Disclaimer: If you don't know what this should say, you're either new to fanfictions, or someone who has very bad memory. Or both.

Rewritten as of September 25th.

Chapter Four: A Librarian's Nightmare

When Artemis ducked in after Juliet into the shop, the only thing he saw at first was books. They were in stacks on the floor that reached up past eye-level to the high ceiling, and wall-to-wall shelves that had row upon row of massive tomes. Some seemed ancient beyond compare, although others didn't have a speck of dust on them.

The second thing he noticed was the masses of fawning witches mobbing Lockhart, the eye of a hurricane originating in overactive hormones. Including Juliet.

Walking tentatively, he squeezed between a pair of brunettes, and tapped the younger of the Butler siblings on the shoulder. She turned around, about to say something along the lines of 'mind your own business, little boy', until she saw whom she had been interrupted by. She smiled apologetically, chap-stick raised for application.

Before he had time for one of his obscenely rude remarks, he was shoved behind Juliet, vision momentarily filled with the shifting blue cloth. After disentangling himself and glaring at all the witches that had dared stare at him, he peaked out from behind Juliet's tense body.

In a small opening in the multi-colored witches, two men stood. The difference between them was striking; the taller had silver-blonde hair tied back in a classical gentleman's ponytail, a custom smirk scrawled across his pale face. His clothes were tailored to fit, black silks and velvets the lot of them.

The other had a lanky frame, barely covered by threadbare robes nearly colorless from too much washing. His body was taut, tighter then a piano string, and his fists were clenched at his side. A blaze of carroty hair immediately associated him with a dozen or so similarly colored people.

Artemis, ducking further around Juliet, managed to catch the tail-end of what the blonde's words. "…and I thought your family could sink no further—"

Had Artemis not been shoved into the swirling maze of witches' cloaks, he would have heard a metallic thunkas a cauldron went flying.

The young Fowl freed himself from the tangled clothes and threaded his way towards Juliet's side once more. The push had thrown him deep into the heart of Lockhart's fangirls; the journey back was long and arduous, passing through the wide and the just plain big.

Juliet's hands were whitened at her sides, ready to punch. Her narrowed eyes were firmly fixed where a continuous rain of books was occurring on the far wall of the shop, obviously where a fight was taking place.

"Get back, Arty," Juliet said icily, not even turning. "Their kids look ready to join in too."

Artemis didn't even bother with the repetitive Don't call me Arty reproach, looking closer at the first row of spectators. A small horde of red-haired children were clustered near the squalling fathers, some encouraging with cries of "Get 'im Dad!" or, in the case of the mother, Arnold On the other side, a sallow-skinned, white-blonde youth smirked at the outcome of the fight. His smug gray eyes kept flickering towards a black-haired youth amidst the red-heads.

Juliet gave him another shove, although this one was considerably lighter. "I said go back!"

He was preparing a retort on how the situation was not dangerous for him when he suddenly came face to face with someone's incoming fist. He ducked aside, and moved behind Juliet again like a dancer in Ring Around the Rosies.

"Sorry!" came a voice from whatever had tried to hit him. A peak around the voluminous cerulean cloak revealed that another of those red-heads had been behind the punch. "I thought you were Draco for a sec there!" An outraged yelp proclaimed he had met Juliet, and was being introduced.

Going around to Juliet's other side, he soon found himself looking again at the two men, the blonde one of them sporting a black eye and a customary sneer and the other only a bleeding lip and a rip in his patched robes. What looked to be a massive man—or a small giant—easily surpassing Butler's standards was holding them apart with two barely straining fingers. The top of his scruffy brown head scraped the high ceiling. Artemis silently commended him for his uncaring approach to how he looked.

"Now see here," he said good-naturedly, as if they had not been attempting to kill each other moments before, "we are all gentlemen here," the blonder—and more bruised—of the two combatants raised a speculative eyebrow, "and we can surely sort out an agreement like them."

The boy that had tried to punch him sniggered at this, despite a somewhat purpling eye. Surprisingly, what looked like to be his twin, also a red-head, did not. What was it with wizardry and red-heads?

