Location: The flat.
Date: 5th of September, 2000.
Summary: There are things to do.
It was beginning to feel to Cho as though the reception would never happen.
It was beginning to get cold again, waking the old ache in her wrists and fingers. There was a new one at her hips, and the memory of a weak ankle -- any swooning was more than sincere now, as the bone seemed to simper and grow weak at the slightest pressure, no matter how direct.
It was beginning to hang over her head, the responsibility. She dragged herself to and from her father's apartment weekly now, with new ideas, new wishes to fulfill. The dream of the celebration was so pure and good that now she could not imagine it really coming: could not imagine herself in the wedding costume, or all the beautiful decorations father promised to conjure, or the smiling faces of her relatives as they appeared from a collective foreign haze.
But not so foreign, Cho was beginning to think. She felt like one of them -- a stiff card, a happy word, but never more substantial than that.
It was beginning to wear on her, all of this tradition. She was beginning to feel the most comfortable in the studio with Anna, who had begun teaching her self defense rather than dance. The fans lay idle against the foot of the bed, and pushed rudely behind dressers, reefs of clothing in the Weasley closet: Percy's straight sleeves against her own, the insubstantial fabric of summer dresses.
She'd pushed aside her decorating books in favor of weaponry and spell modification.
It was beginning to get late in the year. Cho sat at the kitchen table with a mug of cider and her well-worn wand, quicker and better than any shot she might drink at any reception in any father's dreaming eye.