Balancing
(I wouldn't get my hopes up if I were her...)

What was there to really do after you'd graduated from Hogwarts? The Ministry couldn't be trusted. Everywhere, people—those she'd known and those she hadn't—were disappearing or dying. The fragile texture of the Wizarding community was kept together by a tissue of lies.

One day, Scrimgeour had resigned mysteriously. Too many wizards and witches believed it, though; maybe a majority, maybe not, but certainly too many for anyone to stir them up to action. Cho's parents had seen the truth: the day that Voldemort came back had slipped by, and now it might soon be too late. Whether or not they were pureblood, as "aliens" and foreigners, they were sure they had to take precautions.

So they'd proposed to take Cho with them when they left.

Temporarily, her father had said. Just for the duration of the war. They'd had a longing to return for years now, anyway, her mother added. They'd found everything they needed in Britain; they were wealthy and successful; their eldest daughter had completed her education and had every opportunity, and there was still time to return.

Cho had declined, politely. She had tried to explain, but they were uninterested. Her father had simply nodded. "I thought you might say that," he'd said. And so he'd given her the key to a vault in Gringotts, and turned away.

His way was never to show emotion, and so Cho would've been hard-pressed to show that he was disappointed. But still, every sign that she might recognize was there. "Here" (he seemed to say) "we have a child who again doesn't know what is proper, who doesn't respect the way we are."

A few days later, they'd parted. Cho had gone back to their house not knowing what to do, resisting her desire to cry—which she'd gotten considerably better at during the last year. She fell into a sofa and a bit of a trance. What was there to do? Why had she even stayed? She didn't think she could explain it to herself, and wondered how she'd expected to do so to her father. "Because I don't want to leave my friends" would be miserably inadequate—family came before friends. And, Cho admitted, she didn't even want to talk to most of her friends. After Cedric—she hadn't felt much like, say, shopping or anything of the sort. Maybe dropping.

"Because I feel like I still have something to do here," she said aloud. "But I guess that's sitting around, sipping demonade." (She glanced ruefully down at the nearly empty bottle.)

"Do you now? Well, well, that's good."

Cho's head whipped up, her hand flew to her wand, and she was on her feet before she knew it. But she took a moment to realize the voice had come from behind the couch, and a recognizable dimunitve wizard clambered up.

"Professor?" she said.

Flitwick nodded. "If you wouldn't mind, my dear, could you tell me what it was you broke in my class, your fifth year with the Banishing Charm?"

Cho blushed. "The antique Foe-Glass. Sorry, Professor, I—I'll pay you back..."

Flitwick waved it away. "It was of no account, Miss Chang, but I had to ask. Security."

"Oh." A pause. "What?" she asked.

The professor glanced anxiously around. "I must be quick," he said. "Since You-Know-Who returned, he has been committing atrocities and spreading terror everywhere once again. Now that you are of age, I thought to ask you to join us."

She stared. "Me?" (Flitwick looked around, as if trying to see anyone else he might have been speaking to.) "But I—I'm not that good. Don't you want someone more experienced?"

"My dear, in this time, we need everyone. Your age is hardly an obstacle, and if you're half as good with Defense against the Dark Arts as you are with Charms, you will be a great asset."

Cho blushed. "Thank you, sir, but I really don't feel like I'm qualified," she said. She paused for a moment.

"And I heard Snape was the new headmaster..."

Flitwick nodded heavily. "Yes," he said, "but that's neither here nor there."

"Yes it is," Cho said. "I could never deal with him in class, how am I supposed to deal with him there?"

It was the professor's turn to stare. Then he smiled widely. "Miss Chang, while I am sure you'd be excellent, I wasn't offering you the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. I was asking you to join the Order of the Phoenix."

How embarrassing, Cho thought, attempting to be dispassionate. (Unsuccessfully.) Hilarious misinterpretations. They're not actually very funny, that's sort of how Harry—She stopped.

"Order of the Phoenix?" she asked. "Like from the first war?"

Flitwick nodded. "It was reunited when he returned." He glanced around the room again and fiddled with his cloak. "It's quite all right if you need a while to decide—"

"No, no," Cho said. "I'll join you." After all, she had more reason to hate Voldemort than the average wizard, or at least as much—the average was probably rather high... but really if you thought about it, Voldemort was responsible for Cedric's death, for Umbridge, and for everything Harry had done. It was rather handy to be able to blame Dark wizards for everything bad that happened to you.

The professor looked relieved. "All right," he said. "There's work to be done tonight. Take my arm."

What? Now? "Um—well, I should really go—...wash my hair... first..." She was impressed with the lameness of her own excuse.

Flitwick nodded sympathetically. "I understand," he said. "One must have priorities in life."

Cho couldn't possibly interpret his words as other than sarcastic, but she couldn't detect a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

Then he winked at her. "The address is—" He pulled out a scrap of paper and waved his wand at it, then handed it to her. "I shall leave you two to it. "

Cho stood there, stunned. He, he, um, had assumed that she—hm.

"Nngp," she managed to say before he Disapparated with a quiet pop. "No, that's not it at all!"

She cursed silently. "Who would I even..."

It was a Cho in a foul mood who found herself almost splinched messily in the street an hour later. Perhaps she'd forgotten the three D's in her shock at seeing a most familiar figure.

---

A/N: Why is this so short? Usually I write long; but if I'm going to edit it at all (not something inspiring to do in fanfiction that doesn't matter), that is impossible. Also, I don't mean to get bogged down in specifics. Long usually precludes interesting; not always, but usually. One thing that was very done in Deathly Hallows was the constant pacing of attacks.

You might want to know if I know where I'm going. The answer is: I do not. Who's the familiar figure? I suppose I'll find out next time.