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 (excluding the aforementioned characters, settings, and story) a work by Thomas Holman.

Chapter 4

Travels

“Where are you going for break, Chey?”

“I’m going back to Romania, hang out at the reservation, make sure Vipey hasn’t burnt the place to a crisp. And you, Viktor, are going to stay at the school and wait for the people from the Pro Quiditch League to come by and conduct your interview.”

“What about Sergey and Nikolay?”

“They get to go home. Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘The unfairness of it all.’ They get to go home because I pity them.”

“What?!”

“You get to talk to the Quiditch League, and they get to go home. That’s fair, and that’s final. We’ll see you in January.”

The Winter Holiday, as Chey called it (a byproduct of attending the politically correct schools in the United States), had arrived rather quickly. Not too quickly, however, to allow Chey time to hook Sergey and Mariya up together. Even after the fact, Sergey couldn’t make sense of the series of events that led to the two of them sharing a table alone for dinner in a restaurant in the nearby town.

“So who’s Vipey?” Mariya asked. She had begun hanging out with the four of them since she and Sergey got together.

“Vipey’s his dragon,” Sergey answered for Chey. This was the first time she had heard this bit of news, so the shock on her face was understandable.

“Had him since a hatchling, right after getting my handler’s license,” Chey explained. Still seeing the look of horror on her face, Chey tried to console her concerns. “He has not tried to bite me at all. Not since he bit me the first time.”

“But that sounds dangerous, keeping a dragon!”

“Well, I’m an idiot, so it works out.”

“Relax, Mariya,” Nikolay added. “He’s still alive after all these years, so he can’t be too bad at his job. Have fun, Chey.”

“Well, I don’t see any craters, so I guess Vipey is content with his surroundings while I’m away. Let’s see if Chuck still has his head and all ten fingers.”

It was good to be back, if only for a few weeks. First thing was to greet Vipey and give him a fillet mignons.

“Did you behave yourself, Vipe?”

“He’s been a very good boy, Chey,” Chuck said. “How’s Durmstrang?”

“Not bad. Things running okay with Brian?”

“Yeah. Vipey’s been handling him. How long you here for and how much real work are you going to do?”

“Three weeks and as little as possible. Hey Vipe, wanna race?”

Vipey perked up at this suggestion. Chuck raised an eyebrow. He’d never heard of anyone racing a dragon before. Then again, he’d never met anyone who kept a dragon for a pet, so Chey was full of surprises. Yet Chuck felt he had to ask “Race?”

“Chuck, my friend, you have much to learn. Peruvians are all about speed, they love to match their skills against other things in the sky.”

“I never knew that.”

“That’s because you never let the dragons fly very much around here.” Chey summoned his broom from his belongings back in his office. “Let’s go, Vipe!” Chey kicked off the ground and Vipey leaped into the air. They were off and nothing could stop them.

Chey and Vipey loved to fly. Didn’t matter whether it was soaring thousands of feet over the countryside, or ten feet above the deck at top speed, swerving around trees and the landscape. Either way, they were flying, and there was a sense of freedom in that, something not attained anywhere else. It was nearly intoxicating.

They rocketed toward the sky, full tilt. The cool mist of the clouds stinging Chey’s face slightly. They stopped propelling themselves up, allowing momentum to carry them higher. As they raced through the clouds, the brisk air felt better than any fountain of youth could ever be.

Now, with abruptness rivaling that of the rudest guest at the party, they rolled in the air, pointed down, and accelerated. They shot out of the cloud cover like meteorites, fully intent on getting to the ground below as quickly as possible. Chey held himself close to the broom handle, and Vipey folded his wings flat against his body.

Now, with mere feet before colliding with the ground, Vipey opened his wings, and Chey pulled up and pushed his feet down on the tail of the broom. The two of them missed the ground by inches, and began slaloming through the trees, their small flight adjustments having drastic effects at such a high speed. They navigated the terrain so expertly, not a single blade of grass was out of place.

“So it’s really that good?” Chuck asked upon their return. Six hours later.

“Yes. And now I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Chey started moving toward the dining hall.

“Six hours of flying. You don’t get tired?”

“Nah, adrenaline takes care of that. I’m starving when I get back and sore in the morning, but it’s worth it.”

“Well, if it’s that good,” Chuck said with genuine interest, “I guess I should get into this.”

“Just remember: fly with a buddy.”

“For safety?”

“Nah, just more interesting when it’s a competition. One guy flying around alone looks like an idiot.”

