Characters, settings, and story relating to the Harry Potter series of novels are copyright J. K. Rowling, along with Bloomsbury Publishing, et al. "Spirit of Fear" is not an officially published work, nor is it in any cooperation with J. K. Rowling or Bloomsbury Publishing. "Spirit of Fear" is entirely (with the exclusion of the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

Chapter Eighteen

Snowblind

"Not a bad place you guys have."

Chey was admiring the Delacours' vacation house, situated right on the slopes of a rather large ski resort. "Cozy" didn't begin to describe it. Made entirely from timber, the house had a slight rustic feel to it, yet the furnishings gave it a parlor room atmosphere.

"Thank you, Chey,"Apolline said.

"So how long have you had it?" he continued.

"It's been in my family ever since the resort opened about fifty years ago," she explained. "We only come occasionally, now. My husband isn't much into skiing these days, but when he was younger I had trouble keeping up."

"Nice." he said. "I just might have to snag one of these places for myself. Any for sale?"

"Not that I know of. The owners rarely let them go."

"Ah, well. So we hit the slopes tomorrow morning?"

"That's the plan," said Fleur, who had said very little since leaving the Beauxbatons grounds via portkey. "But I think Gabrielle is ready to go right now."

Indeed, Gabrielle was all suited up in light pink snow pants and coat and sky blue hat, bouncing on her heels, skis in hand, standing by the door. She said nothing, only whimpered slightly and wore an eager expression.

"Well I'm ready to go if anyone else is," Chey said. Fleur nodded in agreement, and they all suited up. It was agreed that Chey and Fleur would stick together and go at their own breakneck pace, while Apolline and Gabrielle would take it easier.

At the summit, Chey and Fleur stood facing the slope, him in black and red while she sported light greys and blues.

"Yeah, this should be a good warm up," he said.

"I was thinking the same thing," she replied with a smile. "Are you sure your snowboard can handle those turns?"

"Don't you concern yourself about me. Just worry about keeping up with my performance board while you're on those mid-range skis."

"Try not to slow me down."

The two of them were able to hit the slope at full speed, owing to the complete lack of anyone else being on the trail. Neither was really able to pass the other, and they remained neck and neck every time they went down a trail.

After a few warm up runs, they moved over to more difficult trails. Not once were they able to declare a winner in their silent competition.

On their sixth run down a certain trail, this one more populated than the others, they were racing it at their usual pace. As they rounded a wide corner, Fleur fell back.

Chey braked slightly and looked over his shoulder to see where she went, and to his shock saw her tumbling through the snow.

He braked harder, sending powder flying over the slopeside, eventually coming to a stop right in the path of Fleur's fall as she continued to slide down the hill. As her body collided with his, he fell down on her gently, stopping her descent to the base of the mountain. Once he was satisfied that they had stopped sliding, he unstrapped his snowboard and set it uphill from Fleur, perpendicular to the slope to warn oncoming skiers.

"Tell me what hurts," he said to her, not bothering to ask if she was alright, as chances were she wasn't.

"My leg," she answered with a wince, indicating her right shin. Chey removed both her skis and felt the indicated leg for fractures, and immediately found one.

At this time, a passing skier stopped, clearly a regular at the resort and more than likely not a member of the magical world, judging by how sensibly practical his equipment was.

"Is everything alright?" he asked in German.

"She's broken her leg," Chey answered him, surprising Fleur with his perfect German. Now addressing her in French, he said "Don't move." He got up and walked to the treeline at the edge of the trail. After looking at several branches, he finally determined one suitable, and leapt into the air, grabbing hold and hanging from it. He needed only hold on for a fraction of a moment, when the branch gave to his weight and broke at the base.

He walked back to Fleur, where the German was still standing with her. As he walked, he broke the branch into three equal length pieces. He kneeled in front of her, laid the sticks on the ground, gently picked up her afflicted leg, and rolled up the leg of her pants.

"Hold still," he told her. "This is going to hurt like hell."

She cringed in pain as he pulled the two parts of her broken leg away from each other. Soft yet sickening cracks were heard as he set the bone back in place, and she gasped at the pain. He then picked up the branches he had retrieved earlier, and parallel to and equally spaced around her leg. The German, correctly guessing what Chey was up to, handed him some rope to bind the rudimentary splint.

