Cho thought sometimes that she could have been the hero of this story.
They had believed her broken too soon – (when she was sixteen years old and flush with her first and greatest love) - and they had never given her a chance since. They had confused her tears of slow-burn realisation with tears of sadness and loss; her decision not to act as an inability to act. How could they understand, those martyrs, those Gryffindors, those hot-blooded, self-righteous, masochistic heroes – how could they understand that to learn how to bear your own suffering was the most important lesson of all?
Cho had never been broken; Cho had merely been learning how to look at the world through eyes that had been smeared with pain. Her vision had grayed; but it was okay, there had been too many colours and too many complications before, anyway.
All that was left behind was the cold, calm centre of her heart; a barren place where no love would blossom, no pain would strike - the secret place inside where Cho kept everything she had learned.
Yes, Cho could have been the hero. Not that she was loyal, unless you counted the way she averted her eyes when Ernie mentioned the dead in that voice he kept especially for them. Not that she was honest, unless you counted the way she pretended to be asleep when Ernie whispered something about love, and loving her, the words dropping into the spaces between their tangled limbs, unnoticed.
Not brave, unless you counted the fact that she was still here.
And what was bravery, she would wonder, as she watched Harry curl his hand in Ginny’s hair, (as she watched him murmur his vows, as she watched him grow old) if not a glorified kind of stupidity?
What was bravery, she would her ask herself, as she traced Cedric's face on an old school photograph with her finger – what was the point of bravery, of doing what was right, if you never took the time to find out what right really was? They had fought a war; died a hundred deaths, and no one had ever taken the time to be sure.
When Ernie was inside her it felt nothing like Cedric, but she could see how somewhere along the way they could have been the same uncomplicated man. She was older now, older than the earth and the stars but Ernie would never grow up. He rocked against her, loyal, steadfast, patient; and his moan against her sweat-slick skin was muffled, or maybe she just wasn’t listening anymore.
Cho Chang/Ernie Macmillan - swing wide your crane and run me through
They had believed her broken too soon – (when she was sixteen years old and flush with her first and greatest love) - and they had never given her a chance since. They had confused her tears of slow-burn realisation with tears of sadness and loss; her decision not to act as an inability to act. How could they understand, those martyrs, those Gryffindors, those hot-blooded, self-righteous, masochistic heroes – how could they understand that to learn how to bear your own suffering was the most important lesson of all?
Cho had never been broken; Cho had merely been learning how to look at the world through eyes that had been smeared with pain. Her vision had grayed; but it was okay, there had been too many colours and too many complications before, anyway.
All that was left behind was the cold, calm centre of her heart; a barren place where no love would blossom, no pain would strike - the secret place inside where Cho kept everything she had learned.
Yes, Cho could have been the hero. Not that she was loyal, unless you counted the way she averted her eyes when Ernie mentioned the dead in that voice he kept especially for them. Not that she was honest, unless you counted the way she pretended to be asleep when Ernie whispered something about love, and loving her, the words dropping into the spaces between their tangled limbs, unnoticed.
Not brave, unless you counted the fact that she was still here.
And what was bravery, she would wonder, as she watched Harry curl his hand in Ginny’s hair, (as she watched him murmur his vows, as she watched him grow old) if not a glorified kind of stupidity?
What was bravery, she would her ask herself, as she traced Cedric's face on an old school photograph with her finger – what was the point of bravery, of doing what was right, if you never took the time to find out what right really was? They had fought a war; died a hundred deaths, and no one had ever taken the time to be sure.
When Ernie was inside her it felt nothing like Cedric, but she could see how somewhere along the way they could have been the same uncomplicated man. She was older now, older than the earth and the stars but Ernie would never grow up. He rocked against her, loyal, steadfast, patient; and his moan against her sweat-slick skin was muffled, or maybe she just wasn’t listening anymore.