Chey and Vipey repeated their fast lane experience several times over the three weeks of Chey’s vacation, each time increasing the bar for speed. On the third session, Chuck joined them. Though Chuck’s lack of experience in racing slowed them down, it was nonetheless enjoyable to bring new company along.

December 24 rolled around, and Chey resolved to spend Christmas with Minerva. Actually, she gave an ultimatum: either he comes to England or she shows up uninvited to Romania. Rather than risk embarrassment in front of his coworkers, he figured it may be better to visit Minerva in England.

“I knew I’d get you in this school somehow, Chey!” Minerva cried out when he walked in her office door.

“Hey, you were right, Em,” Chey began. Those words were enough to light up Minerva’s face; she loved being right. “This is a big castle. Bigger than Durmstrang. Older too. Medieval?”

“Approximately,” said a deep, gentle voice behind Chey. He turned around the first thing he saw was a long silver beard. Another half a second and Chey realized an old man was connected to it. A really old guy. “You must be Chey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“That could go either way,” Chey remarked. “Who’s been talking?”

“Minerva has.”

“Again, could go either way.”

“Chey, this is Albus Dumbledore,” Minerva chimed in.

“Your boss?” Chey asked.

“Quite,” said Albus. “I’m rather fascinated by your talents.”

“And of what talents have you been informed?”

“Most often I hear of your remarkable talent of turning into a fox. Minerva is very proud of it.”

“I’m an animagus. Have been since the age of twelve. She taught me. Don’t like to brag about it.”

“That’s very remarkable. However I’m more interested in the lost art of the illusionist.”

“Yeah. That’s trickier than transfiguring.” Chey was getting bored with this guy’s unending, yet calm enthusiasm.

“And that’s what makes it all the more impressive. There haven’t been many illusionists these past few centuries, so I’m honored to make your acquaintance, young master of illusions.”

“Is he always like this?” Chey asked Minerva after a brief silence.

“I’ve been known to be quite eccentric on many an occasion,” Albus interrupted, saving Minerva from making a potentially incriminating statement about her superior.

“Wow. Now I really want to come here to learn, Em,” Chey sarcastically remarked.

“Well, if you ever change your opinion, know that you will always be welcome.” His smile was annoyingly likable.

“Do you really think this is the best time for visitors, Minerva?” Now there was a voice Chey immediately disliked, coming from behind Albus. It sounded sleazy, condescending, and spiteful.

“Whatever do you mean, Severus?” Albus asked with a false surprise that was quite convincing.

“What with the Chamber of Secrets having been opened recently, it’s not safe for the students, let alone a visitor who has no knowledge of the situation.” How dare he assume Chey to be incapable of handling his own safety. Chey works with dragons! How much more dangerous a job would Chey need to prove his level of competence?

“If Chey was ever in any danger here,” Minerva suddenly chimed in, “then none of us here have any hope of surviving. I’m quite sure he will be fine.”

That was the first vote of confidence Chey had ever received from his aunt. He stared at her for half a minute, while the newly arrived Severus tried to assemble that sentence so it made sense, then asked what would make Chey more survivable than all the rest of the castle’s residents. Chey did not quite hear Severus’s question, as he was still reeling from Minerva’s onslaught of praise, but comprehended enough of it to construct a response.

“Top of my class four years running at four different schools in the United States and Italy, never less than exceptional scores. I’ve invented my own spells and execute them all perfectly. Currently attending Durmstrang and last summer I volunteered as a keeper at the dragon reservation in Romania, handling every breed of dragon dangerous to man, with not a scratch on me. At the age of thirteen I qualified for disapparation and a Class Echo dragon handler license. Not that I like to brag, but I think I can handle whatever problem you got.”

After a moment, Severus sneered “Your life is in your own hands,” and he left.

“Who spit in his hair gel?” Chey piped up. The joke would have made more sense to someone in the United States, where the magical world is so closely integrated into the non-magical world.

Chey spent the day wandering the castle. He determined that the English are odd beyond even his standards. He spotted two identical fourth-years waving large cloves of garlic at a second-year. There was nothing in Chey’s vivid imagination that would explain such behavior.

At one point, Chey stopped by their rather extensive library, and spotted something even more unusual than the garlic wielding dopplegangers: someone studying during vacation. There was no way anyone doing that voluntarily could possibly be sane. She looked about twelve, with the bushiest brown hair Chey had ever seen. Her focus on the pages was intense, and Chey couldn’t resist breaking it.

“I hate to dispel your dreams, but you don’t have laser vision.”

“What?” She seemed truly shocked that someone else would be here, which indicated she may not be as crazy as he initially thought.