"Should I get a mountain patrol?" asked the German, marveling at Chey's quick thinking.

"It's not much farther to our cabin," he told him. "I'll carry her down and call from there."

"You're sure?" pressed the stranger, still continuing the conversation in German, and Fleur was hopelessly unable to follow.

"Positive. Only about two hundred yards. We'll be fine."

"Well, if you're certain." With that, the stranger moved on, continuing his ride down the hill.

"Obliviate," Chey said under his breath with a wave of his hand towards the man who was now speeding away.

"You know German?" Fleur asked him as he rolled the leg of her pants back down, being careful not to jar her leg too much.

"Obviously," he responded in a neutral tone.

"What else?" she continued, now with a hint of admiration in her voice.

"English, obviously, and you know I speak French, but there's also Russian, Italian, Japanese, Romanian, Hawaiian, Gaelic, a little Arabic, fluent Latin, and I'm working on Bulgarian." She seemed stunned at the long list, which he had never mentioned before. He had now reattached her skis, and was on his feet ready to help her up.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew all those languages?"

"Never came up." He had hoisted her to her feet, and was now reattaching his own snowboard. Once that was done, he picked up her poles and slid over to her and put her arm over his shoulder. "Lean on my shoulder and just concentrate on staying upright. I'll handle our speed and steering."

And so they slowly slid back down to the cabin. Upon arriving, Chey unstrapped his board and removed Fleur's skis, leaning them against the wall. He helped her limp in through the door and sat her down on the couch. They started removing their outer equipment; their coats, boots, and gloves came off, and Chey had started a fire with a snap of his fingers.

"Aren't you going to call the patrol?" she asked, now sitting on the couch, her equipment removed and right leg propped by the cushions and her pant let rolled up, revealing the splint.

"No."

"And why did you have to erase that man's memory?"

"Because it would seem odd for him to see you break a leg today and find you back on the slopes tomorrow in full health."

"What?"

"Just hold still and remain calm," he said as small lights appeared around his arm, pointing in all directions as usual. He held his hand over her injured leg, which was starting to bruise. The lights glowed slightly brighter, roughly aligning with his forearm for a fraction of a second, and the bruising vanished as soft cracking sounds indicated the bone had been mended. Chey then proceeded to remove the splint, the lights around his arm having vanished.

"Thank you," she said finally after several moments.

"It's nothing. The edge of your ski must have hit a rock. Always nasty when that happens."

"Has it ever happened to you?"

"Yeah. When the metal edge grinds against the rock it's like an emergency brake. It stops your board but you keep going, so you fall forward. 'Course, when it happens your edge is shot to hell. I'll see about sharpening your skis back up tomorrow morning." He didn't want to sound like a know-it-all just then, so he changed the subject. "Your leg's going to be tender until at least late tonight. Best if we call it a day."

"You won't tell my mother what happened, will you?" she said, seeming mildly ashamed.

"Why would I not tell her?"

"Well, she'd hate to think I failed at something..."

"You and your damn pride." He could not help but feel contempt.

"What?"

"Why is it that you cower at the idea of disappointing someone?" he asked accusingly.

"I-I don't know!" After a moment of thought, she said "I suppose it's in my blood."

"You're gonna try and blame this on your parents?"

"No! It's just...veelas are always proud."

Chey could do nothing but stare and sigh. "I guess that makes sense. I'm guilty of it myself from time to time." As he said this, he walked to the window and stared out at the white landscape.

Fleur seemed to sense that it was time to shift the conversation so something less sensitive. "You're very accomplished at healing spells," she said, running her hand over the point where the bone was broken. "Lot's of practice?"

"Romania," Chey said, inwardly overjoyed that the subject had changed. "Even if they don't burn you, they can still break arms and crack ribs. It's pretty much a required skill for all the handlers. Believe it or not, there's only one doctor, and his job is usually taken care of before the victims come in. Most injuries are treated on site."

