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 Fourteen

Competition

Chey's startling of Fleur on the day of his broom's arrival set off a fury in her that Hell shall never know.

She tried anything she could to better him. From scoring higher on a test or completing that test quicker, all the way to casting a charm with more finesse.

Chey was no help to the situation at all. His argumentative self and urge to always be the one with the right answer drove him to compete against her, and this clashed greatly with her competitive and attention-starved personality.

Their unending contest for recognition reached a fever pitch at the end of October during a Transfiguration class.

"Class, we will be expanding on nonverbal self-transfiguration techniques," the professor explained. "Last week you all, some with more difficulty than others, successfully changed the color of your eyebrows. Today I want you all to change your hair."

Every student stood in front of a mirror, and fate would have Chey and Fleur standing next to each other. Chey, already very confident he could accomplish the task, took a moment to watch the other students blunder their way around the spell. Some had accomplished to set themselves on fire, and one had even changed to zebra stripes, though unintentionally and not according to the assignment.

Thanks to his decision to wait a moment, Fleur had finished the assignment, changing her hair to a silky light brown, and now was now enjoying the high praise coming from the instructor. She glanced over at Chey, looking very smug indeed, confident that nothing he could do would bother her now. She was right. As far as casting the spell, he could not do better than her. He would have to go one step further.

Fleur turned away to tell her friend how easy the spell really is, and by the time she turned back, Chey was no longer there. In his place in front of the mirror was a fox, though it was no ordinary fox. Completely covered in silver hairs that ended in black tips and possessing Chey's silver colored eyes, the fox yipped to attract everyone's attention.

Immediately the class had diverted themselves from Fleur's accomplishment to Chey's.

"Monsieur McGonagall!" the professor cried.

Fearing widespread panic, Chey turned back to his usual self.

"Are you an animagus, Chey?" one of the students asked.

"Yeah." Chey's response caused them all to forget Fleur's once again silver blonde hair, and she bristled with anger about it.

After class, Chey, reveling in his victory in the war of attention, went to the east balcony at the rear of the school to enjoy the lake view and cool, damp October weather, as was typical for the climate of Southern France. Over the years, the moist atmosphere had eroded the balcony wall, and Chey wondered if it should give way any day to some absentminded person who might lean a bit too hard on it.

As he inhaled deeply the crisp air and contemplated summoning his broom to take a spin, Fleur approached him from behind.

"Let's get it out in the open," she said. "I hate you."

"And why is that?" he asked, turning around and leaning gingerly on the well worn balcony wall. "Why is it that I, a total stranger, annoy you to the brink of rage?"

"You don't leave me alone."

"And how would you prefer I leave you be?"

"Stop trying to prove you're some kind of god-figure!"

"Is that what this is about?" he wondered aloud. "You being upstaged? You're even shallower than I thought."

"If anyone is shallow, it's you! All you ever do is try to prove everyone wrong."

"Well forgive me for having a difference in opinion. You're not much better, flaunting whatever excuse for skill you might have. I swear, you are the definition of narcissism!"

"You want narcissism?" she yelled, moving closer. "Fine! 'Look! I'm an animagus! I have a fancy broom! I use a dragon as my personal transport!'"

"That argument would work so much better if you weren't guilty of that which you accuse others," he said, laughing. The two of them were now nearly nose to nose, with about three inches of height difference between them, Chey being the taller. "Look at yourself. You flaunt your veela blood. Every day you're escorted everywhere by one of your male classmates that you've brainwashed to do your bidding. I'm surprised this week's stooge isn't here right now."

"Jacques has offered of his own conviction to accompany me, something you'll never have the chivalry to even dare."

"Okay, here's your chivalry: go right ahead, Mademoiselle, and feel free to perpetuate the stereotype you so greatly detest. As a matter of fact, I'll bet that's how you got your grades you claim to have earned!"

"How dare you accuse me of such deplorable behavior!"

"Yeah, I can see it now: 'Please, Professor, don't grade me too harshly.'"

"I earn every grade I receive! Though I can't say the same for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How do I know that a little bit extra of thatMcGonagall money isn't making it into the teacher's pockets?"