The white blonde man turned, expensive-looking robes torn in several places, and casually kicked a Transfiguration for Beginners towards a red-head girl barely Artemis' own age. He was beginning to wonder about how extended Wizarding families were, and if that was just a side-affect of not having the modern conveniences of contra— "Here, girl," he said suddenly, interrupting Artemis' thoughts, "—take your book—it's the best your father can give you." He straightened up, his steps brisk and slightly limping as he left the shop. "Draco!"

The white-blonde boy Artemis had noticed earlier smirked at the red-heads gathering around the red-head father, receiving five nearly identical glares in return. After smoothing back his hair, he was swept up by the rush of fangirls following Lockhart out.

Artemis blinked, and smoothed back his hair as well. That was interesting, to say the least. Wizards seemed to act the same as 'Muggles'—they were both human, after all—but everyone seemed to know each other. Wizards must still work on a House basis, aristocrats or common folk. Just seeing how the red-heads—he thought he had heard the word Weasleysaid at one point—acted proved that. They acted as one against the white-blonde family, who had a somewhat more limited representation there.

He frowned, and stepped out from behind Juliet. His pale brow wrinkled with thought-lines, ignoring everything else in the rapidly emptying store. There had been a boy with the Weasleys whom he suspected to be 'Harry Potter', by the fact he kept trying to hide an elongated scar on his forehead by gaping passerbys. From the 'Harry Potter' file that Foaly had so graciously created, he had figured Harry to be more… bold. Egotistic. Not at all the scrawny stick of a boy that stood awkwardly by Mrs. (?) Weasley as she fussed over any scrapes he might have gotten from standing on the sidelines as her sons howled like banshees. He would need to study more of Wizarding recent events as well.

By the cash register, there was a loud thunkas some newspaper's photographer accidentally knocked over his tripod, followed by several cross-cultural words of surprise.

Artemis brought his gaze over towards the back of the store, firmly ignoring the fidgeting Juliet. Almost all of the witches were gone by now, undoubtedly hot on Lockhart's trail, leaving only harassed-looking mothers that were probably looking for their children's books for school. As a result, the battered floor was cleared, showing books in various stages of destruction. A dented cauldron in one corner was graced with both loose sheaves of parchment and another red-head girl struggling to pick it up.

He looked at the red-headed throng again, eyes wandering between them as they spread out like trained deer hunters through the forest of books. They appeared to be in the process of leaving—the majority of them, in any case. The large, plump woman Artemis had assumed to be Mrs. Weasley was attempting to apologize to the terrified shopkeeper, who still appeared to be in shock from either Lockhart, the photographer that had quickly nabbed several old-looking books or the fight. A few were still perusing the shelves, pretending nothing had happened.

Artemis sidled over to the nearest shelf. Juliet, sensing nerdy-mode being turned on, began helping the red-heads that the mother had ordered to help the shopkeeper (Who kept trying to get them to leave so he could report the photographer).

One elegant finger lazily tracing the heavily embossed book spines, he settled into the little-used browsing mode, which very much unlike the nerdy-mode that was quite nonexistent to Artemis' functioning styles. Flourish and Blotts seemed to specialize more in what Artemis called, 'Wizarding Pop Culture' – in other words, everything Artemis couldn't care less about. He sincerely doubted he would be challenged too much at Hogwarts, judging by how far short of his expectations Wizards had fallen. All in all, he would probably need to make a visit to a store specializing in reference materials.

He turned to leave, only to trip on a brunette painstakingly taping ripped parchment back together and slipping them into Encyclopedia of Toadstools.

The Spell-O-Tape jerked out of her hand, skittling across the floor along with the fluttering Encyclopedia. Newly decollated pieces flew out like patched butterflies, flapping their colorful pictures mockingly at the prostrate girl.

She picked herself off the ground hurriedly, rubbing the small of her back where Artemis had tripped over her. "Watch it!" she snapped grumpily, glaring at him from beneath a messy bush of brown hair.

