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 Twenty-Eight

Out of Sorts

"Yes, sorted. The Sorting Hat will determine which house you'll be in."

"Say who now?"

"As a student, Chey, you'll be a member of one of four houses, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, and my own, Gryffindor. This Sorting Hat will decide, as it does for all Hogwarts students."

"I'm afraid to ask how."

"It's quite painless. It's placed on your head."

Chey took a look at the mangy old hat, and drew back a step.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Something wrong?" Albus asked.

"I'm not putting that thing on my head. I have no idea where that's been!"

"If it's any comfort, it spends much of the year on a shelf in my office."

"Shelves get dusty."

"Stop complaining, Chey," Minerva told him, and dropped the hat on his head. Immediately, he heard a whisper in his ears.

"Interesting. Very interesting. Definitely plenty of talent, there's no doubt about that. Yet rather than show the world, I sense a desire to blend in with others. And a very sharp mind, yes! Though rather than run from danger, you embrace it. Curious, very curious. I can honestly say I've never seen someone like yourself. But this begs the question...Where do you belong?"

The voice seemed to think it over some more, and after what seemed like several minutes, started whispering again.

"I see you've inherited your bravery from your father, yes? And your mother must have been very wise indeed, while this talent you hold is your own. Yet you hold all three in high regard. So very difficult..."

Another pause, and it continued.

"Never in my thousand years of existence have I met someone quite like you. You are intelligent, proud of who you are, talented beyond what others see, and danger is but a small obstacle for yourself. I did recently sort a boy with a balance of traits, though not to the caliber you have. Perhaps it's best to place you with like-minded people?"

Tired of listening to it talk and eager for it to make a decision, Chey told the voice, "Pick something, will ya?"

"Very well then, you shall be in Gryffindor. I worry, though, for such high capacities of these traits have in the past given way to dangerous people. But be warned: balance is necessary, yes, but so is restraint."

"Whatever." And the hat was lifted off his head. "Are we done now?

"Not quite," Albus said. "I'd like you to stop by Hogwarts tomorrow so we may inform the Minister of your appointment."

"Shouldn't he know already?"

"I merely informed him I had someone eligible in mind."

"Remind you of anyone, Minerva?"

Indeed, Dumbledore's actions reminded Chey strongly of his own transgressions. Half-truths and quasi-misleading statements seemed abound in this man's life. Immediately apparent was Dumbledore's mistrust of England's magical government. Chey heard from Charlie several details about the tension between the Hogwarts headmaster and British Minister of Magic.

"You hid information from the Ministry, Professor?" Charlie finally chimed in.

"In a word, Mister Weasley, yes."

"Why?"

"If you were the minister, would you permit Mister McGonagall to be involved in an event such as the Triwizard Tournament?"

"I suppose that makes sense," Charlie said with understanding, and Chey couldn't help but give him a look of indignation.

"I don't mean to attack your name, Mister McGonagall," Albus said, seeing Chey's expression. "I only meant to illustrate the closed mind of Cornelius Fudge."

"I'll let it slide this time," Chey said. "Now if you're done here, I have some things to take care of." Without waiting for a reply, Chey left the discussion and exited the door.

He walked across the driveway, and only when he reached his own door did he realize he had just done what he'd swore he never would: he had agreed to attend his aunt's school. Did his word suddenly become meaningless?

Entering his own office, he looked at the large stack of papers organized in his "everything-in-some-sort-of-place" filing system. Right on top was the reported findings by the investigation of MacElroy's death. As expected, it was full of bureaucratic double-speak. After another moment of looking through the document, he figured they came to the conclusion that no one in the top ranks was to blame, and it recommended that senior handlers should be more mindful of who is present during dangerous situations.

Even if he did agree to go to that school, what did it prove? Is he a slave to his aunt's will? After all, he had refused to take the O.W.L.s, but Minerva had the official ambush him. And this Dumbledore character. Why was he so likable, even now that Chey was thoroughly annoyed with him? Looking back on the conversation, he remembered thinking about his friends, and the possibility of seeing them again. Was that all? Chey had merely changed his mind as a result of new information?

Needing a laugh, Chey looked toward the wall behind his desk, where a framed copy of the newspaper article describing his life's story had been hung by him for just that purpose. There was just no denying the accuracy of its statements, and one could not help but admire the work they put into defaming him, even if it had been for naught as he could easily perform any public service that would erase from memory a hundred such articles. He had already read it several times over, and he now recalled the things Fleur had said in his defense. She really did care about him.

Charlie entered the room, a bemused look about him.

"That's it," he said. "You're a hypocrite."

"How so?" came Chey's response.

"Just how many times did you say you'd never attend Hogwarts?"

