol back from hogsmeade and they would drink it under the bleachers – their usual meeting place. in all honesty she didn’t mind the music, she just found herself preferring songs with more rhythmic patterns and bass. daphne liked songs that she could dance wildly to, the kind that gave her the excuse to pull a stranger close. “d’you think i could get the bartender to give us some cherries?” she asks, knowing full well that she could convince any man of anything. “and if i were able to are you in the mood for them?”

“maybe after five shots, give or take,” she laughs, placing a hand on cho’s arm and giving it a light squeeze. daphne tilts her head to the side, wondering why the thought of cho having dinner with the stranger made her feel odd. perhaps it was because right now cho seemed to have all the time in the world for her and she didn’t want to share. after years of owls and only seeing each other whenever daphne was in town, she liked having the dark-haired girl around. not that she would ever keep her friend from doing things she liked or talking to anyone she liked. “but as they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and you should see for yourself,” she shrugs. “decide quick, i think they’re headed towards here.”

-

“Certainly brings me back,” Cho chuckles.

She and Daphne loved cheap alcohol back when they were in school. It’s one of those things where no one would sell them the expensive stuff and they didn’t exactly have the money for it. So they made do. She couldn’t remember how many bottles of Firewhiskey they’d gone through during her sixth year. Hiding under the bleachers and talking about who knows what. She vaguely remembers herself crying too and Daphne offering consolation.

“We both know you could,” she nudges Daphne once again, teasing and encouraging. Daphne is electrifying, charming and charismatic in a way that makes people want to listen to her and be near her. No one could say no to Daphne. She could make people run in circles for her. Cho has seen her do it. “Ask them for a splash of vodka and sugar in the cherries too. I’m in the mood for spiked fruits.”

“Five shots are too much,” Cho drops her voice to a whisper, careful so that whoever is or was ogling her couldn’t hear them. She takes a peek at the person, squinting her eyes slightly. Trying to bring focus into her somewhat bad eyesight. “I’m going to trust your judgement. So quick, pretend we’re immersed in a highly engaging conversation.”

“This feels awkward to answer. Which one of them should I kill? I think I’ll kill Ron. Just based on Quidditch reasons alone. Harry and I had this immature, embarrassing school thing. I can’t marry him after that immature, embarrassing school thing. So I’d fuck him. And then guess I’ll see Hermione at the altar? A plus side to that is that our household will be a high income household.”

Dear Draco,

I don’t send these kinds of letters because it’s unprofessional and against the Mungo’s guidelines. Plus it would probably hurt your feelings a bit. Which is why I’m not going to send this to you, a patient and also somewhat of a friend. But I like writing things down on paper. It helps me word things and get things out.

Honestly, thank you for trusting me with your inner thoughts and everything these past five years. You putting that much trust in me means a lot. Our Wednesday meetings have been really fruitful and you’ve come along way. I know you don’t think so but hey, you have come a long way.

However, I don’t think you should view me as a friend. There’s a Healer code and boundaries are important in making sure that our arrangement continues to work. So don’t see me as a friend. I’m your Healer who helps you in processing your emotions and getting better. You should make friends outside of me. You should reach out to your old Hogwarts friends or make new friends. I’m sorry. If it’s any consolation, I would love to be friends with you if we weren’t involved in this capacity. I would love to hang out with you as friends if you weren’t my patient. For now, I think you should form friendships with the people out there.

Sincerely,