"You're suggesting I'm guilty of bribery? Now you're really reaching. I would have thought my performance in the practical sessions would speak for itself, but I guess you didn't notice, seeing as you were too busy flirting with every guy in the school save for me."

"I don't consider you worthy of even the time of day! I can't be expected to waste time on someone like that."

"Well, I wouldn't even ask to borrow a quill from a frigid bitch like you!"

"No, you wouldn't. Like a typical American, you'd just take it."

"Resorting to the 'Typical American' argument, now? If that's all you got, I guess French girls are really just empty shells." Their tempers flared, and had anyone else been on the balcony, they would be the center of attention, just what they were competing for.

"You insufferable, egotistic, barbaric low-life!"

"Pompous, narcissistic, Hell-spawned, platinum blonde banshee!"

The very second following Chey's heated and well versed name-call, their lips had locked together. After a short moment of this embrace, they came to their senses and pushed each other away.

"What the hell was that?!" he yelled.

"I don't know!" she said.

"What were you thinking?!"

"I don't know!" she said again.

"I was talking to myself!" he clarified, and she appeared to be asking herself the same question. "Okay, let's try and clear this up. We were arguing, right?"

"Yes." She seemed to think that a recap of events would help make sense of it all.

"You called me a low-life..."

"Yes, and you called me a banshee."

"A Hell-spawned, platinum blonde banshee," he corrected her. "Then what?"

"I don't know. We kissed?"

"No we didn't."

"Yes we did!"

"I know! I know!" he yelled. He took a moment to go over this once again in his head. "How did we go from banshee to kiss?"

"It was the last thing I wanted to do."

"Same here. It sure as Hell shut you up, though."

"It silenced you as well. We may have both been thinking we wanted the other to stop talking..."

"And we figured that was the only way. That make sense, right?"

"Yes, perfect sense!"

"Yeah! So, what now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know, do we act like it never happened?

"How do you suggest we forget something like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't just forget something like this, Chey!"

"Hey, wait a minute."

"What?"

"We aren't yelling anymore," he noticed. "Why not?"

"I don't want to yell."

"Neither do I. What do you make of that?"

"Maybe...maybe that needed to happen."

"What?"

"This may have been a good thing..."

"You're kidding."

"No! Think about it: are you angry anymore?"

"No, I'm confused! Wait, you're thinking we're not supposed to mad at each other at all?"

"Y-yes!"

"And how do you come to that conclusion?" Chey asked, now frustrated.

"In the middle of an argument, we kissed for a reason we can't explain, and that ends the argument. How can you not draw the same conclusion I did?"

"With a lot of difficulty, I can. So what do you suggest we do?"

She herself leaned against the balcony wall next to Chey, though she had less concern for its integrity than he did. She barely had time to say "I suppose" when it gave way, and she began to plummet towards the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Chey watched her fall for a fraction of a second before leaping over the wall after her.

Without bothering to pretend to use a wand, he cast the same spell of his own design that he used the year before to pull Viktor, Sergey, and Nikolay into the lake at Durmstrang. The spell caught her, and he pulled them together, slowing her fall at the cost of accelerating his own. For good measure, he tried it again, and she was slowed down enough that she would hit the rocky shore at a safe speed.

Chey, however, was falling twice as fast as he normally would have, and continued gaining speed. He turned around and cast the same spell again, latching it to the balcony wall. Confident he was out of danger, he pulled hard on the wall.

Unfortunately for him, the wall was not done failing after it collapsed when Fleur leaned on it. The wall crumbled under the weight Chey put upon it, and he continued his fall, followed by the stones that had fallen from the balcony.

Chey never had the luxury of seeing the ground approach, as he was still staring at the pieces of the wall he had broken apart as they followed him towards the ground. At this point he wondered why he leaped to his almost certain doom to save this girl who had given him so much grief, and failed to come up with an answer before blacking out.

Author's note.

To see a picture of Chey that Lunan has drawn, visit the Spirit of Fear section on my website, (link on my profile page).