Artemis narrowed his eyes at her. "You were on the ground," he pointed out calmly, brushing imaginary dust from his suit. "You can't expect one to look on the ground for people lying in the way."

The girl's mouth opened to respond, then shut itself again. After several moments she spoke. "You're Artemis Fowl, aren't you?"

Artemis blinked. Twice. "Did the bodyguard give it away?"

"The attitude," she responded dryly, then smiled at his furrowed brow. "Ou le media; prends ton choisi. Je m'appelle Hermione Granger. Allez-vous aller au Hogwarts?" (1)

Artemis smiled inwardly. There was at least one person of intelligence at Hogwarts, at the very least. "Oui, en la année deux." (2)

Hermione blinked, switching back to English. Encyclopedia of Toadstools lay forlornly on the ground. "You didn't go through year one," she stated flatly.

"I don't need year one."

Hermione grinned suddenly, sticking out her hand. Artemis looked down. It was covered with ink. Her smile faded, and she bent down to the ground to pick up the Encyclopedia. "See you there," she murmured, and joined the rendezvousing horde of red-heads.

Juliet tapped his shoulder, and he turned to meet her laughing gaze. "What?" he snapped.

A decidedly malicious grin spread across her face. Her mascara had smeared over the bridge of her nose. "Ickle Artykins got a girlfriend?"

It was as if the Avon stocks had crashed. Artemis had that delicious talent of glaring that all mothers wanted to improve upon. "No, Juliet, I do not have one. That happened to be a girl I had fallen over." He walked along the shelves again, plucking out the books relevant to his classes and handing them to Juliet.

"Ever?" She looked tempted to add something to that, but decided not to. Good thing.

Artemis shot her an annoyed glance, and detached himself from the alchemy section with disgust. Nothing good there—it was just a bunch of theoretical dung written by cultists. "You know how I feel on that matter,tu bouffon. In any case, we should be buying these." (3)

The Fowl heir flashed a smile at the cashier, who was in the process of reporting the photographer's thefts to a small box on his desk. He smiled nervously in return, and fainted right on cue.

"Juliet?" he called, rubbing aching eyes. The still-neat bed sheets around him cast few shadows from his book light; he lay on top of the thick quilt, only a dent and a body to indicate his presence at all in the dark. "What time is it?" He shut Year with the Yeti with a slight bang, happy to have finally finished both the rather lengthy list of textbooks and a perfectly miserable novel. Since noon of the last day to—

"Three o'clock, and let me sleep, you moronic genius," Juliet snapped from across the room, slapping a downy pillow over her head. "How do you expect me to protect you if I'm dead from exhaustion?"

Three in the morning. Not bad, for a half-night's work. All the first year books done, and the second year ones as well. Who said speed had to be sacrificed for full understanding?

A pillow, fluffy and all too big, sailed his way when he opened his fairy-computer, which had further illuminated the small room into almost daytime conditions. He dodged it with barely a twitch, but it landed on the cold beef stew he had failed to eat. Suffice to say, there was soup in places it was never meant to be in. Including Artemis' on precious laptop.

He sighed openly, picking up the dripping pillow from the bowl and carefully using an edge to wipe the brown sludge form his laptop. The eerie blue glow continued to illuminate the room, casting ghostly blue shadows across Artemis' face. She really was getting out of hand, stepping far above her role. It wasn't as is she was his sister or anything. "Juliet, why did you do that?"

"Turn it off!" her voice called out from beneath the writhing sheets, muffled somewhat by the pillow firmly clamped to her head. Melodramatically pained, as all teens liked to be in that respect.

He sighed again. Reason rarely worked with animals, but it was worth a try. It would be such a pity to throw away the pot just because the paint liked to run down the sides. Vessels such as the Butlers were very hard to come by. "I am the employer, and the employéd. J'ai sagace, mais tu es stupide." (4)

Juliet was not stupid, despite what Artemis just implied. Cognates were not a difficult thing to figure out.