“No matter how hard you stare at the page, it won’t burst into flames in a blaze of glory. I’ve tried. You have too sneeze on it.”

“Sorry, I-”

“I guess you’re unfamiliar with American eccentricies.”

“So that’s why I don’t recognize you. You’re not even from England!”

“What a relief. You aren’t of the same spawn as the garlic twins.”

“You saw that?” she asked in horror, as though it were some dark, horrible secret the castle’s inhabitants had to hide for the sake of visitors.

“Hard to miss,” Chey said as he sat down across from her. “As a matter of fact, they kind of reminded me of a coworker of mine. Fortunately only in appearance. Really bright red hair.”

“Yes, that’s Fred and George. It’s terrible that they’re tormenting Harry so. Oh, I’m Hermoine.”

“Name’s Chey. You spend every day in here or do occasionally come up for air?”

“Well, unlike others, I take my studies seriously.”

“There’s serious studying, then there’s beating a dead horse. Take it easy, girl.”

“My O.W.L.s are less than three years away! I have to be ready for them!”

“Oh don’t even mention those!” Chey stopped her. “My aunt want’s me to take them. I can’t understand what would possess her to think they’re anything more than a waste of my time.”

“They are an excellent indication of what you know,” she said very matter-of-factly.

“I think I already have a pretty good idea what I know. Perfect scores at every school I attend are a pretty good indication that I know quite a bit.”

She seemed stunned at this. Clearly, she didn’t label Chey as someone who would attain anything close to a perfect score on anything. “Well...they also help you decide what careers you’ll be ready for.” Now that she had a firm argument, she more confidently said “That’s important.”

“Yeah, that’s a load of bull. I already got a job with dragons.” She started to warn him about the dangers, when Chey interrupted her. “And don’t start with all that ‘it’s dangerous’ cliche. I’m licensed and everything.”

“But you’re too young!”

“That’s a new one. But irrelevant. Skill overrules age back home in the U.S.”

“Really?”

“Well, more so in the magical world.”

“What’s magic like in America?” She seemed genuinely interested in what the magical world was like in his home, a first for anyone he ever met in Europe.

“It’s nothing like over here, that’s for sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not nearly as segregated. We don’t hide in our homes. We don’t have whole towns where none but magicians are allowed. We live among the general populace, all while keeping a tight lid on our skills.”

“So wizards-”

“Don’t call us that.”

“What?”

“Don’t call us wizards. We’re warlocks.”

“Why? What’s the difference?”

“It’s a pride thing. Goes back to the American Revolution. The magical world became divided into two factions: wizards who wished to attain independence through diplomacy and the aptly named warlocks who desired a fight for freedom. Pretty obvious who won.”

“What are the women called?”

“Still witches. It’s a homage to the people killed at Salem.”

“So if warlocks and witches live among everyone else, how do you keep the magical world a secret?”

“It’s like a game. ‘Who can live the most magical life while hiding it the best?’ In fact, we can’t even recognize each other on the street. Not even being in a warlock’s house is a clear tip-off. The only way we can tell is if we congregate at witch and warlock meeting spots, or if we see each other at a Department of Sorcery office.”

“The what?”

“The Department of Sorcery back home is like your Ministry of Magic, only on a larger scale. The country is too big to have a single office, so there are smaller offices distributed all over, with a large central office in the nation’s capital.”

“How many offices are there?”

“One central, fifty sub-offices, and splinter offices for the sub-offices. It’s all pretty complicated, but figure that there’s some sort of office for every fifteen towns or so.”

“What are the schools like?”

“Exactly like non-magical schools; the exception being the curriculum. Really, the entire magical world in the States keeps up the non-magical one. We watch TV, listen to the radio, keep up with fashion, drive cars, fly on planes. Heck, some of us even run non-magical businesses, with varying degrees of success.”

At that moment, another student entered the library, and rather than look through the stacks of books, he merely cried “Hermoine! Harry and I are going down to the Great Hall! Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding! You coming?”

She responded with a sigh.

“Clever minds do need nourishment,” Chey remarked.

“It was good talking to you,” she replied as she gathered her things and walked away. As she packed up, Chey caught sight of what she had been reading: advanced potions, high level transfiguration, and even magical theory. That last one was something Chey was certain had pretty much isolated itself to the American Department of Sorcery. For the past fifty years, they had been applying modern sciences to explain the phenomenon of magic, and in an underhanded effort to gain more scientists to assist the cause, schools had begun teaching magical theory, Chey’s best subject. It was how he was able to invent his own spells.

But why would a twelve year old be studying magical theory?