Surprisingly (to Theodore, at least), Cho did see him again. Although this time, their meeting each other was much more deliberate than a chance run-in at the market.
He had not known she would be coming, but during the afternoon of the 22nd, she suddenly breezed through the door. She smiled and waved at him, from where he stood behind the bar counter. He grinned back feebly, and continued mixing drinks, though with much less vigor than before. His eyes kept drifting towards her table inattentively as he went on with his task. He watched as Aberforth served her a whiskey, and then the barman came to stand beside him.
“Go on, then, lad,” Aberforth murmured, as they stood together.
“Hmm?” said Theodore, looking at the older man out of the sides of his eyes.
Aberforth jerked his head. “Go talk to her.”
“I’m working, Ab.”
“So take a break,” said Aberforth, rolling his eyes towards the heavens in exasperation. “Merlin, kid, when will you ever learn anything?”
Theodore considered snapping back a retort to this, reconsidered, then put down the wine bottles on the counter and traipsed over to Cho Chang. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, gesturing to the empty seat across from her.
“Go ahead,” she said, waving at him to sit, which he did, folding his hands on the table as he looked over at her.
“So . . .” he said.
“So . . .” she repeated back lightly, teasingly, taking a swig of her drink. “How have you been?”
“Fair,” said Theodore. He lowered his voice, and, with a look of mock fear back at Aberforth, whispered, “But, I swear, that one’s about to drive me up the wall.”
Cho giggled.
“It’s all grunting and barking and pointing, ‘do this’, ‘do that’, and never any more words than that. But, it is a steady job, and that’s a hell of a lot more than I could say about anywhere else.”
“You must at least sort of like it here,” Cho said.
“I guess,” said Theodore uncommitingly. “I mean, it’s not like I’m much more social than Ab is, so I guess really we’re the perfect team, in that sense.”
She smiled.
“How about you?” he asked her.
“All right,” she replied. “Haven’t moved up in my job, but I think I caught the main editor’s eye the other day with one of my pieces that I presented to her, for consideration in a larger section than my usual sidebars.”
“That’s great,” said Theodore encouragingly. “What was the piece on?”
Cho swallowed, her dark-colored eyes uncertain. “About how our society is healing from the war, and what still needs to be done.”
Theodore considered this for a long moment. “That’s . . . that sounds very depthful.”
“I think you mean deep,” Cho suggested, smiling.
“Whatever the correct tense of the word is,” he reciprocated. “So, she liked it?”
“Yes, I think she did. I wrote about how the Ministry is being reconstructed and built on new ideals, and about all the people who are being freed and the buildings that are being rebuilt. But I also described all the hurt, the pain, the scars that are still lingering, and what we need to do about them.”
“And what do you think we need to do about them?” Theodore asked quietly.
“We have to come together,” said Cho, just as softly, her eyes boring into his. “We have to come together and be there for one another, no matter our different needs or sufferings. We have to stop acting as though we are perfectly whole when we are not. We have to accept that we are broken, but we need to learn to move past our shattered edges and chipped corners, and go on with life, because then the suffering and pain and death will not have been a waste.”
“That . . . sounds like a very powerful article,” said Theodore in a somewhat strangled voice. “I might have to pick up a copy of Witch Weekly just to see it.”
“No guarantee it will be published,” she replied, lowering her eyes to her drink as she swirled it around in the cup, before taking another taste.
They sat in silence then; she watching her whiskey, he watching her. And after a lull of quiet, he felt the need to ask her a question.
“Cho, do you believe in second chances?”
She looked up to address his gaze directly. “Yes,” she said, firm and without hesitation.
“What about first chances?”
“First chances?” she repeated back, quizzical.
“Yeah. I mean, when you first meet someone, do you give them a chance? Or do you form an opinion on them instantly, based on what you already know about them, or what you think you know?”
“I would hope I don’t just judge them instantly,” she responded. “I would hope I’m not that biased or narrow-minded.”
Theodore nodded slowly, contemplating this. “What about for yourself? Do you give yourself second chances? Or first ones?”
She furrowed her brow in thought. “I usually try and accomplish or experience something myself before I comment on it. So, yes, I would say I give myself first chances. But it’s a lot harder to give yourself second chances “ I mean, we are usually our own worst critic. We are most often the last people to forgive and trust ourselves again, even after everyone else has moved on.”
“What if we can’t tell if we need forgiveness?” Theodore whispered. “What if we can’t tell if we’re supposed to forgive ourselves, if there’s even anything to forgive? What if you just hate yourself for not making any mistakes, because you never did anything at all? Can you have done something that needs forgiveness if you never did anything?”
“That depends if you think being inanimate is a crime,” she whispered back, her eyes wide.
“Is it?”
“I think it depends on the situation. But in general, yes, I think not taking a stand on a subject matter can be just as bad as taking the wrong side.”
He lowered his head, staring hard at the table, at his folded hands.
“But if you can forgive yourself for doing nothing, then all will be well,” Cho told him, breathily, and she placed one of her hands over his folded fingers.
He looked up and met her eyes, which were still set huge, but were not teary.
“How do I do it?” he asked simply.
She shook her head. “That’s where I can’t help you.”
He glanced back down at the table, at her hand over his.
“You just . . .” she began, and then broke off.
His eyes moved upward, probing hers. “Go on. Please.”
“You have to do . . . whatever works for you. Find it in yourself: through others, through places, wherever helps. You have come a long way, you know,” she added, smiling gently.
Theodore was surprised. “I have?”
“Sure. I mean, I never knew you very well at Hogwarts “ but you were always very introverted, you never seemed to socialize with anyone unless you had to. You skirted around the school, doing what was required of you, but you never . . . I don’t know . . . showed much emotion? Anyway, you have been really different this week “ I know you may not see it, but you’re different, you’re animated, you may not love life but you’re finding joy in it regardless. I don’t know if that’s due to the Hog’s Head or Aberforth or what, but it’s there “ you’re there “ not just some shell of yourself.”
“You’re different too, I think,” he told her. “Whenever I saw you around Hogwarts, you always seemed very “ erm “ emotional.”
“A moody crybaby, you mean?” she suggested, with a wry smile.
“Well, somewhat,” he consented, smiling apologetically. “Especially during your last few years at Hogwarts “ you were always so upset. You didn’t seem able to move past your grief, or maybe you just didn’t want to move past it, I don’t know. But now . . . you’re so much more alive, and willing to let things go.”
“It’s taken years, believe me,” she said, with a half-laugh.
“Still, you did it. And that’s such a . . . that’s such a difficult thing to do, after you’ve lost what was your whole life.” He unfolded his hands and turned one of his palms upward on the table, taking her hand within his own, pressing lightly against her fingers.
“So,” Cho said quietly, gazing at their entwined grip. “What are you going to do now? I mean, to try and, you know . . . forgive yourself.”
He released a breath heavy with decision. He had known what he needed to do before he had even asked her, had had a feeling that eventually, to go on with his life, he would need to do something else first: he would need to revisit a portion of his past.
“I think I need to go visit Azkaban prison,” said Theodore quietly.