More pillows sailed the five-foot trip to Artemis, splattering the soup further. A few goosedown feathers spilled forth, plastering themselves onto whatever puke-like splotch was closest.

Artemis' internal temperature rose several degrees, although his impassive face did not show it. Very white hands plucked at the feathers on his loose black-silk pajamas.

Juliet stopped abruptly, burying her head in the remaining pillow fiercely to try and get rid of the light. She was not the sort of person one would want to know in the middle of the night, despite what the local louts thought dreamily.

Artemis looked down. The small laptop sputtered, and went out. The green power button on the sight flickered into a funny shade between ebony and onyx.

Anger is a funny thing. Some people let it out as it comes, keeping themselves as optimistic as an Australian soldier. Others let it build up, letting out to give them that added edge in a race or game. A few let it collect over time into a tight, hidden ball of highly explosive material, pretending it didn't exist until something ignited it. Usually, these explosions were roughly proportional to Vesuvius.

Krakatoa detonated with an angered yell, spewing forth several newly-learned hexes. Juliet's pillow pressed itself further into the bed, edges squeezing itself tighter as Juliet's hands tried to wrest it off. The blanket floated above her writhing figure, then clamped down on her head when the pillow was finally torn off.

The light emitted by each curse lit the room when, several minutes later, an owl swooped in through the chaos. Juliet had finally managed a counterattack; the owl was knocked out like a troll over a bridge by a particularly large textbook that Artemis had assigned her to read in Hogsmeade. When Artemis was finally stunned by Advances in Combat Magic and How to Counter Them, Juliet pulled a flashlight off her bedstand and plucked the owl from the floor.

It flopped in her hands, tawny wings fluttering limply in Juliet's suffocating grasp. When she noticed the bit of parchment attached to its legs she teased it from the mahogany casing and read it to the now calm Artemis.

"Dear Mr. Fowl,


We have received intelligence that several spell(s) was used at your location a few minutes ago.


As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).


We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks' Statute of Secrecy.


Enjoy your holidays! Yours sincerely,

Here was an unreadable signature that greatly resembled chicken scratch

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic"

Artemis looked up at Juliet, a Kleenex frozen halfway to wipe his cheek of lamp kerosene. The grimace on his face seemed to only please Juliet more. She liked giving Artemis a good beating now, as she had when they were both short, silly, stupid, and stuck in Fowl Manor for the weekend. "Looks like you'll need to fight the old fashioned way, eh Arty?"

Artemis' scowl deepened. By the light of the now-lit kerosene lamp, he would have a nasty bruise on his forehead in morning. The ebony pajamas were torn in several places, revealing hints of pale skin and thin muscles. "I think I need to learn how to, to put it in your terms, 'throw a punch'."

Another pillow sailed through the air, landing squarely on his face and knocking him onto the bed behind him.

"In the morning, you moron," Juliet responded lightly, already industriously scraping the feathers from her hair, "after I get this mess cleaned up again."

Artemis groaned inwardly, bending over the side of the bed to dig out a change of clothes from his chest. Sarcasm was not a tool he would use lightly again.

He got up at eleven the next morning, with aching eyes and something that greatly resembled an insect looking at him. He bolted upright in the bed, blinking rapidly. Only Juliet with goggles and boxing gloves on. He would have to scold her for that

"Took you long enough," Juliet said brightly, her golden hair gleaming in twin braids that were flung carelessly over her shoulder. At Artemis' glare, she asked defensively, "Do you want to learn how to throw a punch or not?"

"Yes…" Artemis began slowly, but he was swept out of the bed as Juliet bodily picked him up and set him on the floor. She seemed jumpier then usual. Was something in the soup, or the air?

"Well, hurry up then!" she said hurriedly, turning to make a jab at her make-shift dummy. It sagged where she had hit it; clothes and textbooks do not hold together well to begin with, let alone when placed haphazardly on a soft surface such as the mattress.

Artemis opened his mouth to protest, then stopped himself. Sad, but true. He would need to learn to fight some day, and this was as good as any. Juliet couldn't run the five miles from Hogsmeade whenever he was being threatened. Wands would only be able to do so much.