Chey's job was always a source of amazement for Fleur. She could listen for hours about the reserve. Something about the actually docile nature of many of the dragons held there appealed to her, and every chance she had of learning something about that place was a chance for Chey to amaze her with true stories.

There were, of course, a few stories, and one in particular, that he never mentioned.

"So everyone is good at healing?" she asked, knowing what the answer was.

"We have to be. A teammate is as good as dead if he's stuck in the middle of the field with a broken leg." He paused for a moment, then remembering the original conversation, started it back up. "So do you have a better reason for not telling your mother about this?"

"I don't want her to feel ashamed," she answered, much more confidently this time.

"Still a pretty childish reason. But fine." He now moved closer and sat next to her on the couch. "I won't say anything about this to Apolline."

"Thank you." She stared at him for a long time as he continued to look out the window. After he finally noticed she was watching him, she asked "How long have you had that necklace?"

"You only now noticed it?" he said in surprise. He'd been wearing his mother's necklace since he received it shortly after being expelled from Durmstrang.

"You've always been wearing it?"

"Since June! Oh, right. The Beauxbatons uniform doesn't exactly let others see what's around your neck."

"It's beautiful. Where did you get it?"

"It used to be my mother's." Fleur's eyes widened as she gasped silently, clearly sensing another difficult subject, and looked down in apology. Chey, finding no harm in telling at least her, was quick to counter. "No no, it's okay. You would have heard about it sooner or later."

"You never talk about your parents. Why now?"

"No one else around to judge me."

"But why would anyone judge you?"

"My attitude towards the events in my past aren't exactly the traditional norm."

"What happened." It was odd. Fleur never really asked that question. It was more like she demanded the information. Despite her commanding tone, there was sympathy in her eyes, ready to console him should it be necessary.

Chey sighed deeply, then spoke without looking at her. "The war between the so-called Death Eaters and the resistance was not limited to Europe. There were dark arts sympathizers all over the world, many located in the United States. To counter them, the Department of Sorcery had, in addition to support fighters they sent to Europe, agents seeking out these sympathizers. In the heat of the era, civilians joined the fight, my parents included. There were so many eyes hunting them down that the dark arts sympathizers that they mostly used dark creatures in their fights."

"What kind of creatures?"

"Depended on where in the country they were. If it was the Midwest, there were giants. They used acromantulas for the rural areas, like the forests and mountains, and the urban areas saw a lot of Dementors."

"Dementors in America?" she wondered, her eyes wide with terror.

"A lot more than Europe. They were having a feast over there. During that time, a lot of the non-magical world was preoccupied with fear of the Soviet Union, what with the Cold War going on and all."

"I never heard of any 'Cold War.'"

"Of course not. It had no bearing on the magical world. The politics of two superpower nations like the United States and Russia were of little concern to wizards, who rarely pledge allegiance to non-magical governments. We warlocks were concerned, however, as our country was one of the participants."

"But what about your parents?" she asked, getting the conversation back on track.

"They helped put a lot of people in prison, and the Death Eaters didn't like that. So they ordered my parents be removed from the picture."

"They killed them?" she whispered, terrified that such tragedies existed.

"No. Worse. They ordered a swarm of dementors to attack." Chey was completely passive in his tone. "So they did. At least fifty. My parents lost their souls."

Fleur didn't seem able to speak, so Chey continued.

"Afterwards, the police were left with two lifeless bodies and a two-year old kid who just lost his parents. Seeing as how they were part of the magical community, the Department of Sorcery had to get involved, so they took over under the guise of the FBI. They already knew who had done it, so it was a matter of catching the bastard, planting non-magical evidence against him, and prosecuting him. They managed to contact my aunt, who was teaching in England at the time, and handed the kid over to her."

Fleur reached her arms around him, and pulled herself close. "I'm so sorry."

"I doesn't bother me," he said, escaping her embrace and standing up. "I know it sounds heartless, but I finished grieving a long time ago."

Perhaps thinking there was more to the story, and possibly worried she would have no other opportunity to find out, Fleur asked further, "So you grew up in England?"

