âGidâs always had expensive tastes,â he replied absently, reaching for the coffee to blow carefully on the surface before taking a sip, black and bitter as it came, and hissing beneath his breath as it scalded his tongue regardless. âHe went through a phase of bringing home mugs from everywhere he went. The amount of glassware we ended up with from The Three Broomsticks.âÂ
He smiled absently, distractedly, scratching at the back of his neck, until Choâs question brought him back to the present and he blinked abruptly, time snatched away in an instant as he replied, âOh â maybe Molls might have kept them. Or my Da.â
Was it strange, that he hadnât even thought of what had happened to his possessions? To the records and clothes and his prohibitively expensive charmed typewriter and the sea of stolen glassware and all the little bits and pieces that had made up his life. What had they done with it all? Did he have anything left to his name? His will had asked that his vault be divvied up between Mollyâs kids but what of everything else? No - that was not the path to be taking today.Â
âClearly you havenât been keeping the right company,â he replied distractedly, shaking off the gloom of whether or not his will had been carried out, in favour of taking a solid bite out of his scone and sighing, happily at the taste. Flavour was something that those in charge of their care didnât seem to be prioritising.Â
âNot to lessen your achievement,â he offered, chewing happily on his scone as he willed his coffee to cool off with the sheer force of his stare, âBut you donât exactly have a lot of competition down there for the running of favourite minder. Your colleagues donât seem quite so keen on winning our good will, the Aurors,â he glanced over his shoulder at the ring surrounding them and lowered his voice to a less obvious volume, âSeem to wish they were anywhere but near us or this assignment and the Unspeakables,â his nose wrinkled faintly, âShifty buggars the lot of them. Never trusted any of them as far as I could kick them. Who knows what theyâre up to.â
Which was part of the problem, he supposed. He wanted to know what they were up to â because apparently getting your own brother murdered wasnât quite reason enough to learn your lesson on sticking your nose where it wasnât wanted.
His breath caught for a moment, eyes stuck on the perfect marbling of jam and cream atop the scone heâd been chewing, as his thoughts caught up to him and Cho, in the manner of anyone qualifying that they hoped something wouldnât be intrusive or upsetting, barrelled cheerfully ahead into intrusive and upsetting territory. He supposed if anyone had the right of asking such a question, it was probably the woman whose job heâd just thrown on the railroad tracks in the hope of a few minutes respite from the holding room.
âGideon?â Even his name sounded strained, not quite so casual as heâd intended while he stalled in order to shoo away the dark clouds of the storm threatening on the horizon. âHeâs the best person I know.â Present tense, presented so matter of factly as he took another stalling bite of his scone and chewed, that he might have even believed himself that the answer didnât hurt him. âAnnoyingly smart. Donât tell him I said thatââ
Fabian reached hastily for his coffee, like it might just wash the taste of desperate denial off his tongue and settled instead for the bitterness it left behind. âHeâs my best friend. Iâm not sureââ
Not sure, exactly, who he was without Gideon as a reference point.
âDid you know,â he started abruptly, changing the subject so blatantly that it could hardly go unnoticed, âThese scones might be better than Mollyâs. Is that why you took the job here then? For the scones and our sparkling company?â
âDid he steal cups from every restaurant he went to?â Cho raises her eyebrow, slightly concerned but also intrigued over the prospect of taking a few good teacups off of Fabian. Mentally, she takes note of all her favourite Puddifootâs and The Three Broomsticks glasses and cups, marking down the ones sheâd always fancied having inside her own cupboard at her flat.
Thereâs a cup at Puddifootâs that has a shifting constellation of stars inside it. Fifth year Cho Chang drank from that cup almost every Hogsmeade visit. The first time she saw that cup again in her sixth year, she asked for a different one. Now she wishes she had it at home, in between the expensive sets Marietta always buys her for Christmas (âA tradition, Cho! A new one!â sheâd told Cho the first time she bought her a set of teacups years ago) and the ones she bought for cheap at the nearest Muggle grocery store.
Cho places her half-eaten scone back onto her plate, reaching for her coffee once again. âTo be fair to them,â she glances at the Aurors, âthey simply do not know how to navigate the situation.â She pauses. Even she herself wasnât sure of how to treat the Returned at first. Everyone was wary, afraid that the Returned were just figments of imagination or a sick prank someone was playing on them. Afraid that theyâd vanish into thin air the next morning, that everyone who had returned would go back to being dead in a week. It was unprecedented for the dead to come back. Everyone was simply trying to shield themselves from hoping too much and hurting again.
âIt was baffling, you know,â she laughs, slightly humourlessly, thinking back to the urgent Floo call she received when her coworker informed her of the ordeal. She couldnât go back to sleep that night, finding herself flipping through books and copies of Magical documents late into the night, trying to fit puzzle pieces and come up with a possible explanation for the impossible that her friend had just told her was possible. âThe war ended five years ago and I guess we didnât want to hope.âÂ
She shakes her head, bringing the mug to her lips. âAnd they probably put distance between you and them due to Ministry protocols,â she sips her coffee, âI imagine the Aurors would rather chase after danger than sit inside a room with nothing to do but keep watch. The Unspeakables have always been...pretty mysterious.â The Unspeakables can be shifty. Working with them has not been easy to get used to. But they arenât bad people. Like her, theyâre not used to being clueless. Not used to not knowing. âIâll say that theyâre trying to do their best. Even if their best can be seen as abysmal.â
Cho listens as Fabian talks about Gideon, notices how he talks about him like heâs still here, like heâs just somewhere hiding around the corner. She simply nods. âHe sounds like a good person,â she sets down her mug, reaching for her scone again, âI take it his escape plan would not have been to simply steal a Healer coat and walk out with it on?â Cho smiles (Merlin, she hopes Fabian the joke the wrong way. Sheâs not trying to twist the knife already stuck to his chest.)
Grateful for the change in topics--lest she says another joke that could be taken as mocking,--Cho bites her scone. The taste is heavenly and so much better than any of the food they serve at Mungoâs but theyâre not the only reason why she took on this gig.
âItâs more of a coincidence. I was already going to tender in my Mungoâs resignation in a few months. The non-profit director thought Iâd be perfect for the job,â she sweeps the scone crumbs with a piece of napkin, âAnd my Healing interest and specialization matched up.â Cho pauses for a second. Coincidence isnât the whole story. She could have refused the offer but refusing would be turning her back on what she believes in. âYou can say I have personal stake, reasons as to why I accepted the offer.â Patients sheâd lost during the war. People she failed. Friends who didnât survive the Battle. Acquaintances who disappeared forever. Names that still linger. She doesnât want to fail them this time, wants to offer them what little comfort she can.