Sensing his hesitation, Juliet wagged a finger at him in a most annoying fashion. Artemis had the sudden urge to lean over and bend it backwards. "A bodyguard isn't any good unless the guarded actually knows how to protect himself somewhat. I can't chase away all the rabid scorpions in the Sahara. You'll have to learn to deal with it eventually."

Mumbling about how he wanted Butler back, he got out of bed, and dug into his chest for something he could move in. Pity. He was going to find a few real books on alchemy today.

Five hours later, Artemis had finally accomplished an outstanding feat: He had learned how to actually hit his target with some degree of pain. His arms were sore, his eyes still hurt, he hadn't eaten, and he just wanted to go to Hogwarts. But no. First, he had to figure out how not to block a punch; in so many words, not ducking out of the way like a terrified lawyer. (5)

Juliet, with not a strand of hair out of place, stood grinning as he plopped down on his bed from sheer exhaustion. What little mascara she had managed to find, mercifully mis-packed, wasn't even messed up by sweat.

"No more!" he gasped, reaching for the bottle of water Juliet had thoughtfully filled for him. "Let me go!"

She smiled infuriatingly, and stripped off her hot-pink gloves. "Let's go then, if you're going to be a wimp. God knows I want to have my own apartment for once."

Artemis glared at her with a force that would have shriveled a grape into a raisin. But not Juliet. She just stood there, already busy with packing up all their precious clothes.

Grimacing again, he propped himself up in bed, and ate what little cold soup that was still in the bowl. There had better be showers at Hogwarts, or he not going to be happy.

They were finally ready. Artemis's two bags were neatly stacked by his side, and Juliet's miniature mountain by hers. All that remained was to touch the awaiting Portkey.

Much confusion had been launched over that. Juliet had taken much convincing that the old Twix wrapper was the Portkey, despite the neatly written note besides it explaining what it was and how to go about using it.

He nodded at her slightly. Almost nothing except the slight puffiness beneath his eyes remained of the miserable 'punching lessons' from earlier. In almost perfect tandem, their fingers touched the old candy wrapper.

There was a brief sound of wind as air rushed into the places them and their luggage were rapidly vacating. Quite a lot of air; they had left behind nothing. Almost nothing.

The window shattered, the glass shards falling just in time for two minute figures to see the two adolescents vaporize before their eyes. Twin beams of orange shot out at the silhouettes, but they went right on through them as they faded from view.

One of them slid her helmet visor down, revealing short-cropped auburn hair slick with sweat. The other followed suit, fierce black eyes glinting with frustration.

"D'Arvit!" the shorter of the two cursed, wiping perspiration off her brow. Then into her comm-piece, "Foaly, they're gone."

Several minutes of frenzied directions ensued from a slender comm-piece, and the would-be kidnappers nodded. Reshielding, they brought whisper-silent wings to life, and out the open window. A single piece of cloth fluttered, tangled hopelessly on the emergency wing set, as they flew through the pollution-laced London air.

They had a job to do.

(1) 'Or the media; take your choice. My name is Hermione Granger. Are you going to go to Hogwarts? ' (French) I'm assuming 'Hogwarts' is masculine.

(2) 'Yes, in year two.' (Also French)

(3) '…you fool' (French again (duh))

(4) 'I have wisdom, but you are stupid.' ((gasp) French!)

(5) Couldn't resist. If you don't know what I'm talking about… (Throws copy of Slant, apparently at random). Nothing quite like Greg Bear to get the mind roaring, especially in the Sci-Fi field.

I assumed Fowl would know French. I also assumed Hermione would know French. Reasons? Artemis is, well, Fowl. Hermione goes to France during book three. Is it so hard to imagine that she might have learned it?

Besides, I know French much better then Spanish. If I were to write in any form of (Tolkien's) Elvish, Latin, Greek, or any other languages I know with any amount of confidence, I'd just confuse people. Savvy?

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper