First Dates, Tutshill Tornadoes, and Other Natural Disasters (Harry/Cho, Cho/Cedric, Harry/Hermione) - Fifth Year

Does this fic accomplish anything? *shrugs* For the life of me, I can’t tell if it does. All I know is that I wrote it at 3 AM last night because I Just Felt Like Writing Cho. So I wrote Cho. I don’t know if I wrote anything deeper, but I was tired. Exhausted. Beat. As long as the whole thing is in English and doesn’t lapse into Pig Latin, I’m at least marginally happy with it ;-) If it sporks itself, that’ll teach me to write while I'm half asleep and lying in bed with a cat draped across my collarbone.

* * * * * *

“Tell me how it went – you promised,” Marietta Edgecombe pleads, elbowing Cho in the ribs and jerking her head towards the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter sits beside the bushy-haired Hermione Granger.    

“It was—” She stops on the verge of saying “fine,” because she’s in the habit of saying she is just that, fine. Davies threatens to drop her from the Quidditch team roster and she is fine. Cedric is dead and she is fine. Her date with Harry goes belly up and she is fine. “—a nightmare,” she blurts out, surprising herself.

She wipes her dry eyes on the sleeve of her robes. It’s been a tough – nay, a horrendous – year and allowances must be made. Until this moment, she never would have guessed that eight months later, dating someone new would be this hard.

The day had started out well enough, she thinks fairly and tells Marietta so, but the high point of the date had come about five minutes in, before Pansy Parkinson’s unwelcome interruption:

“Urgh, Chang! I don’t think much of your taste! At least Diggory was good-looking!”

“And, well, from there—” Cho flounders on the words, but Marietta knows: from there, it was all about Cedric Diggory.  

“I came in here with Cedric last year.”

If only Cedric hadn’t died…

“I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages— did Cedric – did he m-m-mention me at all before he died?”

“And my mind was just begging me, don’t ask, don’t ask, dontask…”

“You asked,” Marietta says. It’s not a question but an affirmation of fact; Cho asked.

“Well – no – there – there wasn’t time for him to say anything. Erm… so … d’you … d’you get to see a lot of Quidditch in the holidays? You support the Tornadoes, right?”

“I thought – I thought you’d u-u-understand! I need to talk about it! Surely you n-need to talk about it t-too! I mean, you saw it happen, d-didn’t you?”

Marietta clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “No one knows exactly what happened that night,” she says, toeing the official Ministry line. “Maybe there was nothing to see and Harry’s story’s just be a desperate cry for attention—

“Harry knows,” Cho says quellingly, stepping in to defend Harry despite how mad she is at him. No sooner has she spoken up than she realizes that it’s Cedric’s tale she’s defending; she’s defending his pride, his right to be remembered as he lived and as he died.

“Oh, you’ll talk to Hermione Granger! But you won’t talk to me! P-perhaps it would be best if we just… just paid and you went and met up with Hermione G-Granger, like you obviously want to!”

She has to keep reminding herself that he’s chosen her, but it’s hard to believe; his actions don’t tally with his words and Marietta’s reassurances are half-hearted at best.

“Go on, leave! I don’t know why you asked me out in the first place if you’re going to make arrangements to meet other girls right after me… how many are you meeting after Hermione?!

“And he laughed?” Marietta echoes in disbelief. “Laughed-laughed or laughed?”

“Just laughed. Don’t overanalyze,” Cho replies wearily. She, unlike Marietta, does not wish to dissect every aspect of the morning. As far as she’s concerned, everything she needs to know is already painstakingly clear. One glance at the Gryffindor table is all the confirmation she needs: he’s looking at Hermione Granger, his mouth hanging open slightly as he takes in every word she says. He’s looking at her as though she’s The Answer, whatever that means.                                                                             

“It sounds like one big misunderstanding,” Marietta croons sympathetically, patting Cho’s arm and casting an obligatory glare at the back of Harry’s scalp.

“Does it, though?” she asks. As the Great Hall slowly empties, the whole atmosphere of the chamber lapses into a lull of gently clinking forks and knives and the hum of low conversation. Cho caught herself eavesdropping on the conversation carrying on across the aisle:

“—should have said it was really annoying, but I’d made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn’t want to go, you’d much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately, you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you’d be able to get away more quickly.” Hermione Granger pauses to draw a much needed breath. “And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too.”

“But I don’t think you’re ugly—”

He hasn’t realized it yet -- typical boy, Cho thinks grimly – but soon – soon he will and she’ll get over it, move on. She’s been “moving on” for eight months now and she’s no stranger to the course. Eight months, it’s been. Eight months and precious little has changed, for she is still in love with Cedric, and as for Harry, his heart is where it’s always been – with Hermione.   

“Will there be a second date?” Marietta asks presently.

“You haven’t really listened to a word I’ve said, have you?” 

“You just keep telling yourself that. He’ll come around.”