Hey , guys!

So, this is my first Artemis Fowl fanfiction, as well as my first one-shot. This story is what I believe happened on that day Artemis Fowl got a 99% (If you don't know what I'm talking about, a quick summary—In the Artemis Fowl Files, in an interview of Artemis, Artemis admitted that the most embarrasing day in his life was when he got a 99% on a mathematics assignment.) So enjoy!

(Also, this is the edited story of a story. I made a silly Irish-grading-system mistake the first time around, and sochocolate1999 kindly pointed it out, so I fixed it. Thanks.)

Disclaimer: I don't own AF.

Artemis Fowl the Second sat at his second year desk at the back right-hand corner of the room with perfect posture, hands folded neatly on his desk, waiting for his teacher to arrive. He was completely undisturbed by his surroundings, which, in light terms, was in chaos. Boys throwing paper airplanes across the room, dancing on chairs, doodling inappropriate pictures in their math textbooks, and other really weird things.

Artemis's math teacher walked in. A stern, sharp woman, with a short temper and a hate for perfect or imperfect boys. Really, it was all boys in general. Artemis sometimes heard his peers talk about her when they thought her back was turned, saying that she was probably a witch on an expedition to make all possible males miserable, and that there was no other explanation for her to teach boys at an all-boy's boarding school. Artemis found this conclusion dreadful, as the idea was unstable and the plot seemed as if taken straight from a tale of fairies. No, scratch that. Even there witches did not exist—Artemis knew that personally.

"All right, class, I not too surprised to say that math scores were horrible this past assignment," she was saying as she walked in, but as soon as she saw her class in ruins, she stopped. Pulling out a whistle she kept around her neck, she blew on it as loud as she could. Artemis, already having concluded this outcome five minutes earlier, had put on earplugs. But, unfortunately for the boy genius's classmates, they got a full blast of the angry math teacher's fury. They all fell, holding their ears in misery.

After five long, painful seconds, Artemis' teacher drew away from her whistle. "To your seats!" she barked. She marched up to the front of the classroom as the boys all scrambled to get to their assigned desks. Artemis calmly took out his earplugs, wrapped them in a tissue, and dropped them into the trash can next to his desk.

"As I was saying," said the math teacher sternly when everyone was quiet, "these arithmetic results aren't much to gloat about. I want them all signed by your parents during the upcoming Christmas break and handed back to me the Monday after. Again, I am not impressed. Good luck getting these signed, boys." She made eye-contact with a handful of Artemis's peers threateningly, and Artemis took a logical guess that these boys were the ones with the lowest marks of all.

"Anyway, the special mentions of this class are Lawrence and… Artemis," continued the teacher, gritting out Artemis's name as if she resented every syllable of the boy. Lawrence stood up first and took his assignment, peering at the score. When he passed by Artemis, who was on his way to get his own sheets, he found a big 91% scribbled across the top in a fat red marker, and beside it, a Well, at least you passed. Artemis was sure he was not going to get one of those. He had never gotten one of those in all his long school years, including preschool, where he was already teaching the other three-year-olds the formulas of how heat traveled.

"Lower than usual, Artemis," his math teacher whispered to him when she handed him his assignment. He wondered what that meant, and the boy genius didn't wonder what things meant a lot. Walking back to his desk, he was about to slip his test away, when something on the sheet caught his eye.

A.

Big.

Fat.

99%

Artemis was flabbergasted. Father would surely have had his head if he had known about this failure. (But he was still missing, so that was a worry not needed to be worried about.) Artemis wondered if he could somehow sneak this past his mother, but his teacher had clearly said they needed to be signed by a parent. He would have to secretly slip it in with the bills.

The boy genius went through the entire assignment in search for something he did wrong. Everything was conducted perfectly, he thought, reaching the end. Everything except…

Right there. The last question. Artemis must have been in such a rush to finish working on an upcoming heist on the Fei Fei tiara that he had forgotten to round up the third decimal place. The question wasn't necessarily wrong… Just not placed in the terms the teacher wanted.

"I got a 60," said someone to their friend.

"Lucky!" his friends replied. "I got a 54."

All around him, Artemis' peers yelled their math scores across the room. He just sat there, frozen, staring at his math assignment. He quietly stowed his sheets away and sat perfectly at his desk, pretending that nothing was wrong.

"And what did little Arty get?" asked someone, turning to face the loser—and brains, if Artemis may say—of the class.

"What I got is what I got," he replied. "And it most certainly is better than what you did."

"I'm sure the class would love to hear how well of a student you are, Artemis," said the teacher. "Perhaps you could be a good role model for them. Now, tell us what your score was."

Artemis didn't hesitate. "A 99," he admitted.

There was no noise for a moment, until one kid whispered, "Lucky…"

"He's so smart it's unfair."

"Why can't I get marks like that?"

This was obviously not the reaction from the class the teacher had hoped to have. She stood up straighter as if not to admit defeat and gritted, "Well done, Artemis." She spoke his name as if though she wanted to stab knives into him. "Well, continuing on our lesson of yesterday, please open your notes and take out your textbooks, page 327…"

While the rest of the boys obliged, Artemis didn't. He had already memorized that textbook in grade two when he had been bored one afternoon. And the lesson would no doubtfully be filled with things Artemis learned in kindergarten. No, all Artemis did was take out a lined sheet of paper and a sharpened pencil, and begin to finish the planning of his Fei Fei heist.

Artemis glanced up once during the lesson to find his teacher staring daggers into his face. Artemis looked past her for a moment, and then innocently raised his hand.

"Yes, Artemis?"

"If I may, that equation on the board is incorrect. Technically, the formula for a trapezoid is not finding smaller figures in the figure and then adding it all up, it's bracket, base1 + base2 over two, bracket, times height." Artemis strode up to the front of the classroom and quickly jotted this down. He calculated the equations in his head, and then wrote the final answer down. The result was the same, but found in a much simpler way.

And then Artemis began to teach.

"In 499 AD, Āryabhaṭa, a great mathematician-astronomer from the classical age of Indian mathematics and Indian astronomy, used this method in the Aryabhatiya. The Aryabhatiya is a Sanskrit astronomical treatise, and only surviving work of Āryabhaṭa. It's divided into four sections; Gitikapada, Ganitapada, Kalakriyapada, and Golapada. These four sections describe, in a total of 121 verses, large units of time, mensuration, quadratic and indeterminate equations, different units for determining the positions of planets for a given day, geometric/trigonometric aspects of the celestial sphere, and much, much more. This trapezoid formula is found in Ganitapada, in arithmetic and geometric progressions. It also depicts the area of a triangle, but I really do hope you bozos know how to do that already."

His lesson went on for another three minutes, until his teacher interrupted by saying, "That's enough, Artemis. You can go back to your seat now."

So Artemis did. From his desk, he shot his teacher a smug glare.

You bug me, I annihilate you, his look seemed to say.

Review, please!