"My aunt Minerva taught at Hogwarts ten months out of the year," he explained, now leaning on the edge of the dining table. "She could hardly take care of me all the time. Actually, a friend of my parents looked after me until I was eleven, when I went to Washington Magical Academy. He died that Winter, and I turned into an arrogant jackass. I picked fights, argued, talked back to instructors; you know, stupid stuff."

"You were expelled for such insignificant things?"

"Nah," he answered, chuckling to himself as he relived the moment. "They tend to get mad when you blow a hole in the main pipeline and flood the ground floor with five inches of water."

"You what!" she cried, refusing to believe that the boy who stood before her now could do such a deplorable thing.

"Well, some other students and I wanted to play Marco Polo, and we didn't have a swimming pool, so-"

Fleur raised her hands and covered her eyes, muttering "Stop, stop!" as though not wanting to be witness to this confession. Refusing to listen to any more tales of lawlessness. "I don't want to hear about your compulsive rule-breaking!"

"You're one to talk, always sneaking out in the middle of the night."

"I do not!" she denied, indignation ringing through her words.

"On no less than five occasions," he said, laughing, "I've heard you right outside the door to my dorm, giving Madame Maxime some lame excuse for being out of bed so late!"

"You heard?" she asked, confirming his accusation.

"Hard not to, what with you being inches from the door."

"What were you doing up?" she asked, her tone shifting from guilty to accusatory.

"I...was...about to sneak out to see you."

Her second mood shift made Chey think of a metronome that went in three directions rather than two. "That's so..." she stuttered, and Chey could only assume the word "romantic" was on the tip of her tongue. When she failed to come up with anything more to add to that sentence, she asked "Have you tried to see me before?"

"Several times."

"How did you avoid being caught?" she asked, her eyes wild with excitement.

"Animagus. Disguised myself as a fox."

"Then why didn't you come?"

"Hello? I couldn't get through your door. Fox paws aren't the best for opening latches. And you weren't paying attention when I was scratching the door!"

"That was you? Why not tell me during the day?"

"Well I...figured...you'd...like the surprise."

Without any regard for her leg, Fleur leapt off the couch and embraced Chey tightly. Neither of them said a word while the fire crackled and the front door opened. They pulled themselves away as Apolline and Gabrielle entered. Chey, as part of his promise to keep the day's events secret, caused the pieces of the makeshift splint to vanish with a wave of his hand, as though they had never existed.

"You two are back early," Apolline remarked while removing her coat.

"Got hungry," Fleur said, wincing a bit as she stood on her injured leg. "Just about to start making dinner."

"What did you have in mind?" Gabrielle asked, clearly famished, as she pulled off her boots.

Chey answered, as Fleur was at a loss for words. "We were just going to throw everything randomly into the air and see what lands in the pot."

Gabrielle's laugh broke the tension, and they set about preparing dinner.

After Apolline's delicious dinner, which helped Gabrielle realize she was very tired, Apolline and her youngest daughter turned in, with Fleur announcing she was close behind. Chey, being the last one, decided to go onto the balcony for a bit, just to think about the things he'd said to Fleur.

Fate would have it that would be the night he received his mother's Christmas card. Raithe fluttered down and landed on the railing, the envelope addressed to his mother in his talons. He read it and found nothing in it that was unlike last year's card.

"Who's it from?" he heard Fleur's voice behind him.

"Your leg..." Chey said, merely looking for an excuse not to discuss the letter.

"I'm fine," she answered, though seemed intent on getting an answer. "Who's the letter from," she asked again in that demanding tone.

"Every damn year, my mother's parents send her a Christmas card, acting like she never died. And last June, they sent her this necklace," Chey said, subconsciously touching the raven charm, "saying they thought she would want it back, as if she could still wear it." Now Chey's emotions had begun to run away with him. He couldn't keep it to himself anymore.

"Chey-"

"And every time, it's signed 'Love Mother and Father.' If they really loved her, wouldn't they at least wonder why she never wrote back? Didn't they hear about the attack? The whole damn world heard about it, so how can they ignore something so important just like that? What's wrong with them?"

Fleur had no words to say, but the sympathy that was in her eyes earlier that day finally had a chance to come out as she hugged him tightly, neither of them saying a word as snow began to fall around them.