"Several. I used to keep track, but lost count after thirty-seven."

"And now look where you're going! You're a textbook case of hypocrisy!"

"Whatever." Chey decided there was no point arguing if his opponent had only one case as evidence.

"And twice a hypocrite, because you always complain about other's hypocrisy!"

Two cases of evidence, however, was a challenge he couldn't pass up.

"Gotta prove you wrong there, Chuck. Hypocrites preach one thing and do the opposite. I never told anyone to avoid that school."

"But you said you'd never go to that school!"

"That just makes me a walking contradiction. Now that we've established I'm not a hypocrite the first time, that means I'm not a hypocrite the second."

"Ever considered getting into politics, Chey?"

"Not a chance of that. No matter who you are or where you stand, half the world hates you. Not for me."

"I thought you didn't care what people thought of you."

"Again, I'm a walking contradiction. Now I gotta make a few contacts with some of my connections across that big lake you call an ocean, so if you'll excuse me?"

"Good to see you made it, Mister McGonagall."

Dumbledore's office reminded Chey strongly of his own. A multitude of things, all seemingly of different origins, were scattered around the room, albeit in a much more organized fashion. On the walls were portraits of what Chey assumed to be former headmasters to the school.

"So where is this guy I'm supposed to be introduced to?"

"On his way. Please, have a seat. Help yourself to some licorice snaps."

Chey looked at the bowl of squirming black candies, which Chey was sure tasted quite delicious, but...

"I much rather prefer foods that have ceased all autonomous movement," he said, about to take a seat when he spotted a large, elegant red bird sitting on a perch. He walked closer to it, realizing the breed for what it was. "And what's your name?"

"Fawkes has been with me for many years. Rather elegant creatures, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, some may argue with me, but the Roccaverden holds an elegance of its own that no phoenix in the world can hope to match."

"How so?"

"Passivity, graceful curves of their faces, smooth wings. I could go on. It's different from the Opaleye, but still there and far more radiant. Of course, for a ferocious grace, one only has to look towards the Hebridian Black."

"And how many of your coworkers would agree with you on these points?"

"Few, if any."

"Really now?"

"I pride myself on having an opinion of my own and not letting it be quashed by the naysayers."

Dumbledore paused, then said, "That shows a strong will, Mister McGonagall."

The door clicked open, and in entered a shorter man who looked thoroughly unremarkable save for his green bowler cap that looked ridiculous. Chey sensed he was a cowardly sort of man who never engaged in an argument. The man said nothing, only entered the room followed by two others.

The second man to enter Chey recognized. The man acted so stiff and upright, Chey suspected the man was sent through the laundry as a child and someone went a little starch-happy. The part in his short gray hair was straight enough to pass for laser precision, and he obviously engaged in the ritual of highly polished shoes which Chey always found illogical (shoes were the closest things in proximity to the filthy ground, after all). There was no mistaking the almost Hitler-like, narrow, perfectly trimmed toothbrush mustache. This was the man who had sent Sirius Black to prison without a trial: Barty Crouch.

However, Crouch said not a word either. It was the third man in the room who spoke first.

"So, Albus, which corner of the world did you have to go to?"

"Only had to catch up to him, Ludo," Dumbledore addressed the man.

Ludo looked like a former professional athlete who got stuck in a desk job upon his retirement. Indeed he had the build of a Quidditch player, but probably no longer had the body-mass index. His nose looked like it had it's share of run-ins with various hard objects, and his short blonde hair and rosy complexion gave the impression of a cliche schoolboy who only grew up physically.

Chey was still standing near Fawkes, just outside their immediate field of view, so it was understandable when this Ludo asked "When is this person getting here?"

"While you gentlemen had decided to be fashionably late," Dumbledore kindly accused them (as if that were possible?), "the Triwizard Mediator has already arrived."

"For the record," Chey said, stepping into better view, "there's no such thing as being fashionably late. One can only be on time or unprofessional." He was sure that calling him unprofessional would get a rise out of Crouch. However, Crouch entered the room looking grumpy, so it was hard to tell if it worked.

Dumbledore disregarded Chey's baiting, and continued. Indicating the man with the green hat who was first to enter, he said "Chey, this is Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic."

"Albus," the man finally spoke, "he's just a boy!"

"Seventeen," Chey said, annoyed. "Old enough to drive back home and to use magic here without getting a nastygram from one of your offices, thank you very much."

"We'll discuss his credentials in a moment, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, wishing to move on. Indicating the first man to speak, he said, "Next we have Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

There's a mouthful, Chey thought to himself. You could run out of breath introducing these Ministry guys.

"And finally we have-"

"Oh, I know who this is," Chey interrupted. "Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. You're the stiff who sent Black to prison without a trial."

"Now's not the time to discuss that, Chey," Albus intervened, but Chey could tell his comment had ever so slightly sent Crouch's mustache askew. "Gentlemen, this is Chey McGonagall."

"From the newspaper?" asked Bagman.

"Really, Albus," Crouch at last spoke up. "An American?"

"And as such he is outside any nationality bias, Barty."

"He's also attended the two other schools!"

"And he will be attending Hogwarts this year, so he'll have balanced partiality among all three contenders."

"That is a rather unorthodox definition of the word 'impartial,' Albus," said Fudge.

"But you can't deny its merit, Cornelius," Bagman said, clearly game for the idea.

"Now Albus," Fudge continued, disregarding Bagman, "you've made some unusual decisions in the past and I've been more than lenient. But this is crossing the line."

"Yes, Cornelius, now is the time to discuss his credentials. Mister McGonagall, would you like to inform them?"

"Sure, whatever," and Chey took a breath to rattle off his accomplishments. "I get excellent grades everywhere I go, I hold a Class Echo Dragon Handling license, people like me despite my faults, and a great majority of my former instructors will tell you that my punishments were unjust."

"And," Dumbledore added, "his ties to all three schools will further the message of international cooperation."

Fudge was not quite convinced, but Chey sensed he only needed a little more convincing. "I still don't-"

"He's worried I won't be able to maintain impartiality," Chey said, not really understanding how he knew, "if an old friend of mine turns out to be one of the champions."

"Are you saying you'd forego your friendship with the person in favor of impartiality?"

"No, because my friend would understand the situation I'm in."

"I see." Now Fudge was convinced. "Well, as long as you can promise to maintain an impartial stance, I see no problem with it."

"I'm afraid I do, Minister," Crouch said, clearly still annoyed by Chey's comment about Black. "There's no guarantee, and his record of making trouble should have been all the evidence you'd needed to decide against his appointment."

"First," Chey argued for himself, "my record is irrelevant. Second, it's my understanding that my position is only ceremonial, and would have nothing to do with the preparations. Given that, even if I developed a bias, there's nothing I could do with it."

They all looked at Crouch, who knew when he'd been beaten and said grumpily, "Very well then."

Early morning mist limited Chey's visibility of the London Docks on the first day of September. Gulls sounded in the distance, while the dock workers shouted to each other to coordinate loading and unloading.

Chey approached a large container ship, and figured the man in the business suit was more or less in charge.

"This the ship from Norfolk?" Chey called to him.

"The chart doesn't lie, sir," he responded. "Box number?"

"Twenty-three-eighty. McGonagall."

"Identification and receipt?"

Chey handed the man a card and a sheet of paper.

The manager looked through his list, sifting through pages and comparing information, his eyes finally resting on the proper entry. "Right then." Picking up the radio from his belt, he said into the mouthpiece, "Two three eight zero to receiving six."

"Rodger," came a voice from the handset. "Two-three-eighty to six."

The dock crane creaked to life, moving over the ship and the many blandly colored containers. Stopping somewhere in the middle, it lowered below Chey's line of sight.

"Not many people pay the extra for both a rush delivery and extra care," said the manager, looking at his forms. "Just out of curiosity, what's so special about what's inside there?"

"It was my Dad's."

"Any reason it had to be here by today?"

"This is just the last possible day I could get it."

"Some one else could have. We're quite lenient, so long as the receiver has proof-"

"I don't trust anyone. That goes double with this one."

"Fine," said the manager, going back to studying his files. "Your money." Chey smiled at the comment.

The crane lifted back into sight, carrying beneath it a large grey container. Slowly making its way towards them, Chey stood up straight in anticipation.

Still reading over his papers, the manager said, "A nineteen-sixty-nine, eh? That's a fine year."

"My dad thought so, too. Bought it new, never changed a thing on it."

"He was a purist?"

"Nah, just liked it the way it was."

"What kind of condition is it in?"

"Assuming you boys did your jobs right, there shouldn't be a scratch on it."

"How does something that old stay that nice for so long?"

"A lot of care."

Excruciatingly slowly, the crane eventually placed the container on the ground a fair distance from them.

"All clear at six," said a voice from the radio, and the manager led the way towards the mammoth shipping crate.

The dock workers began unhooking the large straps that had held the container aloft.

Finally, as though it had been hours, a worker unlatched the doors, and swung them open.

A few of the workers even whistled at the sight of it's contents.

"Let me ask you something, young man," said the manager. "Is there anything wrong with European cars?"

"Not really," he said with a smile. "It's just they can't hold a candle to good old American muscle."